Nancy from Go! Chicago! was working the registration outside the Apollo Ballroom. We had traded hotel coupons and services for years. She helped me find the best river tours and handicap access hotels and I got her Yankees tickets and suites at the Plaza. We independents had to stick together.
“Is she here?”
Nancy hated Peggy Newsome too. “Anne Klein pencil skirt, blouse unbuttoned three down, new Diane Sawyer haircut. She’s already hosting at the bar.”
“Why do the evil people never get cancer?”
“The poison in their blood kills it.” Nancy handed me five drink vouchers. “She’s in Eastern Europe, so I’d hit Asia or the Caribbean, to be safe.”
“Thanks, Nance. Drink later?”
“Tomorrow. I’m on the desk all night. Have fun. See the world.”
And that’s what I did, by proxy. The convention hall was divided into destination locations, with individual travel service booths scattered throughout. I gave each of them a professional assessment. Sometimes the posters and pamphlets alone could tell a good travel agent whether the place was worthy of Mrs. Greenblatt and her chihuahuas. First, you looked at the paper quality of the brochure, font, number and quality of photos, etc. Anything under twenty weight or non-glossy meant the place was cheap and would probably skimp on shampoo, towels, bedding, etc. Obviously anything Xeroxed meant fly-by-night; any place that used italics was trying too hard. The photos were the most important. If they focused on tiny things—a chair in the lobby rather than a full view—it was a bad sign.
I checked out the travel agents too. The floor was full of optimistic clothing. It was always interesting to see people trying to look their best. Sometimes you had to say, “Really, this is your best?” Still, there was something sweet about it; I felt a wave of love for my profession, for the agents who were taking out second mortgages and managing commission cuts and still came here, full of hope. For me, it was the hope of giveaways. Those thousand business cards were not for nothing.
I entered every drawing and raffle, as many times as I could, sometimes flinging my card in from the side or over a cut-out, for trips to Venice (six days, seven nights with scooter included), Auckland, Hong Kong, Napa, and a barge down the Amazon, among others. I talked to the team from Singapore Airlines, who gave me some insider tips for seat requests, said hi to the folks at Europe On A Dime, and of course, I stood in line for Rick Steves. The guy is a genius. I just wish he would stand up straight.
By the time I was halfway through the hall and had registered for tomorrow’s lecture, “Making Terrorism Work For You,” I had so many pamphlets, books, and business cards that I put them in the luggage room so I could start over.
For my second round, I chose a tote from the New York Times so I’d look smarter and headed for the Asian section. There was a tall, dark-haired man there with dimples who’d seemed to look at me in Prague and Key West, so I thought it would be easier on both of us if we were on the same continent. He was wearing a loose linen shirt, khakis, and sadly, sandals. Men in sandals are usually high maintenance to make up for their lack of sex appeal, but that was not the problem with this guy. At least they weren’t flip-flops, but even if they were custom, it was a strike against him. I watched him listen to a pitch on Indonesian dive trips. He had a shy smile and eyes like jumbo Raisinets and I decided to ignore his feet for the moment. When he turned and stared right at me, I actually blushed. When you have ten brousins, you don’t blush. He was coming my way.
I smoothed my skirt, then saw Peggy Newsome stomping toward me with what could only be described as a “look” on her face. The woman was evil and no amount of Cool Water could cover up the sulphurous, dragon lady smell that permeated the air around her. I really wasn’t in the mood, especially as I might have spread a couple of small rumors about her at the Panthers’ annual dinner dance last week. The words “bedbugs” and “identity theft” might have crossed my lips.
I ducked down behind an empty Thai Parasailing booth to gather my wits and accidently stepped into the trash can behind it, losing my balance and falling ass over elbow, flashing most of the South Pacific. Horrified, I got up too fast, knocking over a fifteen-foot Great Wall of China display. When the rolling fishbowls and flapping sails finally settled, the whole convention was staring at me. I closed my eyes, hoping this was one of my recurring convention nightmares. It wasn’t. I was still on the floor when I heard a familiar, debate club voice.
