Lost Luggage

by Wendall Thomas

  “How many men are here? Do you know?” The cheetah started a low growl, while the lion cubs purred and rolled around, reaching their miniscule paws toward me through the bars.

  “Approximately ten, I believe,” he said. “Five in the workroom, one guard, and the other three men. Sometimes they bring in extra workers for the packing. And him.”

  “Who’s him?” I asked, trying to undo a knot that was beyond my Girl Scout capability.

  “Very dangerous man. Very dangerous.”

  “Well, I’ll just have to trust the element of surprise. I’ll be back to get you out,” I said and headed out the door. It’s always easier to do something stupid when you’re morally incensed. I saw the guard head into the trees to relieve himself and started for the house. I found a small shrub beside a window on the left side and ducked behind it.

  The screened window was open. The outside of the house might be bedraggled, but the front room looked like an Ikea showroom. In fact, there were at least two items from the Fall catalogue, plus a huge flat-screen TV, and several trophy heads on the wall, including a rhino’s head that would have made Uncle Leon drool. There was a tiger rug on the floor. And someone had thrown a pile of tusks in the corner, like used gym clothes. This was clearly where endangered animals came to die.

  The two other flunkies from the reptile kitchen, Moe and Jock, sat on a black leather couch beside fuckity Henrik, who was dressed down in an AC-DC t-shirt and cargo shorts, a sling on his injured arm and a tattoo of a plump mermaid on his good one. Moe had a black eye and his face was still red and blotchy from the Mace. His football shirt barely covered his watermelon belly and the lumpy layers on his forearm. He was wearing jeans, so at least I was spared seeing the flab valance I imagined hanging over his knees. Where was Roger?

  I took out my folding makeup mirror and angled it to see the rest of the room. The truck driver was rolling a cigarette on the glass coffee table and Jock, the skinny criminal, was wearing an outfit worthy of Bay Ridge—a tight silk shirt and even tighter polyester pants. Both items looked stiff with dried sweat. The bastard was handing Roger a beer.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  A beer? Why were they handing Roger a beer? Was it poisoned? I raised up to get a better view and saw the fifth man. He was about sixty and steroid large, with a grizzled, ineffective ponytail, a ski-jump nose, and the red cheeks of a drinker. His filthy safari shorts exposed a prosthetic leg the color of Silly Putty. There was something familiar about him.

  Then Roger smiled at him and lifted his Budweiser. “To a mutually successful enterprise,” he said. They clinked their bottles. I couldn’t process what I was seeing, especially when Roger opened the Andersons’ suitcase and lifted out the parrot sausages. He shared a weird, macho chuckle with the other men.

  “We owe you, my friend,” said the peg-legged man, his accent more Coney Island than Cape Town.

  “Yes you do, Bunty,” Roger said, the diplomatic bag at his feet. “Let’s talk about my finder’s fee.”

  So this was Bunty. The boss. This was the man responsible for planting those parrots and turtles in the Andersons’ luggage in Dar es Salaam. And probably the lizards in the Giannis’ luggage too. The bastard.

  “What’s to keep us from killing you and just taking the animals?” Henrik said.

  “I don’t think you want to complicate things with Mr. Chu. He’s grateful I prevented the luggage from being examined at the airport. Besides, you’ll still clear two hundred grand. The chameleon alone, with these unusual markings, is worth half that,” he said, bringing out Barry. I yelped, but no one seemed to hear.

  Oh, my God. I was such an idiot. My plus one was a conniving, beer-swilling, chuckling, animal smuggler and I’d given him the perfect cover. He hadn’t come for me, he’d come for the wildlife. How could I have been so stupid? Not only had I gone to him for help, I had given him Barry. As soon as I got my hands on that diplomatic bag, Barry and Akida were coming with me. I only hoped the keys were still in the truck.

  First I had to get Akida loose. I looked around the yard for something to cut his ropes with and found a machete leaning against the side of the house; it seemed to be the go-to gadget of Africa. I didn’t know if I could cut the ropes off Akida without amputating something, but it was better than cuticle scissors. Plus, it might make the guard think twice before he shot me.

