Lost Luggage

by Wendall Thomas

  “My stowing away is not the issue. I was just trying to get cell reception. Your lying about going to the World Wildlife Fund and then trying to sell Barry, that’s the issue.”

  “I wasn’t trying to sell Barry, not really.”

  “Roger, I heard the whole thing.”

  He looked at me for a long time. I heard sawing.

  “It was a sting operation.”

  “What?”

  “I’m a federal agent.”

  “Please. You think I haven’t heard that one before?”

  “Really. I’m with the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Special Operations Unit.”

  “Come on. Like that exists.”

  “Of course it exists. Look, I’m on loan to Interpol, Customs, and the FBI—they’re trying to figure out how Bunty and his guys are smuggling animals into the States. I called Interpol when I found the animals in your luggage and they asked if I could do a little bit of undercover work while I was here.”

  “Undercover? Well, you’re certainly good at that.”

  “Okay, I deserve that. I’d appreciate it if you could try trusting me, since I’m trusting you. If you blow my cover, I’ll lose my job and a lot more animals are going to die.”

  “And this would be my problem, why?”

  “It’s not, I know. But I can help you with something that is. I can notify Heathrow that someone is planting animals in the luggage from your tour and get your clients out.”

  “It would have helped if you’d called last night. Why didn’t you tell me then?”

  “Because I’m not supposed to tell anyone. Ever. That’s the whole point of undercover. It’s supposed to be a secret, no matter what happens.” Roger rolled closer to me.

  “No matter who you have sex with, you mean. What about when we met? Were you working then?” I said, trying to move away, but only getting more squished by the net.

  “No. Kind of. It’s a long story.”

  “Well, that’s reassuring.” I tried to think about the Giannis instead of myself. “I won’t tell anyone if, the instant we get reception, if you are who you say you are, you call Scotland Yard and tell them my clients were framed by Bunty and this Mr. Chu guy.”

  “Agreed.”

  Then there was a whiskery sensation on the bottom of my thigh that didn’t feel like Roger. In fact, it couldn’t be Roger—I could see both of his hands. I looked down.

  “What is it?” Roger said.

  I could only nod my head toward the ground.

  Chapter Thirty-three

  Underneath the net, sniffing my thigh, was a leopard the size of a St. Bernard. From an aesthetic standpoint, he was gorgeous, his buttery coat splattered with spots the color of a Hershey bar; he would have made any Central Park East matron drool. From a practical standpoint, the cat looked hungry. He made a couple of low growls in short, rhythmic bursts. I tried to lift my ass, but it was impossible. If you don’t believe me, try doing a butt-lift in a hammock. The leopard nudged my behind and rubbed the top of its head up and down my legs.

  “Roger? Can you please do something?” I was trying to keep the hysteria out of my voice.

  “Shhhh! Just stay still. He isn’t hurting us.”

  “No, just tenderizing us. Or me,” The leopard butted my left flank.

  “If he wanted to bite you, he would. I’m sure that cobra might have left you alone too, if you’d let it.”

  “Are you kidding? He had his full hood up. He was intent.”

  “It was endangered. There are antidotes.”

  “Antidotes? You are unbelievable. You really do care more about animals than people, don’t you?” The leopard sat down under us and started a low purr.

  “I have an equal respect for all living creatures.”

  “Except if they’re from Brooklyn. It’s fine if a U.S. citizen is fanged.”

  “In the bigger scheme of things, I don’t think people are more important. That’s all.”

  “Of course they are. Of course people are more important.”

  “Well, where are all those very important people going to live once you destroy the entire ecosystem? Have you thought about that?” Roger asked.

  “Yes. Yes, I have.” Actually, I hadn’t thought about that at all.

  “And where is that?”

  “Indoors.”

  At that moment, the leopard leapt up onto the branch above us. His purr had the low rumble of a Harley-Davidson and when he yawned, he displayed an amazingly healthy set of teeth. His breath was another matter. I guess that’s what happens when you eat raw animals and don’t have access to Listerine. He kind of bopped me on my nose with his paw and settled down right over me.

  “Roger, I’m not kidding. Do something. What are you looking at?”

  “It’s just weird. They’re mostly nocturnal, leopards. They usually rest during the day.” The leopard was looking right at me. Roger had managed to turn over and now we were kind of lying on our sides, face to face. Roger started sniffing me.

  “What the hell are you doing?”

  “What was that perfume you bought in the airport?”

  “Calvin Klein Obsession. Why?”

  “Jesus, Cyd. Of course. That’s it. Obsession. It attracts big cats.”

  “Come on.” The leopard butted my head again with his chin, like a mutant house cat. “That’s ridiculous.”

  “I’m serious. There were a couple of articles about it last year. Some of the zoos and a bunch of conservation groups are using it to keep track of all the big cats.”

  “So I’m wearing leopard catnip? Great. They might want to check to see if it attracts reptiles, too, as that seems to be the other pattern that’s emerging. Does this mean he does or doesn’t want to eat me?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  A series of chirping alarms and frantic squeaks started up. The leopard gave a low growl and tried to get up, but now he was stuck too. His circular saw rumble went on overdrive. I wasn’t sure what was worse—an angry, stuck leopard or a calm, loose one. Suddenly, a net flew over the leopard, and Roger and I dropped unceremoniously to the ground.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  I landed ass over elbow on a deep blue blanket which had magically appeared below the net. It was hard to be dignified in this situation while wearing a skirt. Still, compared to the natives standing over us I was seriously overdressed. Their outfits consisted of loincloths, a few scattered skins, and the native equivalent of “man bags,” though there was a boy who looked about ten dressed in a shredded red soccer shirt and a faded pair of LL Bean swimming trunks. He smiled and I thought of Akida. I hoped he was okay, even if he did work for the bad guys.

