Lost Luggage

by Wendall Thomas

  First round to me, but probably not for long, in the state I was in.

  “Thank you for getting me out of there,” I said.

  “I’m sorry about before. You have to admit the story sounded pretty unbelievable.”

  “Everything is believable sometimes.”

  He sat down and patted my hand. When men patted me, it was hard not to knock them senseless. I had actually done that with two of my brousins, when they patted me and told me “all girls got Cs in physics.” My response, just before I connected my book bag with their heads was “all boys get stitches.”

  I took my hand away. “Look. In addition to being the prime suspect in a poisoning, I just found out that two of my Tanzania clients have been detained for smuggling at Heathrow. I’ve got to get out of here so I can do something. Will you help me? Obviously, I can’t go back to the embassy.”

  “Why not?” Roger said. I pulled the diplomatic bag out from under the bed. “You took a diplomatic bag?”

  “I had to. Look. Be careful, though.”

  He unzipped the bag and there was Barry, eyes swiveling up at him. “You have the chameleon?”

  “I did, before the embassy couriers stole him and put him in this, marked for Heathrow. That’s bad, right?”

  “Harrison Belk’s always been a privileged douche, but I didn’t think he was actually a felon.”

  “It’s probably the creepy Under Under guy. He’s the one that took my room number.”

  Roger went to the tent door and looked out, then turned off the lamp.

  “Roger, you are not forgiven yet,” I said, hopeful.

  “It’s just a precaution.” He sat across from me. “Okay, start from the beginning.” He wrote some of it down and kept shaking his head and swearing under his breath as I explained.

  “Roger, do you think the smugglers murdered Mrs. Barsky? Maybe they were laundering animals in Brooklyn. The frog thing seems like too much of a coincidence.”

  “I don’t know, but you need to keep out of it.”

  “How? I’m a suspect. The only way to stay out of it is to find out who really did it.”

  “Well, at least give me the gun.”

  “No way. I earned that gun and I still might need it. You should get one too.”

  “Why would I need a gun? Cyd?”

  “When the guys at the embassy asked me where the animals were, I told them you had them. How was I supposed to know they were after Barry?”

  “Barry? Who the hell is Barry?”

  I pointed at the diplomatic bag. “Barry.”

  “You named the chameleon Barry?”

  “You’re more than welcome to use his scientific name if Barry is too ethnic for you. Look, are you going to help me? Please don’t make me call Uncle Ray.” He reached over and I leaned into his shoulder, smearing paint on his scratchy beige shirt and breathing in almond shampoo and sunscreen.

  “Okay. Okay. Just let me think for a minute.”

  I didn’t know how he could think while we were hugging this way. I certainly couldn’t. I turned toward him and it looked for a minute like he might kiss me. Then, he didn’t. Instead, he took me by the shoulders and moved me back about a foot.

  “Cyd? It’s really over with Alicia. Now that you know about her, could we start over? And go slower this time, maybe?”

  I knew it was a bad idea, but I nodded anyway. He kissed me on the forehead and stood up. Wow. When he said “slower,” I guess he meant glacial. Still, it was better than a pat.

  “Why don’t you get a good night’s sleep? I have to go meet some people from the World Wildlife Fund in the morning to deliver the animals. They’re sending a truck for me. I’ll be back tomorrow night and we’ll figure out the rest.”

  “Tomorrow night will be too late for my clients.”

  “Why not call the family?”

  “I am their family. I mean, their twins died in a car crash. They’re seventy-five. They don’t really have anyone else. It has to be me. Take me with you.”

  “No, I can’t. Absolutely not.”

  “Why not? I won’t be in the way.”

  “Yes, you will. You can’t help yourself. Besides, I don’t want you more involved than you already are. Look, the guys I’m meeting will at least have satellite phones. I’m sure all the wildlife control guys know each other. Heathrow might listen to them. Give me all the information.”

  I did.

  “You look good in red,” he said. “Just have a good time on the safari tomorrow. It will give you a chance to check lions off your list.” He started to go, then turned. “Oh, I’d better take the chameleon.”

