Chapter Eleven

LIKE MOST MIDWESTERNERS, Clevelanders tend to approach life with a certain amount of stoicism. This attitude extends from items as disparate as “lake effect” snow to the fortunes of our Cleveland sports teams. Regarding the former, certain communities on the east side of Lake Erie take pride in the fact that their suburbs typically receive the most winter snowfall. Among those select, snow-deluged locations, civic pride is really on the line for the city that wins that competition.

In the case of sports, Clevelanders understand that the Guardians and Cavaliers will win only occasionally, but tales of those seasons are passed down from father to son like the myths of ancient Greece. Clevelanders also know the Browns will win only in an alternate universe, but similar tales are still told: the time our running back made the Pro Bowl, the year we almost won as many as we lost, etc.

That same stoic attitude extends to the Cleveland airport. Experienced travelers know that airport departure times are only theoretical at best. Certain variables, like the plane actually taking off, might not be visible to the naked eye. Like scientists studying advanced physics, most Clevelanders assume the theory is valid, nonetheless.

Travelers not versed in the scientific method often take a more religious view of their airport delays. Like the Second Coming, those passengers have been told their departure will happen at some point in the future. Like the Second Coming, they just don’t know exactly when.

Hannah and I, both far from stoic, were exceptions to the Midwestern norm. We sat impatiently by our departure gate, trying to come up with a diversion as we were now more than forty-five minutes past our scheduled New Orleans departure. For lack of anything better to do, Hannah played Candy Crush. I’ve never seen the point of any game not involving the bloody slaughter of your opponents, so I spent my time pondering the case and hoping our guns managed to make it to New Orleans at the same time we did.

The State of Louisiana recognized concealed carry permits from Ohio, so Hannah and I decided to take our weapons on this trip. TSA regulations require guns to be stored, unloaded, in lockable hard cases, and checked ahead of the flight. That was usually not an issue except for the extra time involved. The directive included informing the ticketing agent, who then called a TSA employee to ensure your gun was packed according to regulations. If done correctly, the procedure worked just fine.

I did hear of one case where an individual walked up to the desk and announced, “I’ve got a gun,” in a voice loud enough for others to hear. The TSA agent, actually several of them, arrived considerably faster in that instance. Since our guns had already been checked, I was just hoping some other agent didn’t decide to cut open the locks on our cases to recheck. I heard that could happen and worried since this was my first time flying with a weapon.

Hannah was nervous for other reasons. She’d warned me ahead of time she didn’t like to fly, and I suspected she would have driven to Louisiana if we’d had the extra time. As for myself, I was used to flying next to terrified travelers, having flown several times with my mother. Mom never opened her eyes until the “fasten your seatbelt” light beeped off, preferring to pretend she was still safely on the ground while the plane was taking off.

Our plane started boarding at nine o’clock, an hour past its scheduled departure time, and I managed to get the seat next to Hannah. I offered her the window, but Hannah turned me down, thinking the less she could see, the better.

As the engines began to roar and the plane moved down the runway, I suddenly felt a sharp pain in my right arm. I assumed it was the coach seating until I glanced down and discovered Hannah had my forearm in a death grip. She continued to squeeze harder by the second. Seeing the look in my eyes, Hannah responded with her usual tact.

“Don’t be such a baby,” she said. “You didn’t hear me complain after you tossed me out of bed at 3:30 a.m.”

“Actually, you complained quite a bit.”

“Then try thinking of this as karma.”

I tried to ponder the karmic justice of it all, but my mind kept wondering how long my hand and lower arm could go without blood. Luckily for me, Hannah gradually released her grip as we reached cruising altitude. With no wish to become permanently left-handed, I made a mental note to sit on her other side for the return trip home.

Once airborne, Hannah and I spent the rest of the flight talking more about our respective childhoods in Greater Cleveland. Outsiders tend to underrate the city, but it boasts a vibrant downtown, beautiful beaches, and a climate that changes from season to season despite our claims of perpetual winter. Overall, it wasn’t a bad spot for a kid to grow up.

Hannah also spoke in more detail about her parents. She didn’t find out until much later, but her mom and dad almost broke up due to her father’s repeated infidelities. Counseling kept her parents together, though Hannah suspected expediency had also been a factor. Her mother’s political ambitions benefitted from having a congressman as a spouse, and her husband often cited his wife’s law-and-order reputation on the campaign trail.

“Most of all,” Hannah said, “it’s the hypocrisy I hate. They and their friends pose as champions of the little people, but you wouldn’t believe the comments I heard at parties. They’re perfectly friendly as long as ‘those people’ stay in their place. God only knows what they would do if ‘one of them’ moved next door.”

“Do they know how you feel?”

“We had a real falling out when I decided to join the police force, and I threw a lot of this stuff back in their faces. I felt terrible about that later because, in many respects, they weren’t terrible parents. We went on a lot of trips, and we flew to Europe at least twice that I can remember. My parents weren’t all bad, but they became incredibly hard to take, especially after I got older.”

“Do you ever see them since you moved out?”

“They stop by the house occasionally, usually unannounced, and I typically go over to their house for birthdays and Christmas. We have a relationship. It’s just not particularly comfortable. To be honest, we probably share the same judgmental streak. As hard as that is to admit, it doesn’t make them any easier to take.”

The plane began its descent into New Orleans. Fortunately for my arm, Hannah was calmer on the way down than taking off, though she did jump a bit when the wheels touched the ground. After the plane had finished taxiing, she pulled out her cell phone to tell the New Orleans PD we’d arrived. She’d informed them previously of our flight arrangements, and they promised to send a detective to meet us at the gate.

It was there that we met Detective Christopher Robinson, quite possibly the largest man I’d ever seen. The detective was African-American, at least six feet, seven inches tall, and had to weigh well over three hundred pounds. He greeted Hannah warmly as she came into view, then took a long, rather disdainful look at me.

“You must be the private detective. I can’t say I’ve ever met a transgender detective before.”

I knew I needed to deal with this quickly. “I was thinking of having TD embossed on my business cards, but I thought it’d seem too gaudy. Besides,” I continued, looking at his considerable bulk, “I was a little afraid someone would think it stood for ‘Tub of Lard Detective.’ We couldn’t have that, could we…Detective?”

As far as insults went, it wasn’t my best. That being said, I was still worried. Detective Robinson didn’t need to use his gun to kill me. He could simply fall on me and later claim it was an accident. Luckily, my concern was for nothing.

He looked stunned, and then he burst out laughing. “You’ve got balls, Detective. Literally or figuratively, you’ve got balls.” He then turned to Hannah, who also seemed relieved. “I like him. He’s okay.”

“He talks too much,” she said, “but he’s not a complete idiot.”

I remembered why Detective Robinson’s name sounded familiar. “Detective, did you play defensive tackle for LSU about twelve or thirteen years ago?”

“I did, but how could you possibly know that?”

“You started on the LSU team that beat Ohio State for the national championship in 2008. I’ve always been an OSU fan.”

Hannah was getting impatient. “If you boys are done bonding, you think maybe we could do some real police work?”

Detective Robinson looked back at me and shook his head. “Women.”

“Women,” I agreed.