  I ducked behind the house as Bunty, Henrik, and Roger walked out the front door. Sadly, Moe and Jock stayed behind. Henrik lugged a case of Budweiser toward a pond at the back of the property. Bunty followed with a wire cage. I got out my mini binoculars and saw, to my horror, the pond was full of crocodiles. Suddenly, Bunty’s missing leg made sense.

  Bunty handed out beers, then reached into the cage and started flinging live rats into the water. The reptiles knocked back the squealing rodents like M&M’s, their jaws cracking with every bite. The men laughed. It was time for me to make my move. I ducked into the hut.

  “Did you save Roger Claymore?” Akida whispered.

  “Those guys can keep him,” I said, holding up the machete. Akida whimpered. “Shhh. I’m not going to hurt you, you idiot. This is to cut the rope.”

  “Oh,” he said. “Do not cut the ropes. You must leave me here. Otherwise, I will lose my job.”

  “Your job? Shit. You, too, Akida? Really?” This one hurt.

  “I am so ashamed. I am the breadwinner for my whole family. I did not know anyone might be hurt. Please leave before they know you are here. It is best for you and for me. Re-book your reservation and go home. There are no change fees or penalties. Put the tape back on my mouth, please. And good luck, Cyd Redondo.”

  I re-taped his mouth and shook his bound hands. Back outside, I saw Moe and Jock had joined the others at the rat massacre. I ran for the house.

  The living room reeked of cigarettes, beer, and stale luncheon meat. I found the diplomatic bag. Barry was intact, so far, but he needed more protection. It killed me, but I was going to have to sacrifice some Tupperware. Once Barry was safely armored and “air-holed” inside my purse, I put a few parrot sausages and some sock tortoises in the diplomatic bag, then made a mad dash for the truck and jumped into the front seat.

  I turned the key and, miraculously, it started. Then Moe spotted me and yelled. Just when I hit my first pothole, a bullet flew in the back window and out the windshield. I heard an engine.

  Seriously? Was I going to die for a lizard? I had just wanted a simple Atlantic City fling, and to go on vacation like a normal person. Was that so wrong? For once, I wished my family were here to overprotect me. I tried to imagine what Eddie would do in this situation.

  I saw a stretch of straight road ahead. Maybe I could aim the truck and jump out with Barry? They’d follow the truck and I could hide. It wasn’t a brilliant plan, but it was all I had. I could see dust gathering behind me. I was just about to take off my seat belt when the truck made the decision for me. The engine stopped dead. I turned the key again and again as it rolled to a stop. Nothing.

  A filthy Range Rover screeched up behind the truck. I didn’t know what was safer—to barricade us in the truck or run for it. Then I heard Roger’s voice. Or a version of his voice.

  “Out of the vehicle. Slowly. And no talking.”

  The vehicle? Really? I did as much of a whip-around as I could, given I was still wearing my seat belt. I kept one hand on my purse and started to roll down the window.

  Roger looked back. The guys were out of the Rover and fully armed. Roger pointed his gun in my face.

  Needless to say, this pissed me off.

  “Assault with a deadly weapon? Is that really necessary? We had sex four days ago,” I said, releasing the seat belt. God, had it only been four days?

  “Just get out of the car and you won’t be hurt.”

  “Too late. You might have mentioned you were an animal smuggler when we promised t
o ‘start over’ last night.”

  Roger leaned in with the gun barrel and lowered his voice. “Cyd, please get out of the car so I can save your life. I barely stopped them spraying the truck with bullets as it was. And don’t act like you know me, or it’s going to blow everything.”

  “Believe me, it’s blown.”

  “Now.” Roger opened the door.

  I stepped down, gripping my bags. It was a big drop for a short girl in heels. He jerked my arm to help me down and grabbed the diplomatic bag out of the truck.

  “Hey. The chameleon is in there,” I lied.

  “I know. They know that too. Just move forward slowly and act pissed.”

  “Oh, that’ll be hard.” I shuffled forward, trying to keep one eye on Roger and one eye on the guys in front of me, which wasn’t easy. I wished I had Barry’s three hundred-sixty-degree eyes, as I saw how, when you were endangered, they would really come in handy. Bunty was leaning on his good leg and blatantly staring at my chest. Maybe the leopard print bra had been a mistake.