  “Why?”

  “He’s not a pet, Cyd, he’s a wild animal.”

  “I know that. Can I say good-bye at least?” I walked to the tent wall and picked off a huge moth with my fingernails. It turned out acrylic nails were really good for this kind of thing. I held the bug up and Barry’s tongue came out, grabbed it, and went back in. He was a kind of magenta at the moment, like the torches. “Bye, Barry,” I said. “Don’t ever change.” Who can resist a little chameleon humor?

  Roger told me to be careful and I told him not to touch the frogs. He took the diplomatic bag and left me in the dark, the jungle noises louder, now that he was gone.

  I heard the familiar sound of hemp on jungle floor as he walked away. Why didn’t Roger want me to come with him? And why was he taking notes about the embassy? How did he really know the guys at the Wildlife Service? And could I trust strangers to save the Giannis? He may have braved my family and rescued me from an environmentalist, but there was no way I was going to put my clients’ future, Mrs. Barsky’s murder, or Barry in the hands of a womanizing chiropractor, however cute. I had to get to a working phone myself.

  It was too bad about the lions, but I was going to be on that truck in the morning.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  I spent the next hour getting paint out of my hair and trying my phone. It still didn’t have enough charge to retrieve my messages. I paced for awhile in my paint-flecked mules, then repacked to calm my nerves. I counted my malaria pills; I had given most of them to Roger and I didn’t have many left. I didn’t want malaria; my olive skin already looked a little yellow in the winter. Jaundiced, I was going to be positively fluorescent. Out of habit, I picked up a cockroach with tweezers. Was I actually going through lizard withdrawal? Was there such a thing?

  I decided to reorganize my bag and found the embassy document. I pulled Mrs. Barsky’s waybills out of my carry-on to compare. The embassy papers also had the word CITES and lots of Latin. Then I saw the words “importation certificate” and Chamaeleonidae. Had the embassy been planning on importing Barry the chameleon? And if the documents went with the animals, why did Mrs. Barsky’s documents come by themselves? Or did they? And was the embassy connected to the “fuckity” guys? They must be. And if so, how did Brooklyn fit in? And where was Bobby Barsky? None of it made any sense. Maybe the Wildlife Service guys would have some answers.

  I didn’t sleep. How could I? Around four I gave up and decided to get dressed. As I was going undercover, I chose a light green chiffon shirt with a leopard print bra underneath, my metallic green snakeskin skirt, and my kitten heels in pony skin. In this outfit, I could fade into any jungle landscape.

  It was still dark when a rusted green pick-up rolled in, about fifty yards from the camp. I kept my lights off, and finished my makeup by propping my emergency mini flashlight in the sink. Let’s face it, no one looks good lit from beneath. I carried my shoes and snuck out the back.

  The truck was parked next to a stand of baobab trees. I double-checked that I had my return e-ticket, my passport, my moisturizer, my Spanx, the waybills, and my phone charger. All set. I angled around the side of the vehicle. There were some burlap sacks and a few cages right behind the cab. So much for my o
utfit. I hoisted my purse and carry-on up, then put all three of us under the scratchy bags.

  I heard Roger’s voice. Footsteps moved around to the back and I watched the driver take the suitcase and place it behind his seat. He reached for the diplomatic bag, but Roger kept it.

  “Suit yourself,” the driver said in a four-pack-a-day voice. With his sweaty red bandanna, he looked more like a Hell’s Angel than a conservationist. I heard one truck door slam, then the other. The engine started like a jackhammer and the force of it threw me against the back wall as it reversed. Behind us, I saw Emily sneaking out of Jason’s tent. I felt better.

  Travel bloggers had clearly underreported the severity of the African pothole. No wonder tourists wore helmets on the bus. I needed some kind of seat belt or I was going to fly out of the truckbed altogether. I dug around in my carry-on and found a scarlet satin ribbon belt from J.Crew that I used as a headband when I wanted to be jaunty. I tied it around my middle and hooked it to one of the cages. It wasn’t that secure, but it would at least keep me from bouncing into the driver’s eye line. I worried about Barry. If this felt like a bouncing castle to me, what was it doing to something his size?

