Connections

By Darren Musial

Miles Hollander works for the TSA at Chicago’s O’Hare airport. He is not highly motivated, successful, or even particularly interested in his work. However, the monotony has helped him develop a specific skill for which his job is a perfect fit... petty theft.

Scanning and processing thousands of passengers a day gives Miles access and opportunity to their purses, jewelry, wallets, briefcases, computers, and baggage. When a traveling con man named Van Dalton notices Miles’ talent, he offers Miles a job. Shocked and scared he could be spotted so easily, Miles flatly refuses and vows to stop stealing.

But when a chance one-night stand with a woman way out of Miles’ league results in her husband on the floor of a hotel room with two bullets in his chest, Miles finds he has nowhere else to turn. Van Dalton is all too happy to help, but now Miles must work to repay his debt.

Finding himself torn between his friends, his job, and the life he wants, Miles must hustle like never before to keep himself in the clear, and out of jail.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Darren Musial
• Release date: Feb 7, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215429662

Darren Musial

Darren Musial is a machinist and holds a second-degree black belt in Shotokan karate. When not writing, he enjoys cycling, kayaking, shooting pool, and watch collecting.Musial lives in Lombard, Illinois, with his wife and their French bulldogs. Connections is his fourth novel.

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Acknowledgments

Special thanks to Jim Oliveri and Emily Ruzich for editing and honest feedback. To Jessica Mack, David Steven Rappoport, and the Chicago Writers Association for being an oasis to independent writers. Thanks to Lisa, Aaron, Jude, Violet, and Penelope Brock for love and support. To all my friends from ISKC, especially Mr. Noia and Mr. Mertel, Tim, George, Andrea, Saum, Mark, Stephanie, and the rest of the gang for beating me up twice a week. To Celeste Kasprzyk for relentless badgering, I wouldn’t have it any other way. Lastly, thank you to writer Jennifer Szwaya for being the muse, the dreamer, the magic.

It was easy and kind of fun. That’s why Miles Hollander did it. At least at first. As a security screener for the Transportation Security Administration at O’Hare International Airport in Chicago, Hollander had access to thousands of valuables and personal items each day. At first, when he’d stolen a watch or plucked a phone it was for fun, a diversion from the boredom. The need part came later.

1

Margaret Blankenship was already nervous. She left and drove to O’Hare International Airport at three in the morning before the sun came up and wasn’t too fond of driving in the dark, especially to someplace with which she wasn’t familiar. But this is what managers did. And as of two weeks ago, Margaret was a team lead for Borgen Box and Packaging, a medium-sized company near Belvidere, about an hour and a half drive outside of Chicago. A promotion her boss was all too happy to bestow along with a firm pat on the behind. Her wipers squeaked intermittently as she drove in a light rain. The airport website suggested that all passengers arrive at least an hour ahead of time to get through flight check-in and security scans with enough time to make it to the gate. Margaret was on schedule to be there two hours ahead.

The immense parking structure, perpetually under construction, didn’t rattle her. Margaret waited patiently as an overweight, underpaid, unenthusiastic security watchman fumbled with the gate at an unhurried pace for each car. Margaret had read about how the airport restaurants gouged their customers. Eight dollars for a McMuffin? I don’t think so. She one-upped them by eating a hearty bowl of oatmeal, sprinkled with raisins and brown sugar, in the wee hours before leaving home.

Margaret was so efficient, in fact, that she was informed by the ticket agent that she was the very first passenger to check in for the 7:30 AM to Kansas City. She picked the seat closest to the boarding ramp at the empty gate. They hadn’t even put the flight number and destination up on the flat screen. Pleased, Margaret spread out the contents of her briefcase over the next chair and poured over the presentation documents for her lunch meeting with Beam Logistics, a major consumer in the packaging industry and her company’s largest customer. At 6:30, other sleepy-eyed passengers wandered over to the gate including an unshaven man holding a paper coffee cup who winked at her. She handily ignored him. At 6:45, the ticket agent arrived at the gate and was bum-rushed by passengers looking to switch their seat assignments, inquire about flying standby, or to ask inane questions they should’ve just Googled. At 6:55, Margaret thought it curious that they hadn’t boarded yet. The plane had been parked at the end of the jetway since she sat down.

