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She appreciates the way her companion smells, like basil, she decides and fennel seeds and tangerine. She wonders if he knows he smells of heaven. For a brief moment Rose entertains the idea of explaining it to him. It could be a lengthy task. They arrive at a counter, a young man sits behind it, his complexion the colour of a Las Vegas holidays and his voice the timbre of honey. “Mr Aguilar.” “Thank you, Tim” Tim opens the door politely and they enter an exclusive lounge. The hardwood door closes behind them. Rose glances at her watch, she still has over half an hour before her boarding call. “Where are we?” Roman doesn’t answer. Three padded leather stools have been arranged at a small bar, the room is narrow, but not claustrophobically so. A couch lines one wall. In front of the couch is a large oval rug and this time, an atrium frames the view of the airport runway. Rose wonders about her acquaintance. Clearly he is no struggling backpacker. “A seat?” His chivalry is. But it’s the name he saddled with when he rolled in here, and I don’t know if I ever heard a Christian name for him. But he’s OK. Tiny’s OK. All by himself, of course. And any regular guy would look OK against this gang of cave men.’ They both sat there for a few moments taking in Tiny. The joke, of course, was that Tiny had maybe a size and half on the biggest guy in the bunch of bananas sitting at the other picnic table and still ogling Cleo and muttering images of them with Cleo under their breath that had the other guys sneering and chuckling. But though he was big, Tiny wasn’t fat—more like solid, solid muscle. And square jawed farm-boy looks like he might be a step behind the smartest guy in the room but that if you were in a brawl, you’d want to look around to make sure he was on your side. And Tiny was probably the youngest of the bunch. Couldn’t have been much out of high school. The other guys didn’t even try to pull him into their circle—but they walked a wide path around.
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