“Cyd Redondo. What are you doing here? This is a travel agents convention.” Damn you, Peggy Newsome. Now everyone in the convention knew who’d taken out Asian Adventures while showing her thong. “Ah, let me guess,” Peggy said. “Ruining vacations wherever you go. That is, if you ever actually go anywhere.”
Before I could spit out a retort, I felt a strong hand on my elbow.
“I’m so sorry,” the guy with the Raisinet eyes said, pulling me up and handing me my purse. “Sorry, folks. This was entirely my fault,” he shouted to the gathering spectators. “It’s just like me to turn all clumsy when I see a beautiful woman.” His dimples turned almost inside out as he handed his card to the Great Wall of China reps. “Of course I’ll pay for any damage.”
He turned to Peggy. She shook her haircut and held out her hand.
“Peggy Newsome,” she said. “If you’re looking for a true professional, I would be happy to handle all your travel needs.” I bet you would, you hag, I thought.
“That’s very kind, but Ms. Redondo has yet to ruin any of my vacations.”
“It’s your funeral,” Peggy said.
He made a half-turn, then looked back at her. “May I ask a personal question?”
“I’d love it.”
“Have you had work?” he asked.
“No, all absolutely natural.” She shook her hair again.
“Maybe you should consider it.”
Peggy Newsome went as stiff and white as a half-baked meringue. “You’re not going anywhere,” she snarled at me, then stomped off into Micronesia.
My hero winked and headed for the exit. If I hadn’t been in lust with him already, this pretty much did it. I went to follow him, but the parasailing guys surrounded me and by the time I had calmed them down, he was gone.
Chapter Six
I ran to the lobby and spent a half an hour of pointless searching for the man who had taken down Peggy Newsome. At eleven, having reached the limit of my shoe pain, I gave up and headed upstairs. As I was taking off my eyelashes, the phone rang. Maybe it was him.
“Cyd Redondo, Redondo Travel.” Nothing but breathing. I checked the locks and got into bed. I kept telling myself I needed my beauty sleep in case I ran into him again, but all that did was keep me awake.
Still awake at five, I decided to check out Mrs. Barsky’s FedEx package. Maybe that would put me to sleep. The documents inside were full of Latin words, references to the United Arab Emirates, stamped “Captive Bred,” and approved by something called CITES. It might as well have all been in Latin. I figured the sender probably didn’t know about her death; I should give them a call. They were seven hours ahead, it would be midday there and international calls were free on my weekend minutes. But when I tried the number on the waybill, it was disconnected. I added the P.O. Box address to my phone anyway and got up.
I ordered English muffins, bacon, and a pot of coffee. I was missing the complimentary buffet, but I didn’t want to risk running into the sandal guy before I’d had caffeine and a mini facial. I took a cold shower to close my pores, then dressed professionally sexy, just in case: a pink Chantelle bra, a leopard skin knee-length sheath with a tiny crocodile patent belt, nude platform heels, and the real Tiffany studs I’d gotten in an estate sale in Fort Hamilton.
I went to two morning lectures, keeping my eyes peeled for my tall stranger, then headed to the Bingo Lounge, which turned out to be a bust. Or it was after I was escorted out by Se
curity. Apparently, I distracted a hardcore regular with my pamphlet and cost him five hundred dollars. The guard was very nice, considering, but said there was no “solicitation” in the casino and if he caught me approaching guests again, I would be banned from all Trump resorts. No problem, there were other casinos.
To keep my spirits up, I headed to a reception for the Independent Travel Agents Association. This was one place I knew I wouldn’t run into Peggy Newsome, as corporate bitches were not allowed. Nancy and I cashed in her drink vouchers.
“My only clue is his sandals,” I told her.
“He’s your Cinderfella. Security tapes?”
“If we were in Bay Ridge, no problem. Do you know the guy here?”