Outside, the early Spring rain had worsened. Margaret couldn’t hear any thunder, the airport being a hermetically sealed container of filtered and conditioned air, but there were occasional lightning strikes visible from the windows overlooking the runway and punctuated by oooohs from a pair of youngsters sitting cross-legged on the floor the next aisle over. At 7:10, the announcement came: Due to the weather, the flight had been delayed. Shit, Margaret thought. This was going to be an issue. It was too early to call, but Margaret quickly e-mailed her counterpart at Beam Logistics that she might be running late, even though she had hours between the time when her flight landed in Kansas City to when she had to present. Better safe than sorry, she thought. Margaret called in a voicemail just in case the e-mail wasn’t received, and she’d follow up with another call and e-mail if the flight was delayed more than an hour. By then, someone ought to be in the office.

The better part of an hour ticked by. Margaret spent most of that time watching the news on the TV screen at the gate, which placated her with constant updates about the storm on a rolling banner at the bottom of the screen.

The unshaven man who had winked at her earlier went in for the kill. Don’t you hate when this happens? he asked with a crooked smile.

Margaret resisted the urge to shudder at his smarminess. What’s that?

Flight delays. I got delayed in Cleveland once. We had to stay overnight, he said, bouncing his eyebrows and sliding into the seat next to hers.

This is just a regular ol’ thunderstorm. I’m sure we’ll be up in the air in no time, Margaret hoped.

Where you from? You’re not from Chicago, that’s for sure. The man’s arm surreptitiously slid around her seatback.

Margaret squirmed. What makes you say that?

Honey, it’s written all over you. You’re too… you know… goody-goody. There’s flowers on your blouse. And you’ve got a slight, very slight mind you, drawl that places you, I’m gonna guess, somewhere out west or south. Peoria?

Uhm, Belvidere. Margaret smoothed her blouse, suddenly regretting her choice of wardrobe for the whole trip.

Close enough. See? I told you. I knew it. I got a knack for that kind of stuff, the man said. It’s super important in my business.

And what business is that?

I’m a talent scout for the adult industry.

Ew, Margaret thought, and inched as far to the other side of her seat as she could.

Laugh if you wanna, it takes a certain kind of person to spot the talent. And I can spot the talent, baby. The man gave Margaret a sort of half-assed once over. Well, we got nothing but time now. Buy you a coffee?

Uh, no, Margaret said, gathering up her presentation notes and belongings to find another seat.

Why not? Doesn’t seem like you’ve got any better options. Besides, you might start to like me once you get to know me.

Margaret was going to tell him to fuck off. But she’d never told anyone to fuck off. Not in real life. No offense mister, but I’ve got a lot on my plate today, this delay throws a wrench in the works, and I really need to focus on my work. So, thanks, but no thanks.

The man shrugged. Well, can’t blame a guy for tryin’. Then he leaned forward and whispered. "We could just skip the coffee and formalities and I could show you a good time in the janitor’s closet. He bounced his eyebrows again. Whaddya say?"

He was close enough that Margaret could smell his cheap cologne. The thought of giving some stranger head in a scummy closet and, more than likely, contracting a venereal disease not only made her gag but did little to ease her already high-strung nerves. Even so, Margaret kept it polite, I’m going to have to pass, but was unable to wash the disgusted reaction from her face.

Like I said, can’t blame a guy for tryin’. He turned his attention back to a US Weekly, then to the legs of a female passing the gate on her way to another terminal.

Margaret stood with her briefcase and carry-on, then realized that all other seats at the gate were occupied, as well as the gates on either side. Deciding there was no way she was going to sit back down next to Mr. Slimeball, Margaret went for a walk through the terminal, eventually coming to the conclusion that she did, in fact, want a coffee. She settled on a Starbucks, the fourth one she had encountered. The other three had long lines, and the Argo Tea options were just too confusing for a simple woman like Margaret. Even though she had plenty of time to kill, there was no sense in spending it waiting in line.

The man ordering ahead of Margaret must’ve been from the city. He casually ordered some odd-sounding latte with almond milk, half-decaf, with two pumps of something, and dry, whatever the hell that meant. Wasn’t all coffee wet? Margaret thought.

When it was her turn, Medium coffee. Cream and sugar.

Which blend? The barista asked so quickly Margaret was sure she’d already consumed several cups of her own product.

Just regular coffee. I don’t care. She checked the options, feeling rushed by someone coughing behind her. Eastern Columbian Reserve is fine, I guess, not really knowing if there was a difference between that and the Obsidian Italian Blend, or the French Cafe Extra Bold Blend, and frankly not caring.

The barista handed her a cup within seconds adding, Cream and sugar is against the wall over there. That’ll be $7.65.

Oh my, slipped out of Margaret’s mouth, and silently cursed the airport’s exorbitant pricing.

