Grissom Montag had landed his private F-22 Raptor (which he nicknamed 'The Dust Devil') at the New Orleans Regional Airport almost forty-five minutes ago. After running a few check-outs with airport security and renting a hangar, he was able to get a good look at some of Gambini's goons. It was hard to miss them, really.
The two large gentlemen standing in the terminal receiving from La Perdita with oily hair and pinstripe suits, looking obviously at pictures and comparing them to the passengers coming off the plane. He kept his head down as he made his way to the airport bar to hit on the pretty waitress...
Which is where he sat now, downing his second "hellfire and damnation" and trying his absolute best to wow the waitress with his rapier wit and boyish charm.
"How 'bout another?" Griss asked, winking at the cute blonde standing behind the counter.
"Wow, man," the waitress whistled, readying the ingredients again, "I've never seen anyone drink down a 'hellfire' like that and keep coming back for more!"
Griss smiled and rolled his eyes. "Well, it's not all that bad. What's in 'em anyway?"
"Equal parts tequila, vodka, scotch, OJ, and tabasco," the girl rattled off, pouring the contents of a bottle into a shotglass.
"Well, it may be a bit warm," Griss started, "but hot as it is, it can't hold a candle to you."
The girl smiled and replaced the bottle, producing a new one. "I hope you don't plan to get anywhere with a line that bad..." she said, winking at Grissom.
"Not really," Grissom said, shrugging his shoulders and putting a fifty on the counter. "However, in the event that you should change your mind, feel more than free to give me a call."
The woman put a splash of tabasco in the glass and eyed the fifty. "And how exactly am I supposed to do that? Did you write your number on President Grant?"
"Waitaminute," Grissom said, reaching slowly behind the girl's ear. "Looks like you've got something hidden back here."
As he began to pull his hand away, one of his business cards materialized in his hands. On the front it read, "Grissom Montag: Sandcrawler Security, while his mobile number had been scribbled on the back.
"There you go," Grissom said, slipping the card between her fingers and picking up the shotglass. "Wouldn't want you to run off without it...." With that, he winked at the waitress, downed his third 'hellfire and damnation' and made his way toward the rental place, still as sober as he could be.
The bartender smiled as she eyed the phone number on the back of the card. "You're not anything special, Montag," she said, putting the number in her pocket. "But why do I feel like I should give you a call tonight?"
