Lost Luggage

by Wendall Thomas

  The boat whistle blew. “Happy Anniversary!” I called out as they reached the deck, waving until they headed inside. Maybe it was the memory of Mrs. Barsky’s frail, dead hand, but I wished I were going with them. What was I doing, sending all these seniors into the jungle alone, with nothing but bug spray? I had to win that trip, not just for me, but for my clients.

  I needed a new pool of seniors and I knew the best place to find them: the Travel Agents’ Convention in Atlantic City. But could I make my escape without my family finding out?

  Chapter Four

  By Sunday, I had my Atlantic City escape plan in place, but it didn’t make saying good-bye to Mrs. Barsky any easier. I had offered Flowers!!! Flowers!!! a weekend on the Cape to make sure Redondo Travel sent the largest arrangement for her funeral. Most of Bay Ridge attended the service, and Joni and Uncle Ray gave eulogies. No one had been able to find her son, Bobby.

  Joni had borrowed my waterproof mascara, but it hadn’t done much good. “Thanks a lot,” she said with a tone, then shook her head. “Sorry. My fricking mother.” I handed her a catering napkin and my compact mirror. “After the five thousand times I’ve come down to take care of her, she makes Bobby the executor. She left you her apartment, by the way.”

  “Me? You’ve got to be kidding? Why would she do that?”

  “She said you needed your own place or you were gonna be an old maid. Really, I don’t begrudge you that, Cyd, you kept her company, and Bobby can have the damn store. I hate that smell anyway. She left us all the cash. But if we don’t find Bobby, none of us are getting anything.” She slammed the compact shut. “I don’t even know if he’s alive. You know some P.I’s. Can you help me find him?”

  “Sure, of course.”

  “Thanks.” She threw back her eighties perm and headed for the receiving line. Mrs. Barsky had left me her apartment with the pink rotary phone. I felt a real stab of grief. And guilt that I hadn’t been there for her at the end.

  Uncle Ray invited everyone back to our house after the service. He was being nice, but also strategic, as it kept our competition from working the funeral. There was nothing like a funeral for a “seize the day” pitch and we weren’t about to give our nemesis, Peggy Newsome of Patriot Travel, access to our client base.

  Ever since Patriot Travel opened a branch in Bay Ridge, Peggy had been trying to poach our customers, especially the Gray Panthers—Redondo Travel had been the official travel agent for the Brooklyn Chapter since its inception. Three days after Peggy arrived, I stopped by their headquarters with my weekly cupcake run to find a fifty-two-inch flat screen TV, with a plaque at the bottom that read, “Patriot Travel Cares.” From that moment, it was war. The Panthers had a whirlpool the next week, courtesy of my Christmas fund. I was sure Peggy had come up with her new “Bahamas Bingo” package just to siphon off my potential Tanzania clients. Lucky for her and for me, she stayed away. I needed all my energy to pull off my Atlantic City trip. As the mourners worked their way through three trays of tiramisu, I tried to keep the excitement out of my face.

  It was pretty impossible to keep a secret from my family. They knew everything I did and had vocal opinions on all of it, especially on Atlantic City. Uncle Ray headed my way. He was six feet tall and getting wider by the year. His strong, straight nose, black eyes, and salesman’s smile meant he was still someone to be reckoned with. Had he sussed me out?

  “I was going to drag you to the Firemen’s Pancake Breakfast this Saturday, but rumor has it you’re off to Debbie’s for the weekend.”

  I had planted that rumor myself at the Third Avenue Merchants Association on Friday night. After a two-hour meeting on worker’s comp, everyone was thrilled to hear about my friend Debbie’s breakup and how I needed to help her pick up the pieces. I was pretty sure the news would get back to the family, but it was good to know for sure.

  “Uncle Ray? You went to high school with Bobby Barsky, didn’t you? Joni can’t find him. Do you have any idea where he is?”

  “Bobby? Jakarta, last thing I heard. He may not want to be found, you know. Your cousin Eddie thinks he’s a mercenary.”

  “He’s just jealous.”

