And not a nice one. Simone Doucet shifted her attention from the Wall Street Journal and cocked an ear toward the door in time to catch another one—even less nice. It certainly wasn't Nolan. She glanced at her watch; he was late. Unusual for him. She stood and went to the open hatch in the center of the aircraft. "Nance, what's going on out there?" she called out. "Don't know, Miss Doucet. This bozo says he works for you." Nance's beefy hand gripped the shoulder of a man a head shorter than himself, and judging from the man's pugnacious stance, he wasn't the least intimidated. Considering Nance stood six feet seven inches with his feet in a trough, Simone figured the man was either extraordinarily brave, certifiably stupid, or stoned out of his mind. Nance loosened his grip, allowing the man enough freedom to turn and face her. He wore cutoffs, a green muscle shirt of some kind, deck shoes with no socks, and sunglasses. A lumpy canvas bag rested at his feet. To Simone's eye he was a shower short of disreputable.
