Lost Luggage

by Wendall Thomas

  I have to admit, my curiosity got the better of me. The first bag held folders in Swahili. The next one had what looked like about a hundred thousand in U.S. dollars. Holy crap. I could understand dollars coming into the embassy, for petty cash or whatever, but why would dollars go out? The hall was still quiet, so I took a chance on one more, shaped like a man’s toiletry bag. At first it seemed to be empty, but when I looked closer, there, glowing like a fluorescent beacon, was a fuchsia scrunchie.

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Barry, curled up and “diplomatic bag” green, looked about as unhappy as a reptile could. He swiveled one eye away from me, then the other. I felt horrible. There was no way I was leaving him here. I heard a toilet flush nearby. I unzipped the extra compartment of my Balenciaga, which doubled its size, and slipped the diplomatic bag inside, making sure not to squish Barry.

  I grabbed another bag from a shelf and looked for something that might be about a chameleon’s weight. I settled on a half-empty Perrier bottle and put the scrunchie around its neck for good measure. I thought I heard someone on the other side of the open door. I swiveled backwards, to look like I was coming in rather than going out, and yelled.

  “Hello? Hello? Anybody here?”

  “May I help you?”

  “Oh, you scared me.” I said, whipping around. A man of about twenty with a five o’clock shadow and an ill-fitting suit stood there, reeking of smoke. “I didn’t know smoking was allowed in the embassy.” He looked guilty. “I’m so sorry to bother you, but I’m a guest of Ambassador Belk’s and I’m lost. Can you direct me back to the guest quarters?”

  Clearly more concerned about being caught smoking than guarding diplomatic secrets, he gave me directions and closed the door.

  Someone in the embassy was in cahoots with the reptile guys. Neither Barry nor I were safe here. With any luck, I had at least an hour before anyone would notice me missing. Once I was inside my room, I pulled out my phone and called Akida again. Still no answer. So much for “in country” help. My phone rang. It was my brousin Frank. Maybe he’d found Bobby. Maybe I could stay with him.

  “Hey, Cyd, you didn’t see a dart or a needle lying around Mrs. Barsky’s body, did you?” Frank said.

  “A dart?”

  “Yeah, I know it’s a weird question but this whole thing is weird. It turns out Mrs. Barsky was injected with the poison from a…shit….a D.E.N.D.R.O.B.A.T.I.D.A.E.” My years of Latin failed me. I blamed the nuns. “A poison dart frog. I kid you not. They’re little blue things with enough poison on their skin to kill about ten people.”

  “Wait, it’s on the frog’s skin? Maybe she just touched one. Maybe it was an accident?”

  “There’s an injection site. Definite murder. Plus those frogs are totally banned in Brooklyn. Whoever killed her had access to the poison or to the frogs.”

  “Obviously that rules me out.”

  “I don’t know. You’re a travel agent, you could smuggle anything in.”

  I remembered the Latin on the FedEx package. “Frank, maybe you can check on something. Mrs. Barsky got a FedEx the day she died—I signed for it. It had some weird documents with Latin names. I tried the phone number on the waybill but it was disconnected and they just had a P.O. Box. Maybe it’s a clue.”

  “Great, where are the documents?”

  “I kind of have them.” I pulled them out.

  “Jesus, Cyd. You tampered with evidence, too? WTF?”

  “If I killed her, would I be sending photos of them to you right now? As you see, the P.O. Box is in Tanzania. And I’m in Tanzania. If you get the address, maybe I can check it out. It’s a long story, but there’s definitely stuff going on down here.”

  “Cyd, you shouldn’t be more involved than you already are.”

  “Gotta go, I have fifteen minutes to flee the embassy. Call me later.”

  I hung up and turned off the phone to save battery. I thought about poison dart frogs—hadn’t the smugglers mentioned them? Then I remembered the tiny blue frogs in the takeout container from the Andersons’ luggage, the ones Roger had taken on safari. Shit. I tried Roger’s phone and Phoenix Tours. Nothing. I needed to get to that safari before Roger poisoned himself. Or anyone else.