  “I’ll take care of her.” Roger kept the gun on my back.

  “Yeah, you just want her for yourself,” Jock said. They all chuckled.

  “Yeah, maybe,” Roger said, chuckling too.

  I seriously considered the “upwards ball kick” at that moment.

  “Well, she killed our king cobra and shot me, so I think we get a fuckity go at her, too,” Henrik said. “Right, Bunty?”

  Bunty scratched his plastic leg. He was evaluating me in a way that wasn’t entirely sexual, more like he was considering me as a food source. “We might be able to use her.” He turned to the driver.

  “Chip, fix the truck. What happened when it stopped?” he asked me.

  Like I would help him. Henrik cocked his pistol. “It just stopped,” I said. “The lights came on and when I tried to start it again, everything died.”

  “Alternator,” the thugs all said, simultaneously.

  “That gives us at least a week with her,” Jock said.

  “In your dreams, moron.”

  “I like ’em feisty,” he said.

  “I like them with a penis larger than a Vienna sausage.”

  He came toward me and Roger jerked me back. Jock flicked his tongue.

  “You’re all morons,” I said. “It could just be corrosion on the battery.” I hoped it was—I needed that truck.

  “She’s right. Check the terminals first,” Bunty said. “Karl, take her back.”

  Who was Karl? Roger grabbed my arm and pushed me toward the compound.

  “Karl?” I hissed. I tried to jerk my arm away, but he pushed the gun into my side.

  Ten yards later, his normal voice came back. “If you hadn’t followed me, neither of us would have a problem. What the hell were you thinking? I will get you out of here, but you need to play along or you’re going to ruin everything.”

  “Ruin what? Your international smuggling ambitions?” He pushed me onto the porch as the Range Rover pulled up. “If you’re going to tie me up, can you at least do it somewhere near an outlet?” I was still worried about the Giannis. “After all, you have been inside me, you bastard. Three times.”

  “Four,” Roger said and sat me down next to a surge-protector. He stayed in front of me, gun out, while I plugged in my charger.

  I looked to my right and saw a glass case filled with dozens of tiny, multi-colored frogs. Were they all poison? Was Bunty Mrs. B’s murderer? I mean, how many people had access to poison dart frogs? The men walked back in, this time with Akida, still tied up. Jock tossed the diplomatic bag on the table. These people were idiots. That gave me hope. Bunty sat down, slamming his fake leg onto the glass coffee table with a crack worthy of a hockey puck.

  “All right, doll. What’s your name?”

  Doll? He couldn’t be from Africa. I got up, holding out my hand and hoping my bra would keep his mind off the outlet.

  “Cyd Redondo, Redondo Travel.”

  Bunty grabbed onto my hand and didn’t let go. “Wait! Not Cyd Redondo from Bay Ridge? Fuck me. No way. No fucking way. You’re not Johnny’s kid? Cyd the Squid?” Honestly, even in Africa? “I used to work on your dad’s car. Moe—get the lady a beer. Here, sit down, sit down. Whatever happened to that car anyway?”

  “The Galaxie? I still drive it,” I said.

  “No shit? Bitchin’ ride. Killer suspension on that baby.”

  Okay, I was on Car Talk with a rat-killing, peg-legged animal smuggler from the neighborhood. Then it got worse.

  “You don’t recognize me, do you? Why would you? Bobby Barsky. Down here they call me Bunty. Do you want some salami? I have it sent down from Mike’s.”

  God, Bunty was Bobby Barsky. And Bunty had sent the waybills to Pet World. Had he killed his own mother? He held out the salami.

  “Thanks,” I said, to be polite. I was also starving. I broke off a piece and took a long pull on my beer. I could feel Roger and Akida staring at me. Had Roger known Bunty was Bobby all along, and never told me?

  “Hey, guys, this is Cyd from the neighborhood. Last time I saw her she was about a foot high.”

  “She’s not that much taller now,” Jock said.

  Bunty slapped him and turned to me. “So, how’s my mom? You see her, right?”

  Wait, he didn’t know? What did that mean? Was he screwing with me? “Um, almost every morning. She usually came over for decaf.”

