Shawn was in a good mood. I could tell because from the moment I picked him up it was a constant litany of "The white zone is for immediate loading and unloading of passengers only," and "There is no stopping in the red zone." Not that I minded. This week was all about cutting loose together. It was October, the time of year when Shawn and I traditionally take a break from work and do something fun. Shawn likes to call it our Fall Hiatus.

Truth be told, this vacation had come none too soon. I think it was Ralph Waldo Emerson who advised us to keep our friendships in good repair, and while ours certainly wasn't falling apart, given the mileage it had accrued, it needed a tune up.

Never let it be said that I begrudge Shawn his independence. He's a grown man and I get that sometimes friendship has to sit out a few songs so romance can take a twirl on the dance floor. And one doesn't have to be a psychic detective—or even be pretending to be one—to know that his recent busy evenings were related to his love life. Sure, I was a little bummed that he hadn't introduced me to the lady who was occupying three out of seven evenings of his week, but I wasn't dwelling on it. Burton Guster's got enough bettys on speed-dial to fill his free evenings. And I knew Shawn would share the details with me when he felt the time was right. Friends trust friends.

So when Shawn proposed that we finally take our long discussed trip to Sin City, I was in. Our expectations for Vegas were, not surprisingly, wildly divergent. Which is to say, mine were realistic. Shawn was hoping to break the bank at baccarat, bust a diamond smuggling ring, arrest a creepy killer duo and rescue a reclusive millionaire, all while wearing a tuxedo. Personally, I was looking forward to seeing a live performance of The Lion King, and attending the Age of Chivalry Renaissance Faire, held in Sunset Park. I'll leave you to judge which of us had a better shot at enjoying his vacation. I'll only add that the Boar's Head Feaste features a six course meal, beautiful women in renaissance costume, and live entertainment, all for $25 a head. Enough said.

But back to my main point, which was that starting off our week of male bonding by harkening back to Airplane! was entirely appropriate. We'd seen it on late night television when we were six, and been instantly hooked. We stayed up until 11pm eating Pop Rocks and acting out scenes from the movie. So it wasn't surprising that he started speaking Jive as soon as we boarded the plane.

"Sheeet, man," he said, smiling at me. "That honky mus' be messin' my old lady. Got to be running cold upside down his head!"

Normally I discourage Shawn's attempts at Ebonics. Primarily because he's terrible at it. But we make an exception for Airplane! I like to refer to it as the Gibbs-White exemption. Although to be fair, perhaps White's name should be first, as he had a more extensive acting career.

"Hey Homes," I said. "I can dig it. You know he ain't gon' lay no no pig rap up on you, man!

"You know what they say," Shawn said. "See a broad to get that bodiac,"

Shawn stuck his hand out for a low five. "Lay 'er down and smack 'em yak 'em!"

"Cold got to be!" Our palms connected in a loud smack.

"Sheeeet!"

However, the joy of our Abrahams-Zucker-Zucker repartee was short-lived. I'm pretty good at sensing shifts in Shawn's disposition, and within minutes of boarding I could tell that his mood was plummeting faster than my Netflix stock.

"Awwww, that guy's going to be sitting with us!" Shawn dropped his shoulders and looked up, as if appealing to divine assistance. "This could ruin our whole trip!"

Shawn is overly dramatic. It's part of his charm.

For those of you unfamiliar with air travel, allow me to explain the seating arrangements of a Boeing MD-80. This particular aircraft is a quiet, fuel-efficient twinjet, which seats up to 172. It has a 2-3 seat configuration, which means that the left side of the plane has a row of two seats (seats A and B), and the right side has a row of three (seats D, E and F). I suppose row C is the aisle, although I've never seen it labelled as such. We were in seats 24 E and F, which meant that the aisle seat was free.

I looked in the direction Shawn was indicating. Our potential seatmate was bottlenecked several rows away by the passengers stowing their luggage in the overhead bins.

What makes you think he's with us?" I asked. "He could be sitting anywhere."

"Uh-uh." Shawn shook his head vehemently. He took a deep breath and I knew I was in for a classic Shawn explanation. You know the kind—where he notices so many details that it makes you feel as if you go through life with a paper bag over your head.

