at the back of the mess hall, a tall guy detaches from the wall, as though materializing out of it. he's wearing a pair of dickies khaki work pants and a blue blazer from the salvation army, bulging with notebooks, cigarettes, mechanical pencils, a miniature recorder, cellphone, so there are no clean lines anywhere on the ensemble. the tops of his expensive walking shoes are barely creased, yet the soles are already showing signs of wear. he walks around the edge of the crowd, head turning slowly, like a gun turret, as he scans the commotion, back and forth, back and forth, taking a note here and there.
he walks up to the guy in the flight suit.
`nice shuck, man,' he says, nodding toward bombardier's assembled friends. `nice to find out who your friends are.' he smiles with his lips, but not his eyes, as he reaches out and pats the bmbardier on the china-burma-india patch on his flight jacket sleeve. `kind of like listening to your own funeral.'
bombardier grins as the reporter turns and walks away, seeming to vanish even as bombardier watches.
then the smile fades. `t'hell did he mean by that?' he says.