Runner-up 2

Bonner cursed himself. He couldn’t believe that his flavor-of-the-month wife had double-crossed him. But then again he had always known of her guile. How else could she have conned him into putting her on his reality show. With her slinky moves, she had not only inflated his ego, she had also inflated her resume, claiming a long list of credits that he later found out were dubious.

Yet how could he claim foul! After all, wasn’t he the reincarnation of Sammy Glick? He certainly hoped so, as he raced back out of the terminal, trying to think of his next move. As he dialed Falco, he collided with a security guard, knocking the phone and his satchel to the ground.

“You idi...” Bonner said, catching himself as he realized that he had smashed into a police officer, not one of his lackey assistants.

“You should watch where you’re going,” said the officer, smaller than the average cop but with a square-jawed, bantam cockiness about him. “And what’s that?”

“My phone,” said Bonner, still a bit dazed after getting head-butted by a fellow who seemed to have muscles rippling throughout his body, including his noggin.

“No, that,” said the officer, shrugging his shoulders and pointing to the wads of cash that were spilling out of the satchel.

“Just some money I was...”

“You always travel with this much cash?” said the officer, smoothing his fingers along one of the bundles, snapping the bills like a deck of cards and then inspecting them.

Bonner tried to grab the wad, but the officer held it away from him.

“Back up, pal. You always in such a hurry? Just where were you going anyway?”

Bonner was tongue-tied for a moment, but then he remembered who he was, Charlie Bonner, two-time Emmy winner, Hollywood power broker. Why should he have to answer to some two-bit cop who looked like a failed, pint-sized imitation of James Cagney? No, this cop, who shrugged his shoulders, was no Cagney; he wasn’t even Michael J. Fox. In fact, he wouldn’t even make it on one of Bonner’s reality shows.

“What was your name?” said Bonner, studying the cop’s badge. “Flah...”

“That’s Flaherty. Anything else you want to know?” said the cop, still eyeballing the cash and picking up a second bundle from the bag.

“Officer Flaherty. You know who I am? I’m...”

“I don’t care who you are. You just assaulted an officer in the line of duty, and after I run these serial numbers, maybe I’ll find out you’ve been up to something else.”

“That’s outrageous. I’m friends with Chief Bratton. He came to the opening of one...”

“Got news for you, pal,” said Flaherty. “I’m with Homeland Security, and Bratton’s got enough headaches already with the murder rate skyrocketing this year. I don’t think he’ll be too happy to hear about a bullshit artist who disturbed the peace at LAX, especially on a day like today when we had to shut down all those flights.”

Bonner couldn’t believe it. He might actually have to call Falco for a favor now. After all, he was federal. Maybe, Falco could sweet-talk this Irishman with a thick skull.

As Bonner bent down to grab the phone, Genie’s note, which he had stuffed back into his jacket pocket, almost slipped out. Surprise. Boy, what a surprise he was in now. Still, it would be nothing compared to what he had in store for her after he talked to Falco.

Robert David Jaffee is a freelance writer in L.A.