  As soon as the sun was more than a fingernail’s width above the horizon, it became almost unbearably hot under the burlap and the road got worse. I was going to hurt for weeks. I wondered how good a chiropractor Roger really was, or if he could recommend one in the borough? Maybe he could get me a colleague discount.

  I tried for the fortieth time to get comfortable, and then, as the road narrowed, I hit the cab so hard I actually yelled. The truck jerked, then stopped. Both doors slammed. Roger sounded upset. The other guy was grunting and I heard them moving toward the back. This was bad. I waited for someone to uncover me.

  “Be careful,” Roger said. “He may just be stunned.” He?

  “He’s going to be dinner later, so what difference does it make? This one’s mine, fair and square, a clean kill,” the driver said. I wasn’t too familiar with the World Wildlife Fund as an organization, but I couldn’t really imagine the words “clean kill” were in their literature.

  “Yeah, you’re right. Okay, heave,” Roger said. Heave what?

  I stayed as still as I could when they pulled down the tailgate and threw something massive and smelly on top of me, then got back in the truck.

  I waited until we were moving to see what was poking me in the neck. I found four warthog tusks about an inch from my face, the creature’s spiky hooves digging into my ankles, its breath like a landfill. Let’s just say, these animals had an extreme makeover in The Lion King. I did my best to roll out from under it.

  Was it dead? No. I could see its ribs rising. Then, its eyes opened and it looked right at me. I didn’t want to touch it, but those eyes killed me. They closed again and it gave an alarming shudder. As the truck sped up, I did my best to stay positive, lying under itchy burlap, sweating through my chiffon, and trying to avoid impalement.

  Eventually, we hit an even narrower and bumpier road, if that were possible. By now, pain was my “resting” state. At least it distracted me from the itching. I didn’t even want to think about what the roller coaster ride was doing to my shoes, which were slapping the metal truckbed in a frenzy. I not only loved these shoes, I needed them, after losing my Stuart Weitzmans to the weepy aid worker and my marabou mules to the whining animal activist.

  Finally, the truck slowed down, waking the warthog. It began slamming its head and kicking its hooves way too close to vulnerable parts of my anatomy, like my brain. I rolled as flat and close to the edge of the truckbed as I could, as the animal went more and more berserk, giving me a good kick in the thigh.

  As soon as the truck rolled to a stop, the warthog jerked upright and tried to jump out of the back. Its legs were a little too short and it could only get halfway over, its bristly behind still in the truck. I heard a yell and what sounded like a rifle cock. Geez, were they going to shoot it in front of conservationists? Trying to stay under the burlap, I moved over and gave its haunches a shove up and over. I heard a thud and then hooves scrabbling on leaves. There was a huge blast beside my head, then a curse. I was genuinely starting to feel for these animals, just out of the sheer number of things they seemed to be up against.

  I quickly reorganized myself into a bag shape and wiped my hands on the burlap, not sure exactly which part of the warthog I had touched. I waited for the sound of the tailgate, but instead, heard feet moving away. The eau de warthog gave way to dung and dead mouse. The World Wildlife Fund wasn’t much on cage hygiene. I could barely breathe.

  Then I heard something that made me gulp down a whole mouthful of fetid air.

  “How in the fuckity universe could anyone miss that shot?”

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  My former captor, Henrik the Reptile Guy, yelled something else, but it was buried in high-pitched, hiccoughing squeaks, castrated turkey gobbles, and something that sounded like a saw going back and forth. The gunshot had set the animals off. Clearly the smugglers who had kidnapped me had tricked Roger into coming here. He needed help. I had already shot the fuckity universe guy in the arm, so he couldn’t be too effective, but the other guys I’d only bumped and maced. I found the gun in my bag and checked the ammunition. I had four bullets left. It’s not like I was a great shot. In fact, if the cobra were any indication, I did better with my eyes closed. The bad guys didn’t know that, at least.