  “Good, at least it wasn’t that Russian tea crap. That stuff’ll kill you.” Bunty looked me up and down. “Little Cyd Redondo. Ma always liked you. She used to joke that if I didn’t behave, she was going to leave the apartment to you. Crazy, right?”

  Shit. “Bunty? Has the embassy been in touch?”

  “That fucking moron? Somebody needs to string him up by that stupid school tie.”

  “I meant about your mom?”

  The room got silent. Bunty took one look at my face and threw his bottle against the wall. Henrik, Jock, and Moe ducked.

  “What about my mom?” Bunty started tapping his artificial foot. “What about her?”

  “God, Bobby, I hate to be the one to have to tell you this, but she died. About ten days ago. Joni’s been trying to reach you. You’re the executor.”

  He tapped his foot harder. “I know I’m the fucking executor. What happened?” He leaned closer. Should I lie?

  “Don’t fuckin’ lie to me.”

  I guess not. “Okay. Um. She was murdered.”

  “Murdered. The motherfucking CIA,” he said. “I knew it. They never let up. That woman was a saint. How? What happened?”

  “The Precinct said the killer injected some weird frog poison.”

  Bunty stood up. I tried not to look at the aquarium, but it was hard not to when he grabbed Jock’s throat and shoved him against it, creating a frog ballet. “Morons. I told you not to send the frogs. How many times did I tell you? I must have said it a million fuckin’ times, no frogs. No frogs!” Bunty punched Moe in the stomach and the fat man went down. Then he smashed Henrik against the wall.

  “We didn’t send any frogs, Bunty, I swear,” Henrik said. “Mr. Chu’s guys must have. Besides, we always duct-tape the frogs within an inch of their fuckity lives. We understand about the frogs. We’ve never had an accident with the frogs. Somebody on the Brooklyn end screwed up. I swear. That Brooklyn moron screws up all the time.” Bunty let go and his henchman slid down the wall. Bunty limped to the couch and started to cry. I had a bad feeling about that Brooklyn moron.

  Bunty wailed for a minute, then excused himself and went into the kitchen. He came back out, wiping his eyes with a bar towel

  “What are you lookin’ at?” he asked Jock, who was still frozen by the aquarium.

  “Sorry, boss. Like you always say, it’s the circle of life, right?”

  Bunty punched him again
, then turned to me.

  “So, Squid Redondo, where the hell were you going in my truck?”

  “I didn’t know it was your truck. This guy Karl took my merchandise, I wanted it back.” Bunty sat down. Then he laughed. “My mother always said you had Bay Ridge balls. Good for you. So you’re buying your way in? Saying they’re your animals?” He raised his eyebrows at Roger. “How much you asking? Considering I’ll be carrying all the risk?”

  “And taking into account the cobra,” Henrik said.

  I racked my brains for the numbers I’d heard in the last few days. Roger had said the animals in the luggage were worth half a million. Was that the street price? And where was the endangered animal street, anyway? Bunty was staring at me, waiting. He would want at least a three hundred percent profit. Plus the cobra. I did the math. “One hundred thousand for the bag.”

  “Minus any en route losses,” he said.

  “Cost of doing business,” I said, shrugging for effect.

  “I’ll go for fifty,” he said. “They were mine in the first place.”

  “I can’t go lower than seventy-five.”

  Roger glared. He’d obviously never been to a flea market.

  “Sixty,” Bunty leaned forward. His acrylic ankle squealed against the glass table. “Henrik, get her bank details. The money will be in your account tomorrow.”

  I was so nervous, I actually wrote down the real numbers. I’d call the bank and cancel the account as soon as I could use my phone.

  “Can we still tie her up in the shed for a few days?” Jock asked.

  “No. Cyd from the block is not going in the shed.”

  Outside, I heard the truck’s V-8 pull into the compound. The driver, Chip, glared at me as he came in and headed into the kitchen with Bunty. Henrik, Moe, and Jock followed. I managed to grab my phone before Bunty and the driver came back.

  “You were right about the battery. Your dad would be proud. Come on, Chip will take you and Karl back to the camp.”

  Akida rose. “May I return with them as well, sir?”