Terminal 3

The terminal was crammed as tight as a new pack of cigarettes. From his vantage in the balcony, Belkins was able to see O’ Malley sitting in the Panorama, gun and hat resting on the bar, drinking what looked like a Pina Colada with a little umbrella. For once, O’ Malley couldn’t see him or if he had, was pretending not to notice.

They both turned their heads at the same time as if her legs had sent off two sonar pings. She came straight through the center Arrivals door with taps on her heels and a see-through dress.

Belkins had asked her specifically not to wear anything conspicuous and NOT to come in through the main door but use the last entrance down by Pan Am customer service, skirt the check-in counters and wait for him in front of the woman’s restroom.

Both Belkins and O'Malley watched her waltz through the center of the Concourse over to the Duty Free shop like Julie Andrews cresting the Swiss Mountain Top. She stood there sampling all the perfumes, spritzing one after another onto her neck, arms and legs. In her left hand she held the case, handcuffed to that wrist.

O'Malley got up at that point, placed the hat on his head, opened the chamber of his revolver and counted the bullets. The bartender stopped wiping a glass for a moment to watch him.

Belkins also watched him but it was time to move. He just hoped she remembered to slip that derringer into her garter belt.