Call the White House?
Panicking, he checked his pants pocket. Lordy, Lordy! His iPhone was still there.
He was about to check the pocket of his North Face puffer vest for his Ray-Bans, when he realized that he wasn’t wearing the vest or the sunglasses, and that they were not in the car. Shit. The boss vest that he had “borrowed” from the White House staff locker room and the awesome shades that he had shelled out $180 for were gone.
He remembered letting Rosa, the whore with the biggest tits, wear his Ray-Bans last night. “I want to look cool, like you,” she said flirtatiously as she ran her fingers over his crotch. She had looked foxy in them, the bitch. He realized that he would never be able to wear Ray-Bans without picturing that moment. I definitely got fucking rolled, he thought.
Conner drove back at high speed to the Garcia family house. He made it there by 6:05 a.m., but he saw no lights on or people inside, and Mama G’s food truck was gone. Still groggy from whatever had hit him last night, he sat in the car with the engine off for an hour, staking out the house. The lights stayed off and no people appeared to be inside—and it was getting fucking hot in his car.
I’m a smart soon-to-be Secret Service special agent even if I did blow it last night, he told himself, as he fumbled to figure out his next move. His stomach growled. It reminded him that he had read in the People article that Mama G’s Tacos were such a hit, every day Angel’s mom drove the food truck around TJ, making stops where fans lined up for her tacos.
That’s it! he thought. I’ll hit every street in TJ where foodies go!
He turned on the car’s engine and then the AC. All that spewed out of the vents was hot air. He sighed. On top of all the other bad shit that had come down on him, he refused to let the broken AC piss him off. He focused on finding Mama G’s food truck, trying to picture what it had looked like in the shadowy driveway of the Garcia house last night. All he remembered was that there were a lot of decorations painted on it, in a lot of pink.
“Follow the pink,” he said out loud as he gunned it to downtown Tijuana.
Chapter 40
San Diego, CA
December 19, 11:30 a.m.
“You painted it?” Natalia asked Angel. Sitting beside him on a wrought-iron bench across the street, she was admiring the decorations covering every inch of Mama G’s Tacos food truck: swirls of pinks, reds, and purples, like interlocking rainbows; pink-and-green butterflies; and lush pink tropical flowers. Mama G’s was the most colorful of the food trucks parked nose-to-tail around a cobblestone square in San Diego’s Old Town, beating out Bitchin’ Burgers, Haad Sai Thai Food, and Groovy Greek. Mama G’s also has the longest line of customers waiting for them to open, she thought.
“Mexican plus gay equals ‘artistic,’” Angel joked. “Like I told you, bright colors make you happy even when there’s nada to be happy about. It’s, like, a Mexican thing. A gay thing too.”
“In Slovakia, everything is gray, brown, or…gray,” she said. “People are depressed and they stay depressed.”
“You like my Frida Kahlo touch?” He pointed to replicas of the famous artist’s self-portraits on the truck. He had added bluebird’s wings to one, angel’s wings to another.
“Love them!”
“Y’know, Frida was almost killed in a bus accident. She spent the rest of her life in, like, a body cast, sometimes in a wheelchair, or in bed.” He read an inscription above the truck’s service window: “Feet, what do I need you for when I have wings to fly?”
“That’s beautiful.”
“Frida said that. It’s my mom’s favorite quote.”
“Is that your mother?” Natalia nodded toward a small Mexican woman sliding open the service window from inside the Mama G’s food truck. She was wearing a hot-pink Mama G’s logo cap and apron.
He nodded. “Oralia Garcia. I think I told you, she’s stuck in a wheelchair. When I was a kid and we lived in the barrios bajos, the slums, she was caught in the crossfire of a gang fight.”
Natalia gently touched his hand, then watched as Oralia smiled and waved to the customers lining up outside the truck. They waved back. “Her customers sure love her.”
“Me too,” said Angel.
The back doors of the food truck opened. A Mexican man maybe in his fifties, but looking older, lowered a ramp to the street and stepped down it. He couldn’t have been more than five-feet four, like Angel, and he had Angel’s bushy eyebrows. Definitely Angel’s father, she thought. Wearing a hot-pink Mama G’s Tacos baseball cap and apron, like his wife Oralia, he walked around to the side of the truck and flipped up a portable counter under the service window.