  Uncle Ray laughed. “Well, that may be true. Sorry I can’t help you, kiddo.” He moved toward the buffet table, then turned back. “By the way, Frank caught the little monsters that left that parrot. They won’t be doing that again.” My brousin Frank was a detective for the Precinct and if I were a kid, I wouldn’t want to mess with him either.

  “Great.” I was just glad it hadn’t been Jimmy.

  ***

  By Friday, the day of my escape, I had confirmed my last-minute room at the Taj Mahal. Debbie was on board for my alibi, and my ex-boyfriend mechanic had swept my Ford for bugs. I had e-mailed We Find Anyone—we used them for the few clients who were mobile enough to skip out on their bills—about getting an address for Bobby Barsky. It was a long shot, but at least I’d done everything I could for Joni. Now all I had to do was get through the rest of the workday. I had calls in to six clients and had booked a couple of fortieth anniversary cruises, but so far no more safaris.

  I was so excited about Atlantic City, I couldn’t sit still. I decided to head to the supply closet for a quick stiletto kickboxing session. It wasn’t encouraged at the gym, but I was a realist—I figured there was a ninety-nine percent chance that if I actually had to use self-defense I would be in my Stuart Weitzmans—so I liked to get at least one session in a week in four-inch heels. I’ll admit, they were hard on the bag, but balance was key in my favorite roundhouse kick combination and I didn’t want to be wobbly on the R train or anywhere else. As usual, taping Peggy Newman’s newest airbrushed flier on the top of the bag upped my game. Her haircut inspired me to throw in a few extra sidekicks and some elbow strikes, but I stopped myself before I broke a real sweat. I dabbed some loose powder on my face and headed back to my desk.

  As I was straightening the office, I found Mrs. Barsky’s FedEx package under a box of new Tanzania brochures. I had completely forgotten leaving it there the day she died. I was about to put it in the stack of stuff for Joni when I noticed the return address—a post office box in Dar Es Salaam. Why had Mrs. Barsky never mentioned she’d been getting packages from Tanzania? I’d only brought the country up about five thousand times. I told myself Joni didn’t need anything else to deal with, but who was I kidding? I was too curious: I ripped the tab.

  Inside I found a stack of documents with official stamps from the United Arab Emirates. Weird. I had just noticed a bunch of Latin words when the door chimes sang and a tall woman with a sleek black haircut and an Eileen Fisher heavy-linen tunic poked her head in.

  “I hear you have a special to Tanzania?”

  “Yes, absolutely. Please come in.”

  She sat down. Though the nubby charcoal fabric matched her hair and the flats were right for the outfit, something was off—she didn’t usually wear those clothes. She had no idea how to manage fabric billowing in a flattering way around her hips. Hiding flaws around the middle was the cornerstone of the Eileen Fisher line. Happily, I hadn’t had to resort to camouflage yet. Tight was still working better on me.

  The woman wanted to know everything: times of flights, outbound and return, hotel details, in-country transportation, which safaris were available, etc. She wasn’t big on politeness: when she wasn’t typing into her phone, she surveyed everything on my desk, even staring at Mrs. Barsky’s FedEx package until I moved it out of range. After half an hour, I asked if she’d like to book. She hesitated. It wasn’t the hesitation that meant she’d have to check with her husband/partner/accountant. It was the hesitation of no. She stood up, saying she usually booked her own travel and had just wanted to compare prices.

  “You’re not going to get better prices anywhere, because no one else is partnered with someone on the ground there.”

  “That’s what you think,” she repli
ed, her tunic barely moving as she jerked the door open and let it slam. I was disappointed but not surprised. The rich transplants in the neighborhood used us a lot that way, but I figured if they came in the door, I had to try. Had Peggy Newsome sent her? Maybe that’s why she’d been so interested in my desk. I cursed them both.

