Cross had slept through the landing, through the cabin door being opened and the brisk Pittsburgh air rushing in. He’d slept while the rest of the band, Bluto, Wayne, and Alistair deplaned, cramming into a passenger van en route to the Warhol Museum for a VIP tour. The musician snored through his overlong nose, while someone from the ground crew snapped plastic covers over the engine intakes and exhausts. He slept while Cyril ducked outside to take advantage of a break in the clouds to stretch his legs. Though Peter had been curious about the museum, he was happy to be on the plane. He finally had a job to do. Even if babysitting underutilized his skill set, Peter liked having expectations that he could meet. To entertain himself, he sent two picture messages to Martin. The first shot, a fish-eye portrait of the plane’s interior, failed to illicit a response from Vinoray. Upping the stakes, Peter sent a close-up of the singer’s monogrammed kangaroo-leather cowboy boots.
