I was in front, Malcolm behind me with the lantern in his hand and Captain Beefheart snuggled securely to his chest in the improvised baby sling, and Officer Ned bringing up the rear, limping along with his hand on Malcolm’s shoulder. On either side of us were the passengers’ checked bags, stacked with all the order and care that big banks might give to the possessions of people evicted from their foreclosed homes. When I reached the avionics area, I directed the others to follow me as I climbed past the shelves and crawled through to get to the platform on the other side. Malcolm and I made it through easily, even with Beefheart strapped to Malcolm’s chest, while Officer Ned ambled up and over with the grace of a wounded water buffalo. True, he was shot up and all, but still, it amounted to a moment of much-needed comic relief for me and Malcolm. “Stop laughing!” he admonished us. “Seriously, you kids, this is serious.” He was right, of course, but, and I realize I’m speaking for Malcolm here, we really could have used a little levity right then, considering the day’s events, which included the dead air marshal, the dead real Brighton McPherson, the dead imposter Brighton McPherson, the almost-dead Malcolm, Beefheart, and Officer Ned, and I don’t even want to talk about Flo, and this doesn’t even count my dead friend Jalyce Sanders.