  By three o’clock, I had checked on all the Tanzania clients that were already traveling. Jack and Barb Anderson, who embraced skydiving and mountain climbing, had tons of frequent flier miles, and paid in advance, had arrived safely in Tanzania and checked into their hotel. My godparents, the Giannis, were en route to their safari; and Herb and Maria Minetti, my favorites, were mid-Atlantic on their QE2 cruise and had eaten dinner with Elton John’s husband, who apparently was lovely. Thinking of them, I vowed again to make the Travel Agents Convention in Atlantic City count.

  I was just shutting down the computer when Jimmy slouched in. My youngest brousin was one of those guys who led with his feet, like the Keep on Truckin’ guy. He was already losing his hair and was dressed in a grayish green Hugo Boss suit that didn’t quite fit through the shoulders. He was on salary, but only made an appearance about twice a month, usually to borrow petty cash.

  I hadn’t wanted to yell at him at Mrs. Barsky’s funeral, so I had days of irritation stored up. “Where the hell have you been? You left me with all the Wisconsin Cheese Tour paperwork.”

  “Cheese is your department. Any customers for me this week?”

  “They’re only your customers if you’re here.”

  “I’ve been busy. What the hell are you wearing?”

  “I suppose the guys who speared the parrot were friends of yours?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Squid. What’s with the outfit?”

  Since Atlantic City was a work trip, I had paired my new crocodile pencil skirt with a black silk ballet-neck blouse, sheer black stockings, and my four-inch brown crocodile heels. I had pulled my hair off my forehead with a black suede headband, and added gold hoop earrings and Jackie O sunglasses—classic simplicity.

  “I’m spending the weekend with Debbie. You know, girls’ night.” I spun professionally, hoping it would distract him. “Loehmann’s Columbus Day sale. What do you think?”

  “Too slutty. What are you up to?”

  “Nothing. I’m trying to get Debbie out of the house.”

  “You know I’ll get Eddie to find out, if you don’t tell me.”

  I sighed. Eddie was my oldest brousin and my favorite. I really didn’t want him involved. “If you must know, the National Association of Career Travel Agents is meeting this weekend. As the face of this agency it’s a very important part of my job to keep up with travel trends.”

  “Dad’s sending you? I find that pretty hard to believe, considering last time,” Jimmy said, sitting on the edge of my desk and lighting a cigarette. “Well?”

  “He’s been so busy, I didn’t want to bother him with it.”

  “Right. It’s in Atlantic City, isn’t it? He’ll have a cow.”

  I was dead. All my planning was for nothing.

  “Come on, Jimmy. Does he have to know? It’s only three days and two nights with breakfast and Wi-Fi included. It’s just New Jersey, for Christ’s sake.”

  He leaned in, his gold chain swinging toward me, and it was all I could do not to knee him in the balls. It wouldn’t be the first time.

  “It’s my only chance of filling the Tanzania packages. I’ve pitched the whole borough and their extended families already.”

  He took a long, cough-inducing drag on his cancer stick, and held out his hand, which seemed to sport a couple of new gold rings. I gave him a look and reached into the drawer for the $365.47 that I was going to have to replace out of my next paycheck.

  “No ratting,” I said.

  “No getting lucky.” He pocketed the cash and headed for the door.

  “What are the odds?” I yelled after him.

  To be honest, I hoped they were good. I’d been single for a year and even worse, celibate for about six months. I’d had a brief fling with one of my old high school boyfriends after he and his wife split up, but that was mostly sad, as he kept talking about her before, during, and after sex. Apparently she had psoriasis, but that just made her more attractive to him. Short of my contracting a disfiguring skin disease, the relationship had no future.

  So I was ready for a fling. That’s what conventions were for, right? I just wanted to meet someone who wasn’t from Brooklyn. Romance would be preferable, but I’d settle for someone cute to talk to about finding bulletproof rental cars in Mexico.

  Daydreaming was a mistake. I didn’t trust Jimmy not to snitch. I had to leave right away. I jammed Mrs. Barsky’s FedEx envelope into my purse and headed out.

  Chapter Five

  I headed down 92nd Street and onto the ramp for the Verrazano Bridge and before I knew it, I was on Highway 9, headed for Atlantic City. Most people don’t consider New Jersey a destination location, but as far as I was concerned, Trenton was practically Tahiti.