  By agreeing to stay at the embassy, I’d missed the flight Akida had booked for me. And he wasn’t answering his phone. I decided to call one of the Flying Doctors, an emergency rescue team available as add-on coverage for our safari clients. Dr. Dennis and I had been phone- and e-mail-flirting for years. I had convinced every client we’d ever sent to East Africa to sign up, so he owed me. Plus, he had said on more than one occasion that he’d come pick me up anytime, anywhere and take the fee out in trade.

  I dialed Dennis’ number as I multitasked, catching a beetle for Barry and misting perfume. Dennis said he couldn’t helicopter into the embassy, but there was a rooftop landing pad about two miles away. Damn. Belk had said he’d returned my cab to the company. How was I going to get into town without anyone at the embassy knowing?

  The French doors were locked, but any Brooklyn girl could pick with them with a bobby pin. I looked out at the party preparations. At least some of the people setting up were in formal dress, so I wouldn’t look out of place. I grabbed my bag and carry-on, popped the lock, and tried to walk normally in the direction of the nearest catering truck, where I took cover. Being no stranger to catering, I knew this truck wasn’t going anywhere. So who would be leaving soon?

  I heard an engine start up. I ran for the vibrating panel truck, jumped in the back, and hid behind a wall of bagged rice. I heard voices as they loaded one more dolly, then pulled the truck door down. The gears ground into reverse and the truck started, throwing two huge bags of rice which barely missed my head. The truck slowed down, then we were through the security gate.

  The truck jerked ahead, boxes flying, then swerved to the side. I emitted an involuntary scream. The vehicle stopped, throwing me and Barry’s temporary hotel against the wall. I had just gotten back on my feet when the door opened and a blinding sun knocked me backwards. A silhouette stood in the doorway, waving what looked like a machete.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  It was a machete. Holding it was a girl, about five-six, in a Bob Marley t-shirt, baggy shorts, and the ugliest pair of Birkenstocks I had ever seen. She couldn’t have been over nineteen. She was sunburned all over, with a Connecticut nose that turned up at the end and had clearly been peeling for weeks. I put my hands up.

  “Up against the…the side.” Up close, she smelled like zinc oxide, Secret deodorant, and feet. “Who the hell are you?” Her hands were shaking, never a good thing with a machete.

  “Cyd Redondo, Redondo Travel. Hi. I’m sorry I scared you. Gerald at the embassy said I could catch a ride out with you. I’m from Brooklyn.”

  She looked me up and down. “Oh, my God, are those Stuart Weitzmans?”

  “Yeah, got them at cost,” I said, modeling like Dorothy in Munchkinland.

  “I’m so sick of wearing sandals I could die.” She dropped the machete, sat down on a box beside me, and started to bawl. I understood. Sometimes it was easier, even preferable, to cry in front of strangers. They couldn’t hold it against you for fifteen years. I put my arm around her, taking the opportunity to move the machete out of range and check my watch.

  “Sorry. I just wanted a gap year where I could feel like I’d done something worthwhile, you know, and it would look good on my résumé. Now, all I want is to walk into a mall that has Victoria’s Secret and the Gap and Restoration Hardware and have a smoothie. I’m a horrible person.”

  “No you’re not. You’re just homesick.”

  She was still looking at my shoes. “How much were they?”

  “It will just upset you.”

  “I’m already upset.”

  “Fifteen bucks.”

  “Get out.”


  “For serious. Century Twenty-One, seventy-five percent off the regular and forty percent off with another ten on coupon.” She started to cry again. I thought about Roger and Barry. I had to make a tough decision. “What size are you?”

  “Eight,” she said. Damn.

  “I’ll swap you if you can get me to this address.”

  “No problem.”

  Forget laughter. Shoes are the language spoken round the world. I took a deep breath and reached for my stilettos, handing them over slowly. After all, earlier today those shoes had saved my life. I took her Birkenstocks, the color of congealed oatmeal, and put them on. She said I could ride in the front. I stood up and promptly fell backwards, coming back up with my exposed back peppered in raw rice. How did people walk in these? Five minutes later she had deposited me in front of the Tanzania National Bank and I headed up the elevator to the roof.

