Their car arrived after midnight. A tall bespectacled kid, an older, portly guy, and a young Mexican. All three seemed tired as they loaded their bags into the plane, boarded and settled down.
Climbing into the cockpit he introduced himself: ” I’m Roger.”
“Hi, Roger. Ritchie.”
“J.P. The Bopper.”
“Buddy. Good to meet you. Now get us to Fargo, quick as you like.”
“Yessir, Mr. Holly.”
Roger Petersen steered the Beechcraft down runway 17 and climbed into the Iowa snow.