  I put my “Basic Swahili” Berlitz tape into the ancient cassette player and practiced saying jambo, which meant “hello” and hujambo, with the emphasis on the second syllable, which meant “How are you?” There was something great about driving past a toxic chemical plant while saying Ni siku nzuri sana: “What a beautiful day.” I was so caught up in perfecting my pronunciation that I almost missed the Garden State Parkway. An hour later, I merged onto the Atlantic City Expressway East and minutes later, I could see the ocean, the Boardwalk, and my destination, the Trump Taj Mahal, where the marquee read “Travel Agents Do It With Reservations.”

  I self-parked and headed to the lobby. The Taj had the blinding, combed-over arrogance of its owner, who seemed to move through life without apology or consequence. To live without apology. Or jail. What a concept. The lobby was a gold-plated tack-fest through the history of architecture: marble Arabian-patterned floors, classical white marble check-in desk, a Rococo ceiling with massive gold leaf clam shells, and a truly monstrous modern chandelier the size of my car.

  I got into the check-in line. Normally, when I managed to sneak out of the borough, I booked myself under one of my assumed names—I had a friend in the credit card/passport business. I hated splitting up the rewards points, but it was the only way to throw Uncle Ray off the scent. This time I’d registered so late I’d had to use my real name. Chances were someone I was related to was going to drag me out screaming anyway, so I might as well get all the perks I deserved.

  “Next?” called Rhonda from Fort Collins.

  “Cyd Redondo, Redondo Travel.”

  She took my credit card details and handed me off to a bellboy. I always felt weird having a bellboy pull my carry-on luggage, but it seemed rude, and cheap, to refuse. I love a bargain, but the one place you never, ever, scrimp is tipping; it always pays off. I encouraged my clients to factor in at least twenty percent for tips in their travel budget. The bellboy opened the door and brought my luggage in. I gave him a ten.

  “Nice legs.” He ran for the opening elevator. See?

  My room looked out over the ocean. It didn’t matter that the water was rodent gray with waves the color of a yellowed t-shirt. It was the Atlantic and on the other side of it was France. Technically, I had a view of France.

  I headed to the bathroom and put all the Aveda samples in my suitcase, so the housekeeping staff would replace them. I told my clients they should do the same; they were paying for it. I checked out the mirror. I still looked twenty-eight on a good day, largely because I hadn’t had children and took kick-boxing. My mom always said it was unseemly for a woman to kick someone in the head, but growing up with so many boys, I saw the appeal. I redid my makeup for convention hall lighting, checked my bag for my box of one thousand business cards and Tanzania pamphlets, and put the Do Not Disturb sign on the door,
with the TV on as a burglar deterrent. It wasn’t foolproof, but it lowered your odds.

  Then, for luck, I headed down to the biggest wishing well in New Jersey—the Atlantic Ocean. I put my shoes and stockings in my bag, and dug my bare feet in the damp sand. There’s usually a mildewy, fishy smell about the Jersey shore, but that night it was fresh as a margarita. I wished for my clients to be safe, and for me to win the trip to Africa with my own “plus one.” I threw in a whole roll of quarters, watched them sink, then dried off my feet with the mini roll of paper towels in my bag and headed back.

  I had registered too late to snag a convention booth, so I was going to have to approach potential clients on their own turf. I figured I had about ninety minutes before they all disappeared for the Early Bird Specials. Safaris weren’t cheap, so I needed optimistic, well-heeled seniors. I headed to the five-dollar slots and looked for smokers with Rewards cards. I spoke to seven different women, all with three-day-old hair-dos that had begun to collapse like angel food cakes taken out too early. I heard a lot about their children and Medicaid, but only one of them took my card. She said I should try the Bingo Lounge the next morning. I bought her a drink, then headed to the Convention Hall, hoping for some referrals.

  As I neared the registration desk, I could have sworn I saw the Eileen Fisher woman who’d come into the office earlier today. This time she was wearing a severe navy suit and looked like she’d been born in it. I followed her to the elevator, but what was I going to say to her anyway?