Clint Bo Dean and Enya de Burgh snuggled in the back of the cab on the way back out to the airport to hand in their badges and empty their lockers. Enron had been emphatic: there was no place in the Air Poets for closet Dan Brown lovers.
“You know, if we’re lucky, we might just have time to catch that flight to Paris,” Bo Dean murmured.
“Uh huh. Have you got everything?” whispered Enya.
“All up here,” Clint replied, tapping his forehead, “it’s all up here.”
Enya smiled, and watched the tail-lights of the other taxis performing their intricate dance, darting in and out of lanes like so many plots in the night.
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