“Just the ones in Vegas.” Nancy downed her pear martini. I was sticking to my usual Jack Daniels straight up. Things were complicated enough in life without having to make a decision about drinks: JD, red wine, coffee, water. Simple. This regime required whitening strips, but that was a small price to pay, especially if you got them online.
“Well, here’s to finding your mysterious stranger.” Nancy shot her drink. She was late for her date with a cruise director from Greece, so I hugged her good-bye and did another round through the slots until the security guard spotted me and I ducked into the closest ballroom I could find—the Herb World Expo. I figured I could hide for a few minutes in there—my mother would probably love a basil plant.
The ballroom entrance smelled more like gerbil litter than fresh rosemary, and featured a huge wall of what looked like mulch and cans of fertilizer. Personally, I would have gone for suede gardening gloves as a teaser, but maybe mulch was sexy to gardeners. When I got inside, instead of the colored clogs and capri pants I expected, the hall was crawling with faded black-light t-shirts, piercings, and male ponytails that looked like they were trying to wriggle off their owners’ heads. Past the terrariums, I saw something familiar: a goodies table. Great—I was starving. The table was piled high with cake displays and white plastic carryout containers. It was like the high school bake sale of all time.
I headed toward what I thought was a carrot cake. As I reached for it, it moved. And it wasn’t the only pastry in motion. Every cake plate, every coleslaw container and zip-lock was filled with reptiles: tiny colored ones curled up like licorice and huge brown boa constrictors masquerading as maple Bundt cakes. I felt weak.
I sprinted for the exit, running into the kind of thing that should be behind unbreakable glass, or safely dead and reincarnated as a handbag: a writhing, yellow and white python the length of a hallway, flicking its red tongue. The man it was wrapped around came straight toward me, smiling.
“Welcome to the Herp Expo.” He held out a hand with about a fifth of the reptile in it. “Would you like a photo with Bubbles?”
Chapter Seven
I came-to five minutes later in a plastic folding chair at the back of the convention hall and immediately screamed, as I had missed my opportunity before by being unconscious. A thick woman in a black leather vest and fifteen silver snake necklaces handed me a coffee.
“Wrong convention?” she asked.
“Slightly. Cyd Redondo, Redondo Travel. Thanks,” I said, downing it as I looked right, left, and behind me. Reptiles everywhere. “How did I get here?”
She pointed to a familiar set of sandals. I looked up into those eyes and blushed. Again. This was the second time I’d keeled over in front of this man. What must he think of me? Well, if I let him get away again, I’d never know.
“Cyd Redondo, Redondo Travel.” I held out my hand. He took it. It was like someone had thrown a toaster into my bathtub. And that was just my hand.
“Redondo Travel?”
I nodded.
“Sounds familiar,” he said.
“We service the Greater Brooklyn area.”
“Really?” He raised his eyebrows. “Roger Claymore. I didn’t take you for the herpetology type.”
“What was your first clue?” I said. “Did I land on the snake?”
“Luckily not. That snake is worth twenty grand.”
My heart sank. “You’re not one of the snake guys are you?”
“Chiropractor,” he said. “Convention-hopping.”
“Me too.” I looked around. The more awake I became, the more I felt like slimy things were crawling inside my clothes.
“And you came in here?” he said.
I shook my head. “Misunderstanding.” I looked up at him. Seize the day. “You’ve saved my ass twice. I probably owe you a drink. I have vouchers.”
“Well, if it’s vouchers.”
“Any chance you can carry me back out?”
“Why. Do you faint a lot?”
“Only once before, when my brousin’s bone was sticking out of his elbow.”
“Your what?”
“Never mind.”
He smiled. He had a small mole just beside his mouth. His hands were long, like a pianist’s or a surgeon’s.
“Men don’t faint, right?” I couldn’t take my eyes off his dimples.
“I wouldn’t necessarily say that. Quick look on the way out?” He offered his arm.
