Act nonchalant. 

  Nit valiant? 

  No. 

  They entered the espresso bar. 

  A teenage girl with hands on knees like a sportsplayer and butt facing a robed "prince".  The man's pants were down around his ankles.  She was clothed.  He did not seem to think he was.  He talked to the butt as if talking to Marilyn Monroe's face.

  The people sent to collect the teen because of swift-moving diplomatic changes were dressed as a family of tourists.  

  A milky haze hung in the air. 

  An octopus of an ashtray was still smoking on one of the tables. 

  "Reminds me of a ghost town out west back home," a "mom" in a long jacket with purse strapped neatly across her front ("like a cari-bini"/"was her idea to even play the cop parents") and sneakers ("most up-to-date version or pair or whatevah") said.  It was her "job" ("not for a gold bar mind you") to give the next "clue".  Man thinks he's still in New Mexico, the grown ups had said of the kidnapped delegates piling up on the tarmac behind the control tower and so inside the shimmering molten heat shield that mostly just looked like a mirror.

  It had been abandoned.  The limo.  

  The teenager's hair was cut with a straight razor and a military official in tourist clothing one giant hand mandated the chaffeur cap onto her head. 

  On one of the planes that had been grounded too long, raising suspicion a neighbor's dad went down the aisle with a pillow case.  Waluables?  The man somehow blocked tears from coming out of his eyes while he thought of a line.  We missed trick or treating.  This year.  A skinny guy in golf shoes and handcuffs dug into a pants pocket.  Dug out a rubbed bending melted, cooled, melted cooled bite-sized chocolate bar and threw it at the man with the pillow case.  It bounced off his nose.