"Assuming he obeyed the boarding call," he began, "he's in rows 17-26. He's looked to his right only once but he's checked the left aisles three times, which means he's on our side."

I looked at the section of plane ahead of us. Rows 17 through 20 were already full on our side, but there were at least three empty seats—a fact that I didn't hesitate to point out. But if you know Shawn then you probably know how challenging it can be to argue with him.

Shawn smirked and jerked his head in the direction of a man who resembled Paul Wight in a seat ahead of us. "The Big Show-looking dude in row 21 clearly bought two seats, since there is no way he is going to be able to put the arm rest down. And the frat boys chatting up the girls in 25 A and B belong in seats 22 and 23 D. Mr. Seatcrasher McFunStealer over there hasn't looked further than aisle 25, which is full already. Thus, process of elimination, he's sitting here. With us."

I looked. Shawn was right. I was big about it. I let him have the win.

"Maybe we can move," he suggested, gazing around the plane as though hoping to see a bank of empty seats.

I didn't need his powers of observation to know that the plane was fully booked. Vegas is a popular destination, and all the two-seater rows had been taken when I booked.

"Maybe he's getting off in LA," I suggested. Santa Barbara Municipal Airport doesn't offer direct flights to Vegas, so we had a connection to make at LAX.

"No way," Shawn said. "He's wearing a World Series of Poker lapel pin. He's probably got some elaborate plan to break Vegas with a team of card counters or grifters. Maybe a crew of men dressed as Elvis. I bet he takes up all the armrest space building a miniature replica of the Bellagio vault."

"Or he may just read a magazine, like a normal person." In my experience, air travel is made more tolerable by a good distraction, and I had brought a plethora of reading material in my carry-on. I was particularly looking forward to perusing my Heritage Auctions comic book catalogue. Sure, I wouldn't be putting in a bid on Todd McFarlane's original art for Spider-Man #328, which goes for well over half a million dollars, but I had a decent shot at rounding out my Black Lightning collection, or snagging a piece of David Messina's original art for the True Blood series. He draws a hot Sookie.

"This wouldn't have been a problem if you'd gotten us seats in first class," Shawn grumbled.

"Relax. We have good seats," I assured him.

"I beg to differ," he argued. "In fact, these seats suck! We deplane last, all the good snacks will be taken by the time the stewardess gets to us, and we have zero chance of sneaking into first class. How am I supposed to meet famous people in this seat?"

"First of all," I countered, "they haven't been called stewardesses since the 80s. They're flight attendants. Second, these are excellent seats. We have quick access to the emergency exits and the lavatories without having to deal with the limited recline of rows 19 and 20. Plus, it's been well established by Popular Mechanics that passengers sitting behind the trailing edge of the wing have a 69% chance of survival in the event of a crash, compared with only 49% for passengers in first class. I rest my case."

He sulked. "Well now I have to sit next to a stranger. How safe is that? This guy could be a hijacker." He looked at me with that stare he gets when he's trying to use the Jedi mind trick on you.

"Give it up, Shawn," I said. "The Jedi mind trick has never worked."

"There's a first time for everything."

"Becoming a Jedi takes years of spiritual and physical training, Shawn. You fell asleep watching Eat, Pray, Love."

"Can I help it if I nodded off during a Julia Roberts travelogue that would have been more interesting if it had starred Anthony Bourdain?" He nodded toward our potential seatmate. "Anyway, all I'm saying is he could be Passenger 57."

"Passenger 57 was Wesley Snipes's character," I reminded him. "I think you mean Charles Rane. He was the terrorist."

"Exactly my point," Shawn said. "We don't know who he is. He could be Cyrus the Virus or the Marietta Mangler or…or…or…Del Griffith. Oh God Gus! What if he wants to sell us shower curtain rings and take off his shoes?" He looked at me with pleading eyes. "Quick! Switch seats with me. Right now, before he gets here."

I shook my head as the stranger approached. "Suck it up, Shawn. You know I need the window seat or I get airsick." I gazed out the tiny oblong window at the tarmac, watching the luggage being loaded.

Shawn needn't have gotten so worked up. Our seatmate stashed his suitcase in the overhead, nodded a hello and proceeded to bury his nose in a book about poker.

