Showtime

 295.

The Cessna touches down on the tiny landing strip the locals call a 'port'. It is 1320. Goldson, his lead counsel, one personal body guard, Davis, as Sharkey, and Saunders, as Bess, deplane and hop immediately into the waiting long black limo. A Sprinter cargo van emblazoned with the Buccaneer logo and contact info, waits for their luggage. A clever marketing arrangement allows the van to beat the limo to the swanky luxury destination resort and have the bags in their respective suites before the stretch arrives. It is Saunders' first trip to the island so Goldson takes advantage of her local innocence to prove his multi-dimentionality. His rambling tour guide narrative seems to center around three major themes: Sugar, Alexander Hamilton and the Hess Oil Company. Bess is very much interested in the island's history but not so much in the guide's personal bias and verbosity.

Goldson and his troupe check in and all go their separate ways to their suites. Per law and custom passports are held at the front desk. On cue a platoon of uniformed bellmen show up to inquire about the needs of their guests, each waiting long enough to have palms greased.

One floor below them Drysdale and The Queen sit at their improvised war room work station, headphones on, testing the functionality of their surveillance handiwork. Before Goldson's bodyguard even unpacks his faux-leather dop kit, he has 'swept' his boss' suite with a 'bug buster', a small device used to detect unauthorized eavesdropping equipment. The Queen snorts as Drysdale exhales his held breath watching the device scan directly over a Chameleon without the slightest sign of abnormality. "Wow," is all that's said.

Our flight, in the 'company' Gulfstream has six passengers aboard: The Senator, his wife and a young female aide, whom she despises, myself, Harlan and Mustang. The latter trio all acting as security specialists for the senatorial entourage. The flight from DC encountered a bit of minor turbulence, half from gusty side-winds and half from the senator's unbearably boring spouse. At one point Mustang was caught holding back a laugh as she read the tiresome look of duty in my eyes.

We make it to the Hotel in a similar cushy manner, the guise of luxury afforded to United States Senators, almost twenty minutes ahead of schedule, a feat noted by the Senator who is used to being late, a standard operating procedure of all governmental operations. We all head to our rooms wondering what has become of our luggage when the inevitable knock on the door answers the question.

Downstairs Drysdale and The Queen open the communication lines and preform the requisite com check. Watching and listening to the camera feeds, one by one, Davis, Saunders, Harlan, Mustang, and myself announce unit connectivity. Drysdale has an open line with Julie back at HQ in DC bringing the total to eight on what we used to call the party line.

Back in 'their' room Davis is adjusting his disguise seemingly satisfied with the re-emergence of his swash-buckling alter ego, the dashing and daring international river-boat gambler, Sharkey. He knows he is being watched. His hard-wired room phone rings. Immediately The Queen responds: "Shit."

"What?" Drysdale asks immediately.

"We didn't tap the land lines."

"Nobody uses them anymore….we should be OK, not to worry."

In his lavish bathroom, a makeshift backstage, Davis has been in makeup. He answers the phone with a cheery "Bon jour." A unintelligible voice says, "thirty minutes in the lobby, island casual."

Sharkey, looking in the general direction of where HE would have planted a bug, smiles and delivers his best Fosse/Scheider croon: "Showtime."