“Your dad looks like you!” she said.
“You mean he’s a camarón!”
“A guapo camarón, like his son! What’s his name?”
“Armando.”
She watched as Oralia handed bottles of El Pato and La Victoria hot sauce and bowls of fresh salsa to Armando through the opening. He placed them on the counter.
“Seeing your mom in action, you’d never guess she was in a wheelchair.”
“When I got her the food truck I had it retrofitted. Then that story about you and me came out in People. It kinda put her on the map. Some gringo foodies got so psyched about her fish tacos in TJ, they invited her to join the food-truck gathering here in San Diego on Fridays. Mama G’s is the only food truck that comes all the way up from TJ for it. They got her, like, a special border pass.”
“Now I’m beginning to understand why we’re sitting here, disguised as Mexican workers.” The only item from what Angel called his “old life” was his red Gucci satchel. It was stuffed into a brown paper Walmart shopping bag at his feet.
“So how exactly is your mom going to sneak us into Mexico?” she asked.
“The retrofitters put, like, a false floor in the food truck,” he said. “That way, when my mom is in her wheelchair, she is up high enough to cook on the grill and talk out the window to customers. My dad is so short it helps him too. Anyway, under the false floor is another space. It’s three feet tall and runs half the length of the truck. It’s refrigerated. My mom and dad store, like, fresh tuna, snapper, and shrimp for their tacos in there.”
“We’re going to hide with the fish?”
“Depends how many fish tacos they sell today,” he said. “If you’re lucky, they’ll sell out.”
Natalia watched as Armando joined Oralia inside the food truck. They worked as an efficient team as he took orders and she prepared food. “They look much sweeter than my parents,” she said. “Mine were always fighting. Mamina knew Papa cheated on her. Instead of leaving him, she used it as her excuse to bitch at him nonstop.”
“Lots of Mexicans cheat on their wives. It’s, like, a macho thing,” said Angel. “But my dad never did. I’d bet my life on it. They really love each other.”
“They’re lucky,” she said wistfully. “So when do we eat? I’m dying for a fish taco.”
Angel put his fingers in his mouth and whistled to a couple of Chicano boys who were kicking a soccer ball around the square. They looked over at him. He held up a twenty-dollar bill. They grabbed their ball, crossed the street, and ran over.
“Yo, want a couple of free fish tacos from Mama G’s?” Angel said.
The boy in a San Diego Padres T-shirt reached out to grab the money. Angel pulled it away.
“For real?” asked the boy wearing a Xolos of TJ T-shirt.
“For real if you do me a favor.” He chatted with the boys in Spanish, took a pen from his pocket, and wrote something on the twenty-dollar bill. Natalia watched as the boys grabbed it, crossed the street, and waited in line at the Mama G’s food truck. When it was their turn at the window, the Chicano in the Xolos T-shirt gave the bill to Angel’s mother. Oralia read the words on it and glanced up. Natalia saw her eyes meet Angel’s, but her face didn’t give away that she recognized him.
Minutes later, the boys jogged back to Angel and Natalia with pink Mama G’s cap
s on their heads and a carton full of fish tacos. Angel kept two tacos for him and Natalia and gave the rest to the boys.
“Gracias,” they said, and scampered away.
Natalia savored her taco. “Úžasný! Fantastic!”
Chapter 41
The White House
December 19, 2:00 p.m.
In the bathroom of the First Lady’s bedroom, Moon turned on all six showerheads and raised the water temperature to the maximum. She took a quick pee, then stepped over the blue Dior dress, underwear, and white Adam’s-apple-hiding scarf that she had dropped on the floor the moment she and Rex had returned from the hospital. She was glad that she had tricked the President into revealing his germ phobia in front of photographers. She hoped it would make the news tonight and torpedo his ratings. Before then, she planned to take an extremely hot shower, order something beyond delicious to eat from the White House kitchen, and take a long nap in Natalia’s heavenly bed.
Scratch that, she thought. Only Gretchen, Rex, Agent Pricker, Sally-Ann, and Hilda know the truth about who I am. The kitchen will continue to send up the real First Lady’s inedible health food until Hilda…
Hilda!