  I edged the burlap off my face and tried to look through the back window of the truck. It was so filthy, I could barely see the keys in the ignition. I used a corner of the bag to clean a small hole. The truck had stopped inside a large compound ringed with acacia trees, scattered like open umbrellas around the buildings. There were a series of worn pathways, fenced pens, barbed wire, metal gates with padlocks, small huts, and one long, low concrete building with barred windows.

  At the far left of the property was a Colonial-style house with a wide, sagging porch and peeling white trim. That must be where they had taken Roger. I would have to stick to the trees and try to work my way around. First I freshened up with Obsession and put my carry-on under the burlap. I grabbed my purse, climbed over the side, and used my emergency mini lint roll to remove an alarming amount of warthog hair from my blouse.

  I could see a native man with a gun roaming the property, so I stayed low, limping to a small stand of gum trees and ducking into the closest hut. I squeezed myself between two stacks of cages filled with tiny monkeys crammed against each other and covered in filth. One row over were hundreds of birds in the same shape. Compared to this, the cobra hotel was practically a spa.

  I heard the guard go by, waited a second, then snuck out, trying to shake feathers and bird shit off my shoes and ducking behind one of the huge clay urns that seemed to be all over the property. They were certainly big enough for a person my size to hide in if I scrunched down. When he turned away for a minute, I started to push the heavy lid aside, only to have a black snake, thick and slimy as an Italian sausage, start to crawl up my arm. Luckily, I was startled into speechlessness. The whole urn was full of them, tangled like earthworms and squirming right up to the top. I shook it off and slammed the lid. It made a loud crack. The guard turned around.

  The urn was still in front of me. I didn’t want to waste a bullet on him or alert the men in the house. I was just pulling the Mace out of my purse when he moved away. I fled for the cover of the concrete building and peeked in through the bars.

  The walls were stacked to the ceiling with cages and wriggling bags. Workers moved back and forth between the cages and long, low tables. At the table nearest me, two men stood beside a mountain of tiny, squirming tortoises. One of the men had a roll of masking tape in one hand. The first man was picking up a baby tortoise and hitting it, hard. When it pulled its heads and legs into the shell for protection, the second man rolled masking tape twice over every opening, turni
ng it into a neat, round tortoiseshell compact. They stacked five or six “compacts” each into pairs of thick white athletic socks and rolled them up, stacking them on the end of the table. How were the turtles supposed to breathe?

  A man in a leather apron yelled, then pointed a hose at three cages full of some of the most beautiful birds I’d ever seen: they had electric yellow wings and scarlet heads, with beaks thin as pins. I gasped as the man sprayed black paint into the cages, turning the exotic creatures into common crows in about ten seconds. How awful to have paint in your eyes. Then I saw something so much worse.

  I could make out three men with needles and thread, sewing parrot eyelids together.

  At that point, I almost fainted. I knew I had to keep it together, but the idea of sewing eyelids on anything, even a doll, made me queasy. It was like I was in a bad Tim Burton movie. These people were monsters. God, what might they be doing to Roger? I had to get to the house.

  As I passed by the next hut, I heard a loud hiss. I turned, ready to Mace another snake, but the second time the hiss sounded human. I cracked the door and saw a cage with three lion cubs and another with a large cheetah pacing in a tiny circle. I heard the hiss again and turned. There was Akida, sitting on the filthy floor in yet another Easter egg-colored Ralph Lauren polo shirt, with his hands and feet tied. He had worked part of the duct tape loose around his mouth.

  “Oh, my God,” I said, reaching for my emergency plastic cuticle scissors. I hadn’t even gotten half the tape off before he started apologizing. Behind me, the cats started yowling.

  “Cyd Redondo, I am so sorry. Are you all right? Is Mr. Claymore all right?”

  “I think Mr. Claymore is inside the house,” I said. I kept chewing at the rope with my scissors. It was pretty much hopeless.

  “We must help him. I am very fine. I’m delightful, don’t worry about me,” Akida said, trying to smile. “Really. How can I be of assistance?”