Margaret reached into her coat pocket, and her stomach dropped.

2

Empty. Impossible! Fucking impossible! Margaret’s wallet was gone. She always put it in the same pocket and now it wasn’t there.

The barista cleared her throat. Ma’am?

Uh… I just… my wallet. Could you hold on a minute? Margaret could feel the sweat permeating her blouse and a prickly tingle in her armpits. There had to be some mistake. With all the hurrying to check in early she must’ve put her wallet in another place. She read once that it is very common for people to misplace things under extreme nervousness or stress. Margaret plopped her briefcase on the counter and searched through it. In the back of her mind, she knew it wasn’t going to be there. The person in line behind her groaned.

Maybe it’s in your purse? The barista asked.

I don’t carry a purse! Margaret answered louder than she wanted. The stress was getting the better of her. Dammit, it’s got to be here somewhere. I couldn’t have checked in if I didn’t have my wallet, she thought as she unzipped her carry-on and tossed her clothes, including her unmentionables, aside in a frantic hunt for the missing Vera Bradley wallet with coin pocket her mother had given to her last Christmas.

Ma’am, can you pay for this or not?

Of course I can pay for it. I just can’t find my wallet!

Well, I need $7.65, and all these other people need drinks too.

Margaret looked to see the line stacking up to six, then eight people behind her. Involuntary tears welled up in her eyes. This cannot be happening. After rifling through her bag, she turned her attention back to the briefcase, which she then upended completely and shook out on the floor. Still no wallet. She checked her other pockets and went through her coat again. Nothing. She had her boarding pass, but her credit cards, driver’s license, Social Security card, and the three-hundred dollars in cash she had hesitated to take out of savings for a bit of shopping in Kansas City were nowhere to be found. I think I’m going to be sick, she thought.

Margaret was clearly losing it. The barista dumped out her coffee and started the line moving again. Margaret hastily gathered all her things and trudged off toward the gate where she thought she must’ve dropped her wallet only to be stopped by the groaning man behind her in line.

You forgot this, he said, already holding his own steaming cup of coffee.

She turned around to find her skin-tone bra dangling from the man’s index finger. Wordlessly, and now completely humiliated, she snatched it and ran off.

When she arrived back at the gate dragging her half-unzipped carry-on, Margaret made a beeline to her former seat next to Mr. Slimeball, which was now occupied by the leggy female he’d ogled not ten minutes prior. He was chatting her up too.

You okay, honey? Ms. Legs asked.

No. My wallet is missing. Did either of you see it? It’s a purple and green and blue, like a flowery pattern. Already Margaret was ducking her head under the seats, which were bolted to the floor in long rows presumably so no one could move them or make them look messy or shift them for a bit of privacy. The screen above the information desk changed. The desk agent announced that there was a break in the storm and boarding would be underway shortly.

I haven’t seen a wallet, Ms. Legs said.

Mr. Slimeball only shook his head.

Margaret had heard that they sometimes did random ID checks with your boarding pass. The possibility that she couldn’t get on the plane without her ID made her panic. The way the suitcases were arranged, she had no choice but to plunge her head between Ms. Legs’ legs to have a look around on the floor.

Ooh, now we’re talkin’, Mr. Slimeball said. Want to get a room, just the three of us?

Ms. Legs giggled.

No pocketbook was on the floor either, nor the waste bin, nor wedged in a seatback. It was as if it had just vanished. She went back to the security checkpoint all passengers had to go through before entering the terminal, but no one had found a wallet there either. A skinny man with lethargic movements and lifeless eyes suggested she try the lost and found on the other side of the airport. He also informed her that if she went back out to the ticket agent, she would have to go through the security screening all over again.

Margaret looked at the line, at least a hundred people, snaked through the retractable belt stanchions and knew she’d never make the flight if she crossed the menacing border between check-in and the terminal concourse.

Hurrying back to the gate to have a more thorough look, she was thinking about calling the police. I mean, someone had to steal it, right? Passengers were already lined up and boarding the Boeing 727 to Kansas City. On top of it all, Margaret had to pee. As passengers cleared out to board, she could get a better look around the seating area. Maybe it fell out of her pocket and someone walked by at the exact moment and accidentally kicked it under another row of chairs. Those kinds of things happened.

Five minutes passed. All but a few people were on the plane. They called her name over the announcements. If she didn’t get on the plane, they’d give her seat to one of the standby vultures waiting off to the side of the information agent.