Where was Hilda? The Slovak maid was usually poking around in the First Lady’s bedroom around this time of day, arranging flowers, straightening clothes in the closet, spying. She wondered if the maid had thought about her proposed bargain yesterday: Hilda helps Moon escape from the White House; Moon takes Hilda to the best sex-reassignment surgeon in the world.
She stepped into the shower, enjoying the blast of hot water on her body from so many angles. This would be a perfect time and place to have a wank, she thought. The problem was, she couldn’t talk herself into feeling sexy. All she could think about was getting out of here and going home. She wondered if Eliza, her girlfriend in Miami, was worrying about her. She hoped that dear, sweet Eliza hadn’t forgotten her.
After ten minutes, Moon stepped out of the shower and grabbed a towel. Drying herself off, she made her way through the steamy bathroom into the bedroom. Hilda had made the bed while she was away from the White House this morning. She walked over, dropped the towel, and pulled back the downy-soft Frette comforter. She climbed between the sheets, then reached up to adjust the dozens of goose-down-filled pillows, from very small to ridiculously large in size. She realized that the incredible array of soft pillows had become the amenity she most appreciated in the First Lady’s bedroom.
Her fingers touched something under the pillows that was not as luxurious as 1000-count-cotton pillowcases. She pulled it out: a white polyester maid’s uniform with a “White House” logo embroidered over the breast pocket. A yellow post-it stuck out of the pocket. She read the scrawl: “Under bed.” Yay! Hilda heard my plea, she thought.
She climbed out of bed, got down on all fours, her penis and balls brushing against her thighs, and retrieved the items lined up under it: thick-rubber-soled white maids’ shoes in her size; a white bra; white panties; and support pantyhose. There was even a pair of men’s glasses that looked just like Hilda’s. Moon scooped everything up onto the bed and tried on the glasses. Suddenly everything was a blur. Definitely Hilda’s. She wondered if the clothes were Hilda’s too, or if she had borrowed them from the housekeeping laundry room. She took a sniff. They smelled clean and fresh, as if they’d just come out of a dryer sweetened with strips of Springtime Bounce.
Moon checked to make sure that there was nothing left under the bed, stretching her arm as far out as she could and groping around on the carpet.
“Yikes!”
She yanked her arm back, certain that her fingers had touched a dead rat. Realizing that was impossible—there cannot be rats in the White House other than the President, she thought—she reached back in and snatched the furry item. It was a short brown wig, the same “no style” style as Hilda’s hair. She slapped the wig onto her bald head, vowing to kiss the maid’s feet the next time she saw her. She wondered where and when that would be? Hilda was obviously resourceful. She trusted that Hilda would figure it out.
Moon rushed into the bathroom and hurriedly dressed into her “escape” clothes. She checked herself out in the mirror. She looked like Hilda, but a slimmer Hilda. She returned to the bedroom and grabbed a small pillow from the bed. She stuffed it under her maid’s uniform, positioned it over her stomach and tightened the belt to keep the pillow from dropping onto the floor. She rechecked her image in the mirror. The pillow gave her a gut, but not as big as Hilda’s. If anyone asks, I’ll say I went on a diet, she thought.
There was only one thing about her Hilda imitation that wasn’t quite convincing. When Moon walked across the room in her control pantyhose, she didn’t make Hilda’s “rustling leaves” sound. Her thighs simply weren’t fat enough to rub together, like Hilda’s did. She pressed her thighs tighter together and walked across the room again. It sounded sort of like rustling leaves, very small rustling leaves. Close enough. She spotted the discarded white-silk scarf on the bathroom floor and tied it around her Adam’s apple. Voila! A jaunty new look for Hilda.
As Moon hastened to the bathroom door, she reminded herself that she had no ID, no money, no iPhone. She had given them to Natalia and Angel. Once she stepped out of the White House, she had no idea how she would get home to Miami. She thought of stopping in the staff-cafeteria kitchen and borrowing money from Stella. But Stella worked the night shift; she wouldn’t be there yet. She decided to hang out in the staff cafeteria until Stella showed up.