Given Shawn's abilities, it can sometimes seem like he's the only one of us who notices anything. Nothing could be further from the truth. While Shawn saw only an annoying intrusion, I saw a man of wealth and taste, with the good sense to choose safe and economical airfare. Our seatmate looked kind of like Adam Brody if he were cast in an episode of Mad Men. Now I am aware that some people have accused me of being a clotheshorse, which is not true. I simply appreciate the finer elements of a gentleman's wardrobe, and I know a tailored suit when I see it. And the man in question was well dressed, even if I might take exception to his choice of matching tie and shirt colour. Monochrome is over. But I digress.

Given that his carry-on, the Louis Vuitton Pégase 45, retails for almost three thousand dollars, I instantly pegged him as what they call "a whale"—someone prepared to spend large amounts of money gambling. Whales often get hotel suites, drinks, tickets to sold-out shows, and other amenities for free. It's called "being comped." By comparison, Shawn doesn't even bring a carry-on bag. He just expects me to have anything he might suddenly need.

As for our seatmate, I've moved amidst the upper crust enough to know that nobody invests in a suitcase that expensive unless they travel often. And given his choice to sit in our row rather than in first class, if I were pretending to be psychic, I might go out on a limb and venture that he's a frequent reader of Popular Mechanics with a highly developed sense of self-preservation. I know, I know. Sometimes I impress even myself.

Take-off came quickly, and while I am in no way a wuss, the sudden elevator drop of my stomach as we ascended had me clutching the airsickness bag, just in case. After the shudders of take-off had segued into a smooth even flight, and the seatbelt light dimmed, I opened my carry-on and pulled out my pill case, lowered my tray and lined up my travelling medicines.

"Looks like you picked the wrong week to quit amphetamines," Shawn joked.

I smiled. "These aren't amphetamines."

"Well what are they then? You look like you're going to a rave at Michael Jackson's house."

I gave Shawn a smack on the back of his head. "Too soon."

I turned to my pills. "They're a precautionary measure," I explained. The majority of them were vitamins, one was an anti-nausea pill, but my ace in the hole was a new drug that Central Coast Pharmaceuticals was promoting. The air in a plane isn't humidified, so the protective mucosa of the mouth and nose, which acts as a barrier to bacteria and viruses, dries out, increasing our susceptibility to infection. Mucosamine was designed specifically with air travel in mind and I was looking forward to trying it out. And lest you be concerned that I use my position to abuse prescription meds, don't worry—it's OTC.

I retrieved my lunch from my carry-on and began to unwrap it.

"Please tell me you didn't bring your own in-flight snack," Shawn said.

"Mucosamine needs to be taken with food," I explained patiently, "lest it damage the lining of the stomach."

Shawn gestured at the elegant flight attendant, making her way toward us with a cart of drinks and snacks. "They have food here."

"Do you have any idea how many people get food poisoning every year?" I asked. "Forty-eight million. That's one in six, and it ain't gonna be me." Shawn may not care about the sad demise of food safety in this nation, but I do my research. A recent FDA inspection of inflight catering companies found issues with roaches, rodents, and meat cooked and stored at inadequate temperatures. And lest you think that vegetarians are immune, their lab results showed a high coliform count in rice. Basically, anytime you eat something you haven't prepared yourself you're taking your life in your hands. It's one thing to risk life and limb for delicious flavour when I'm home—and I do sometimes live on the edge like that—but taking that risk before my vacation? Not going to happen. And traditionally, airplanes do not sell peanut butter sandwiches with the crusts cut off.

The flight attendant leaned in, and I detected a delightful whiff of Jasmine.

"Would either of you like a drink?" she asked.

"Pineapple juice," Shawn said, giving her a come-hither smile. "Shaken, not stirred."

"Apple juice," I said, and accepted the glass with a nod of thanks.

"What happened to forty-eight million people get food poisoning?" Shawn asked.

I shook my head. "The sterilization process that juice undergoes destroys almost all mold, spores and bacteria." Sometimes Shawn just needs to get schooled.

Now something you may know about Shawn is that he's a bit of a flirt. And by that I mean he flirts all the time. Our flight attendant reminded me a little of Halle Berry—Executive Decision Hallie, not Gothika or B*A*P*S* Halle. So of course she got the full Shawn Spencer treatment. Although to be fair, Shawn flirts with pretty much anyone. I remember having to drag him away from my great aunt at a Guster family picnic when we were fourteen, and I once saw him flirt with a male guard at Angel Stadium. So one should take his flirting with a grain of salt. Perhaps several. A light sprinkling, if you will.

