No ticket, of course—not that either Akin or I would have paid it if there had been. “So,” he said as he pulled into the street, “we deliver the document and you go kill some ducks, right?” “Travel vest,” I said, picking up the josh about my North Slope insulated outerwear. “Has a separate pouch for anything you might have in your pockets, plus your belt and mobile phone. Stuff whatever you’re carrying into it as you approach airport security, drop it into a bin with your shoes, and you’re ready for the scanner in five seconds flat. Once you’re through, slip back into your loafers, pick up the vest, and before you know it you’re halfway to the bar, passing two sales reps and a lawyer still digging car keys out of plastic bowls on the way.” “Travel vest.” Akin slapped the heel of his right hand on the steering wheel and shook his head. “Shoulda thought of that. Coulda made a million bucks.”