Moon’s musings about exit details were cut short when she walked out of the bathroom. Gretchen was standing in the doorway to the First Lady’s bedroom, Sally-Ann one step behind her, like a Secret Service agent.
The First Daughter’s face was a mask of anger. In fact, her chin was jutting out the way Rex’s had when he threatened to shoot her the other night. The evil daughter is more like the evil father every day, Moon thought. She considered imitating Hilda’s voice and saying something like, “I thought I’d go down for fresh towels,” or, “Can I get you some afternoon tea, Madam First Daughter?” She knew it was useless.
“You really fucked things up for Daddy this morning,” Gretchen said, twisting the pen in her hand as if it were Moon’s neck. “If it weren’t for the fact that the First Lady came across as a star at the hospital, and that we have no alternative, I would have you executed!” She turned to Sally-Ann. “You are not to let our pseudo, psycho, FLOTUS out of your sight until we figure out next steps.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said the social secretary, without a hint of enthusiasm.
“And you…” Gretchen said to Moon. “Take off Hilda’s fucking uniform, not that Hilda can use it.”
“You fired Hilda?” She felt sad, but only a little guilty.
Without answering, Gretchen walked out the door and locked it noisily from outside.
Moon turned to Sally-Ann. “So, do you like the Ellen DeGeneres Show?”
Sally-Ann sighed, defeated.
Chapter 42
San Diego, CA
December 19, 2:00 p.m.
In the unseasonably record-high temperature for December, 80 degrees F, the ice cubes in Phil’s iced latte had melted, but he sipped the tepid drink anyway. He didn’t want to spend $4.95 for another fruit-and-nut protein bar that would disappear in three bites. He intended to stretch the two hundred dollars in cash he had brought from Los Angeles for travel expenses. Who knew how many more days he would be on the road? I’ll get my daily requirement of protein from what’s left of the latte milk, he thought.
Phil had been sitting on the Starbucks patio in San Diego’s Old Town for the past three hours, his laptop open as if he were working on a screenplay, like other poor souls who hung out at Starbucks in Southern California. But he wasn’t writing a screenplay. He was taking advantage of the free Wi-Fi to do additional research on the topic that obsessed him: the First Lady’s escape from the White House. “Be prepared” was the Boy Scout motto. Phil had never forgotten it. Fo
r the first time, he was glad that he had excelled in the Boy Scouts. It was just about the only organization in which he did.
He certainly had done a thorough investigation. Googling Angel Garcia had led him to the People article about the Mexican hairdresser and the First Lady and how Angel bought his mom a food truck. Googling Mama G’s Tacos had led him to San Diego Yelp. That’s where Phil learned that Angel’s mother’s taco truck was now part of the lunchtime food-truck gathering in San Diego’s Old Town on Fridays, which, his good luck, was today.
Phil knew that his theory about the First Lady escaping from the White House bordered on bat-shit crazy. There had been no mention about it in the press, but still he believed that his assumption was correct. His photos of Angel Garcia leaving the White House with a tall trans woman had led him on Google to a trans woman named Moon Kusnetzov, who did an amazingly realistic impersonation of the First Lady at the Cross Queen nightclub in South Beach. When he called the club, he learned that Moon hadn’t shown up for work for the past two nights and hadn’t called to explain.
Then there was the official White House Christmas photo on TV yesterday, in which the First Lady was standing next to the President. Since following Natalia on the First Lady paparazzi trail, Phil had taken hundreds of photos of her. He might be the only person in the world who believed it, but he was convinced that the First Lady in the official White House Christmas photo was not the real First Lady. Phil was certain that it was Moon Kusnetzov.
Today, he had hit the jackpot. Or at least he was certain that he would before the day ended. He had been sitting across the street from the Mama G’s Tacos truck since 11:30 a.m., watching a diminutive Mexican lady and her husband, no doubt Angel Garcia’s parents, selling tacos to happy customers. He also was keeping his eye on a couple of unkempt Mexican workmen sitting on a bench across the street, a rumpled brown-paper Walmart bag at their feet. The men had been there when he arrived this morning; they hadn’t moved since. Why would Mexican workers hang out on a park bench in San Diego’s Old Town, a tourist destination? Were they waiting until it got dark enough to rob tourists?
The First Lady Escapes Page 19