  Dennis was waiting at the top, in khakis so worn they were see-through and a faded denim shirt, unbuttoned one button too many. His thick blond/gray hair was shoved under a baseball cap. He wasn’t as cute as his voice, but I was so glad to see him it didn’t matter.

  “Can we make it?” I asked, worried about Roger and the poison frogs.

  “Just,” he said. “Let me throw your stuff in the back.”

  I had taken Barry’s diplomatic bag out of my purse for safety, as for once in my life, I didn’t want instant reptile death.

  “I’ll keep these up front with me.” I hiked up my dress to get into the copter.

  “Nice dress.”

  “I was going to a party, but I had to make a quick getaway.”

  “With a diplomatic bag, that goes without saying. Don’t worry, I’m not going to ask.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “You’re pretty much, literally, saving my ass.”

  “Pleasure to have your ass in one piece.”

  He was tanned and buff, he was flirting with me, and he was a flying doctor, for God’s sake, but he wasn’t Roger. What had happened to me? How could one man ruin my entire future love life in three days?

  The minute we jerked upward, I felt seasick, or what I imagined seasickness would be like if I had ever been on a boat. I tried to look straight ahead and hoped Barry wasn’t a nervous flier too. I could feel him skittering around in the bag. Dennis lived in Africa. Maybe he knew something about animal smuggling. I asked.

  “Are you thinking of taking it up as a sideline?”

  “Just curious. I’ve heard some things.”

  He said the slaughter was horrendous—over a hundred thousand elephants had been killed in the last few years—even Al Qaeda was using ivory to fund operations. They’d taken to firing missile launchers at the Kenyan Wildlife planes to keep them away from the poachers. And there was an eco-disaster going on in Madagascar with endangered tortoises, snakes, and chameleons all being poached or killed. I checked Barry’s zipper.

  “Half the time the animals are worth more dead than alive. Christ, some rhino horns go for fifty, a hundred grand.

  “No way.”

  “Yeah, people grind them up for aphrodisiacs. The Chinese say it increases sexual performance.”

  “Does it?”

  “Of course not. But they kill them anyway. That’s why there’s only a handful left.”

  “So my nephews are going to live in a world without rhinos for the faux Viagra of China?”

  “Pretty much. Then there are all the tortoiseshell headbands and the snakeskin shoes.”

  We made a dip that almost brought up my breakfast. At least I had a seat belt. This must be like the Coney Island Cyclone for Barry. I should have strapped him in with Band-Aids. To avoid guilt about my ivory necklace, headband, and most of my shoes, I asked him about Phoenix Tours.

  “I know Cassandra, the woman who runs it.”

  “Know her, know her?”

  “Well, it’s a small country,” Dennis said. I could identify with that. Was Cassandra Roger’s type? “She’s a do-gooder, you know. Everything on the tour is really green and she’s pretty militant about it. If anyone even wears perfume, they’re off.” He looked over at me; I had doused myself with Calvin Klein’s Obsession before I left the embassy.

  “She’s going to hate me.”

  “Yeah, it should be fun.” He grinned.

  Perfect, I thought. The sun was low, the tall grass going golden orange, and the flat, wide baobab trees dark against the sky. All I needed was a flock of flamingos. I got a herd of giraffes instead. Oh, my God. Giraffes, skin like chocolate chip ice cream, legs long as Jersey pines, galloping over the plains. It was really something, to see them run. The giraffes in the Bronx Zoo barely had room to stroll. I noticed a couple of babies at the back, trying to keep up. I gasped.

  “Real Africa,” he said. “Or it will be if something eats it in the next ten minutes.”

  “Stop it,” I said, “leave me a few illusions.”

  I pressed my face to the window and scanned the horizon. Somewhere out there were lions. And lionesses. And elephants. And lumpy, huge-mouthed hippos. I forgot about the reptile kitchenette and the guns and the Andersons. Just for a minute, I was a tourist, on an actual vacation. What day was this? My third. Only six left. I wanted to see a lion. As the helicopter hovered above the camp, I saw people prone on the ground, their asses in the air.