A look, quick or not, was not my idea of fun, but I didn’t want him to let go of me. I nodded. We passed terrariums filled with poisonous tree frogs, monitor lizards, and tarantulas. Behind us, I thought I saw a booth that read CITES, like on Mrs. Barsky’s documents, and almost pulled Roger that way, but there were a few loose lizards on shoulders coming our way and so we headed for the exit instead. I was stunned by the prices for things most people in Brooklyn would slice with a shovel. Twenty grand. Thirty grand. For snakes. I started to hyperventilate. Everywhere, dealers were opening their reptile “takeout containers.”
“It’s safe, don’t worry,” Roger said
“It is not safe. Think about it. How many times do you wind up with coleslaw juice all over your pastrami or balsamic on your garlic bread by the time you get home? Those things are not secure.” I saw a booth full of what looked like golf clubs. “What the hell are those?”
A lovely, petite blonde in a white golf shirt handed out her card: Ron’s Reptile Control. “You use this end here to hold the snake down behind its head. We also have collapsibles,” she said, taking a one-foot club, then shaking it out into four with a fencing flourish.
Roger steered me past a huge tub of crickets on broken egg boxes and a freezer full of dead mice. I didn’t realize how hard I’d been holding his hand until I let go and he shook it out.
“Sorry.”
“No problem. I will accept that drink, though. It might restore the feeling.”
“Smart ass.” I pointed to a purple bar. Roger looked back at the hall.
“What is it?” I looked back too.
“Nothing,” he said “but there’s a quieter bar up on the left.”
We went around the corner and arrived at a gold-plated lounge. He pulled out my barstool. The bartender took our orders for a microbrew and a Jack Daniels straight up. I checked the mirror behind the bar in case fainting had flattened my hair.
“Okay, that was, hands-down, the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen. It’s like a snake flea market. Is there really a demand for these things? Honestly?”
“Bigger than dogs and cats. Billions of dollars. It’s massive online too.”
“Snakes through the mail?”
“Absolutely. That’s what the holes in the tops are for. And this is the legal stuff. Most of the reptile trade is black market. Like I said, billions of dollars of endangered animals every year. It’s second to arms dealing.”
“Wow. Lizards are a girl’s best friend. Who knew? How do you know all this stuff?”
“They had brochures by the door.”
“How secure are those animals at night?”
“You really shouldn’t worry.”
“Really?”
“Well, in certain circumstances.” I took a stiff mouthful of the Jack Daniels. We looked at each other and my temperature went up about ten degrees.
Roger raised his glass. “To meeting on the Great Wall of China. And I do mean on it.”
Two hours and a bottle of wine later, I had done the soft sell for my Tanzania package and he’d explained pressure points. For some reason, I told him about finding my neighbor dead without her wig. Then I realized it wasn’t the most romantic topic, so I suggested a stroll on the boardwalk, preferably toward Nathan’s. But first, I needed lipstick. I said I’d meet him in the lobby.
When I came out, he was in deep discussion with a sandy-haired man dressed in what could only be called a Eurotrash suit, slightly shiny and a bit too tight, with a t-shirt underneath and sporting over-long, pointy shoes. As I approached, the suit guy turned and smiled.
“Cyd Redondo, Redondo Travel.” I gave his freckled hand a good shake.
“Graham Gant.” He had a slightly Nordic accent. “Pleasure.” We stood awkwardly. “So you’re a friend of Claymore’s?” I looked at Roger, who gave me a cautionary look.
“We know each other professionally.”
“Really? Well, that’s terrific. I don’t want to keep you. Claymore, I’ll be in touch.” He turned and walked to the bar.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt anything.”
“Don’t worry about it.” He took my hand, but looked after Gant. “Didn’t you say something about Nathan’s? It’s famous, right?”
I dragged him down to the boardwalk and got a perfect Nathan’s chili cheese dog. Roger went for the crinkle fries. I was a little concerned that he was a man who knew a lot about reptiles and didn’t seem to like hot dogs. Who doesn’t like hot dogs? I know they have nitrates and toes and things in them, but he was on vacation. Still, he apparently loved the fries, as I only got two, so I decided to overlook the rest. We stood there looking out on the water, slick as motor oil. My phone rang.
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