To be fair, Shawn's constant flirting has made him pretty good at it. Our flight attendant asked if he wanted something from the cart and within moments he not only had her name—which was Janice—but also had his glass of pineapple juice, a lapful of tiny bags of almonds, and was asking if she was seeing anyone, how long she'd worked for the airline, and if she flew the Vegas route often.

"I wish your mystery girlfriend could see you now," I said once the attendant had left. "How would Miss Tuesday, Friday and Saturday feel about your little scene with Janice?"

Shawn laughed, but there was an undercurrent of insincerity about it. "The word indifferent comes to mind."

"Three days a week doesn't sound indifferent to me." I wasn't jealous.

Shawn looked away and pretended to be interested in the chair-kicking of a boy in row 26.

"There may have been an argument," he admitted. "And things may have been said."

"What kinds of things?"

"Things that can't be unsaid." He sighed. "Like reading from the Necronomicon. Klaatu veronica necktie. Let's just say that when we get back I expect my week will be decidedly less busy."

"I'm sorry to hear that."

I was, genuinely. When I found myself having to compete for Shawn's free time I hoped that he'd found someone special. It's not often that anyone gets to keep their toothbrush at his place, so I had been pleasantly surprised when an Oral-B ProfessionalCare SmartSeries 5000 and two heads had shown up on his bathroom counter. I hadn't met her yet, but already I admired her commitment to oral hygiene.

Shawn shrugged. "It was inevitable. Our whole relationship was like the basement in Cabin in the Woods. You're bound to stumble over something dangerous, and when you do, bingo! Zombie hillbillies, creepy doll people, or carnivorous mermen. Or in my case, hurt feelings, harsh words, and slammed doors." He glanced at our seatmate and then leaned in toward me. "Listen, shifting gears for a moment, I think Janice is worried about something," he whispered.

"If I were her I'd be worried that you were going to pester me all the way to Vegas." Lest you think my remark is indicative of callous disregard for Shawn's post-breakup feelings, let me explain. Shawn has, on numerous occasions, relied upon me to raise the tone when things get too serious or depressing. It's a responsibility I don't take lightly. I was fully prepared to pull out the big guns if I had to, with a little 'surely you can't be serious' action.

Shawn smiled, letting me know that my effort was appreciated, and leaned in further. "No. Really, Gus. She was totally preoccupied when I talked to her. And the worry lines on her forehead make her look like a chameleon." He made an expressive hand gesture at his forehead.

"I think you mean a Klingon," I corrected.

"Exactly!" Shawn didn't miss a beat. "It's like she knows there's something sinister going on but doesn't want to panic the passengers. Like maybe she's seen David Suchet assembling a gun in the lavatory out of camera parts, or she knows both the pilots had fish."

"Or maybe there's a demon crawling along the wing of the airplane that only she can see," I suggested, harkening back to that classic Twilight Zone episode, Nightmare at 20,000 Feet.

"Either way, I think we should keep an eye on her," Shawn suggested.

"From where I'm sitting it seems like your eyes have been on her like a pair of Spanx." Far be it for me to judge whether a man is cheating in his heart. But frankly, I suspected that Shawn's sudden interest in Janice was more about the lines of her hips than the lines in her forehead. This did not bode well for Ms. Tuesday, Friday and Saturday. But then when it comes to romance, Shawn's more of a sprinter than a marathoner. That's not a judgement. I'm just saying.

Shawn tilted his head and smirked at me. "Fifty bucks says I get proved right before we reach Vegas."

There's a saying when it comes to gambling: know your limit, play within it. Part of the costs I'd budgeted for our Vegas trip included gambling losses. I wasn't kidding myself—the odds favour the house, so I expected to lose. To me, those losses were part of the cost associated with the Vegas experience. I'd set a limit and written little post-it notes to myself attached to my credit cards reminding myself of this plan. I've heard how crazy Vegas can make people. But Shawn seemed to be over-reaching, and I felt my money was safe.

"You're on."

I should have known better.