  “What the hell?”

  “Downward dog,” Dennis said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Yoga.”

  “That’s pretty damn undignified,” was all I could say. As we got lower, the group began to scatter. We finally landed. The rotors slowed to a low roar, then stopped. Dennis turned to look at me.

  “Here it comes,” he said.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Striding toward us in the clearing was a woman about five-foot eight and “willowy,” with, of course, yoga arms. She wore a tank top, cropped green Abercrombie and Fitch pants that ran about three-fifty retail, and delicate golden leather sandals; apparently there were pedicures available in the jungle. She had almost unnaturally green eyes and her long, honey hair was loose and wavy. That, at least, I knew wasn’t natural. We Bay Ridge girls could spot a Golden Sunrise rinse from eighty paces. She hugged Dennis and I gave one of those sheepish waves, the kind you make when you’ve knocked the mannequin over at Bendel’s, and took a deep breath, determined to win whatever competition I was in with this dye-job anorexic green freak.

  I scanned the crowd for Roger. The eco-tourists were all wearing something ugly and expensive: cargo pants, which were never going to dry in this humidity, and shirts with multiple pockets, which always added five pounds—ask anyone. I was glad to be in my sequined dress, Birkenstocks or not.

  Dennis came around to help me down. “Keep it professional,” he winked.

  “Naturally,” I said, holding onto my purse and Barry’s bag and letting Dennis grab the carry-on. I attempted to get down without flashing the nature lovers, then turned to Dennis. In these shoes, I was too short to kiss him. Even on tiptoes, I could only hit him somewhere on the neck.

  “I really appreciate it,” I said. “I understand that next time I’ll have to be injured to get a ride.”

  He looked over at Cassandra and the other campers. “That doesn’t seem beyond the pale. Just be sure and ask for me, will you? Dick would smash right into some wildlife if he saw you in that dress.”

  Dennis gave me a small pat on my ass and jumped into the helicopter. Maybe in another vacation, I thought, and waved as the huge rotors flattened everything within fifty feet, including my hair. I tried to push it back up, heard a cough, and there was Roger, with zinc oxide on his nose, staring at me. Cassandra stepped between us. I held out my hand.

  “Cyd Redondo, Redondo Travel.” She had a limp handshake. I could take her.

  “Hello, Miss Redondo. I’m glad you’re no
t going to forfeit the fee,” she said. “I hope you’ve brought appropriate clothing. It can be cold at night.”

  “Oh, this?” I did a quick spin for Roger’s benefit. “I had to make an appearance at an embassy function. That’s why I’m late.”

  Cassandra sneezed. “Are you wearing perfume? It’s strictly banned on this safari. I thought I made that very clear in the literature.”

  “Well, I’ll be happy to take care of that if you’ll show me to my room.” The big stone lodge was just up the hill.

  “Yes, of course. We’ll get you to your tent so you can change for dinner. We meet for organic cocktails in an hour.”

  Tent? “Excuse me, I had reserved a room in the lodge.”

  “I’m afraid arriving late, you lost your suite.” Bugs, I thought. Bugs. “Our tents are four-star. Even travel agents like them,” Cassandra said.

  “I assume my client, Mr. Claymore, received what he was promised?”

  Cassandra smiled. “Mr. Claymore is getting the full package. Faraji will help you with your things.”

  Faraji was a tall native man, also in Abercrombie and Fitch, with a tattoo on one side of his face. I introduced myself and he took the carry-on while I held onto my purse.

  “I have to talk to you,” I whispered to Roger as we passed. “Right away. Don’t touch the frogs.”

  Cassandra moved to Roger’s side and took his arm. It was on. I didn’t care if he had a girlfriend in America, he was not going to have one here. She was dead tofu.

  I did my best to revive the normal sway of my walk, but it was impossible in these shoes. No wonder the aid worker had been in tears. I had to admit it was a little easier to manage the bags, though. Maybe I should look on eBay for a pair of those Chanel flats with the little bow. Outside the tent, the crickets were louder than a Maytag spin cycle and I heard the high-pitched cries of something that might be monkeys.