Alien Tango

favored my mother otherwise, so I didn’t “look” Jewish. But I was. And they weren’t. But they were pretending to be.
    “Why would you be insinuating that we’re trying to separate Jews from the other passengers?” I asked her.
    She started wailing. “It’s what always happens!”
    “Not in America.” Kevin wasn’t buying it now, either. I already knew Martini wasn’t.
    Martini gave her his most winning smile, usually reserved for my parents. “Ma’am, now, why would you think a nice Jewish boy like me would do that to you?”
    She gave him a baleful look. “You’re not Jewish.”
    He grinned. “You’re right. And you’re not an old lady.” He reached out and yanked her hair. It came off in his hand. Revealing short, blonde hair, clearly dyed.
    “Ick.”
    Martini dropped the wig. “We may want that checked out. Full search, her and her ‘husband.’ ”
    The supposedly old man with her started to protest. “That’s not my wife! Help, they’ve switched my wife!”
    “These are some of the worst actors I’ve ever seen in my life.” It was like dinner theater, only without food.
    Reader reached out and pulled the hair on the old man’s mostly bald head. It came off along with the bald skullcap, revealing a head of plastered-down hair.
    The searches of the two supposed old people—both of whom refused to tell us their names, real or fake—the young man, and Shannon the Toothless Weasel took a few minutes. While Pueblo Caliente’s finest did the searches, Kevin, Martini, Christopher, and I went through their wallets and the “old lady’s” purse. Reader, Tim, and Gower rechecked everything, just in case. The men were going a lot faster than I was—this chick had a lot of membership cards, and going through them was taking forever.
    We were able to identify our suspects easily since they all had driver’s licenses. Shannon’s last name was O’Rourke, explaining the commitment on his parents’ part to ensure he’d have a horrible life at American schools. The younger dude was Curtis Lee; he had a card listing him as a direct descendant of Robert E. Lee—I felt sure the South was okay with losing this particular son. The woman’s name was Maureen Thompson, and since the guy playing her husband was named Robert Thompson, it was a good guess they were married.
    “What are we looking for?” I asked as I looked at Maureen’s fiftieth membership card.
    “Anything that links them.” Kevin sounded frustrated. “This is too big, too well organized.”
    “And the four we’ve identified are all too stupid.”
    “Yeah,” Martini said. “So they didn’t plan this, someone else did.” I stared at him. “What? I can think, too.”
    “Yeah, that wasn’t what made me look at you. It just dawned on me that you didn’t say Reid, just someone else.”
    He shrugged. “We don’t know it’s Reid, yet.”
    “Right.” My brain was kicking at me. I looked back at what I was holding, a Club 51 card. “James, is there some big warehouse store called Club 51?”
    “No, not that I know of. But, you know . . . that sounds familiar.”
    “Well, we hang in Area 51,” Tim said with a laugh.
    Well, duh. Chuckie was beyond into UFO stuff. Because of him, I knew all the names and most of the rumors, many of which I’d been confirming as fact for the past five months. I shoved the guilt about not telling him anything away—we didn’t have time for it.
    “Okay, search the rest of their stuff for a card that looks like this.” I showed them the Club 51 card. It was paper, punched out from a bigger sheet, not a really official-looking card at all. The name was printed on by hand, under the line where Maureen had signed.
    They dug through—every one of them had one. “So, um, what?” Christopher asked. “I mean, if it’s a local club, what’s the big deal?”
    “It’s a club, but it’s not just local.” I was pulling this one up from way back—Chuckie hadn’t liked these people, and he hadn’t discussed them too much. “I need to ask someone about this.” I pulled my phone out.
    “Oh, great, she’s calling Mr. My Best Friend again,” Martini muttered. “Haven’t you talked to him enough recently?”
    “Best guy friend since ninth grade. Best friends talk to each other, sometimes a lot. Really, learn to accept it.”
    Martini’s growl showed acceptance wasn’t coming any time soon. I considered calling, but Martini was undoubtedly getting overtaxed, and me talking