Having exhausted her search, Margaret spotted Mr. Slimeball leaning up against the info desk chatting up a flight attendant.

You! she shouted. Anyone within a fifty-yard radius stopped what they were doing to see what the trouble was.

Mr. Slimeball stopped his conversation. Me?

Yes, you! Margaret approached. You stole my wallet, she said very loudly.

Lady, you’re crazy. I didn’t steal anything. He turned back to the flight attendant. First she tries to hit on me, practically propositioned me, then when I reject her, she says I stole her wallet. Unbelievable.

Margaret couldn’t prove it, but she knew it had to be him. He was the only one close enough. When he tried to put his arm around her seat, that’s when he must’ve lifted it. Let me check your pockets, then.

I’m not letting you check my pockets, crazy lady.

The flight attendant took a short step back and looked at Mr. Slime as if seeing him for the first time. She went behind the desk and said something quietly into a walkie-talkie.

Then I’m calling the police, Margaret said. After all, she still had her phone.

Call ‘em. They’ll see you’re crazy too. But right now, I’m getting on this plane, he said and turned on his heel.

Oh no you’re not! Margaret grabbed his shirt sleeve.

Hey, let go of me, you fucking nut! He wrangled loose, but now a male flight attendant was blocking the jetway, looking puzzled.

The information desk phone started ringing. The female flight attendant took the call and ordered security to assist at the gate.

Un-fucking-believable! I’ve got a shoot in Kansas City this afternoon. If I don’t make it, I’m suing all your asses and the fucking airline for false imprisonment, or some shit.

Other passengers from adjacent gates were becoming more interested, casually closing in on the ruckus, peeking from behind their magazines and pretending to be doing something on their phones.

Two surly-looking uniformed Chicago Police officers arrived at the gate.

What seems to be the trouble? one asked.

My name is Margaret Blankenship. This man stole my wallet, and I have to get on this plane for a very important meeting. I don’t even care about pressing charges, I just want my wallet back.

Unbeknownst to Margaret, as she was explaining the situation, the standby passengers were occupying her and Mr. Slimeball’s seats on the plane. The aircraft door was sealed, nullifying Margaret’s chances of making it to Kansas City for her lunch meeting.

Sir? the officer questioned.

Not me. I got no idea what this lady’s talking about.

Then why would this woman accuse you? Any idea about that? the other officer questioned.

I dunno. Maybe she’s lonely, he replied with some attitude.

Margaret burst forward. "I wasn’t near enough to anyone else. When I got here, I was the first one at the gate. He sat down next to me. He was the only one close. And now my wallet’s missing."

The first officer said, Sir, I’m going to need to see some ID. But we can save everyone a whole lot of time if you’ll agree to let me search your person and belongings right now.

This is fucking ridiculous, he said.

Margaret noticed the airplane shoving off without her. God dammit.

Mr. Slimeball finally acquiesced. Fine. Search me.

He threw his hands up in the air, then placed them on the desktop when instructed, and spread his legs. He watched with some discomfort as the other officer donned latex gloves and emptied the contents of his briefcase. One by one he placed items in a line including his laptop, which he was glad they didn’t boot up, several adult magazines, three bottles of water-soluble lube, several vibrating sex toys, a jumbo pack of condoms, and a butt plug.

Sheepishly, Mr. Slimeball said, Hey, I’m a talent scout, all right? I gotta be prepared.

The one thing that wasn’t included was Margaret’s wallet.

One officer looked to the other and shook his head.

See, you crazy bitch? I tole you.

Margaret flung herself at him with flailing slaps, shouting, and sobbing. The police quickly subdued and escorted her away while Mr. Slimeball went on to chat up the attendant about the next available flight.

3

Hmm. Hello, Ms. Blankenship. Miles Hollander flicked the Illinois state driver’s license between his thumb and index finger and considered her photo. She looked innocent and had kind eyes. The lighting was bad, but with a little makeup she would be decent looking. Not that Miles had much experience with decent looking women.

The door opened to the Transportation Security Administration locker room, which also served as a rather depressing break area, one of a few scattered throughout the airport.

Miles quickly shoved the ID back in the wallet, the wallet in his locker, and shut the locker door.

What’s up, dufus? Miles’ best friend, or as close as one can get to a friend in the TSA, Anton Caluzzo, came in with their co-worker Brooke close behind.

Every time Miles saw Brooke, whether it be across the screening aisle, or at the punch clock, or when a group of them would go out to Morelli’s for a beer after a shift, his heart rate would elevate. It was involuntary, a reaction