  The men set down their cages and cloth bags on the blanket. One of the bags instantly tried to crawl away. The oldest boy nudged the wriggling bag back with his narrow foot while two smaller kids shot up the tree trunk and started to wrangle the leopard. They poured a thin liquid on the branch, the other men held the net beneath. Finally the leopard jumped loose, only to be caught in the net. It didn’t take long to go from predator to prey around here. I tried to look submissive while I attempted to pull my shoes off the net, until I saw one of the boys reaching for my Balenciaga.

  “Kuwa makini,” I blurted—“be careful” in Swahili. The boy stopped. They all looked at me. I tried “Sorry,” but I didn’t know if I was speaking the right dialect. I figured they were probably the Luo tribe I’d read about, but I wasn’t exactly an anthropologist.

  The eldest man had an Abraham Lincoln face and wore a necklace full of large, yellow teeth and small gourds. He reached out his hand and pulled me up. Once I was up and okay, Roger got up too. The man continued to hold my hand. I had heard this was a tradition in Tanzania, so I let him. This went on for almost as long as a commercial break. We nodded at each other and he gestured for the boy to bring my
bags. I gave them my best smile and handed the carry-on to Roger as I took my purse. We all stood awkwardly for a moment, mostly because I was stuck again. I prayed for the pony skin while the boy in the soccer shirt applied the dissolving liquid they had used to free the leopard. By the time my shoes came loose, part of the sole was missing. Bay Ridge Leather was going to have a banner year. The men and boys packed up the leopard and started moving past the trees.

  “Kuja,” the elder man said.

  “What?” Roger whispered to me.

  “Come. It means follow them.” We’d gone about a quarter of a mile when my phone beeped. “Roger.”

  “What?”

  “Reception. Call Heathrow now.”

  “I don’t think it’s a good time to stop.”

  “You don’t have to stop. You just have to talk.”

  He took the phone and walked ahead, out of earshot, which was irritating. I just prayed the charge would last long enough. He stayed on the phone for maybe four minutes. I didn’t manage to talk to him again until our rescuers spotted a bright blue parrot and ran off. We ran to keep them in sight.

  “Well?” I said.

  “I’ve done what I could.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It’s Special Operations-ese for don’t worry about it.”

  “Well, that’s not gonna happen.”

  About an hour later, when the sun sat low and fat behind the acacia trees, we arrived at a village set in a clearing and full of small huts with thatched roofs like Chinese hats. Pens of goats and chickens and the odd piece of Western detritus surrounded the enclave. The village looked familiar. Then I realized it was the one in the Phoenix Tours brochure, the “cultural tourism” aspect of the safari. Maybe lost tourists were a regular thing.

  The smiling boy in the soccer shirt led us toward a group of native women and girls standing in front of the largest hut. Many of them were dressed in the traditional Kangas—large, brightly covered rectangles of fabric—and a few in Western dress. They smiled and put out their hands. I took as many as I could reach and smiled back.

  “Jambo. Cyd Redondo, Redondo Travel,” I said.

  “Cyd Redondo? Cyd Redondo?” the boy said, turning. He said something to the women and I recognized the word “Akida.” They murmured among themselves and nodded at me. The boy bowed.

  “We are delighted to have you in our village, oh Queen of Travel,” the boy said. “I am Bopo. Akida is my uncle. You are his hero. He will take me to Dar one day to book international senior groups,” the boy said, grinning. I could almost hear Akida in his voice.

  “Well, Bopo,” I said, “if you are as good with clients as you were with that leopard, you will be a great success.”

  “That is very kind. Would you like to clean yourselves?”

  “Yes, please.” I followed a tall woman with the best posture I had ever seen into a nearby hut.

  I thanked her in Swahili, but I could tell she didn’t want to leave. She fingered my skirt and looked down at me. I wracked my brains to think of something to give her that I could live without. I was, after all, down to emergency clothes rations. I pulled out the scarlet ribbon I had used to tie myself to the truck and held it out to her. She took it shyly, then ran out the door. There were no mirrors, so I did what I could to sort myself out and checked on Barry, who looked irritated. I gave him a couple of bugs and let him crawl around a little, to calm him down.

  When I came out, all the women stood waiting for me with eager faces. What the hell. They had taken us in; they deserved some fashion. I started handing out my clothes and by the time I was finished, I could only survive one more emergency. Still, I could replace most of it at Century Twenty-One. Where on earth were they going to get a Donna Karan belt at cost out here? I noticed Roger watching me from across the clearing, his hair damp and shining. Once the women had run off with their presents, he pulled me behind a hut and kissed me on the top of the head.

  “What was that for?”

  “Knowing Swahili,” he said.

  We were about a half an inch and one deep breath from a real kiss when a vehicle roared up around the corner. We peeked around the hut. It was Bunty’s Range Rover.

  Chapter Thirty-five

  The Rover threw up cascades of dirt, blasted its horn, and came to a screeching halt. The villagers froze, waiting. Stringy Jock, still wearing his Saturday Night Fever attire, jumped down first, then Bunty clambered down from the passenger side, swearing when he missed the running board. He was sweating through his khaki shirt and his socks sagged down his pale plastic leg and onto his work boots. His “good” calf was Slim Jim tan and covered in welts. He had a walkie-talkie on the side of his belt and a hunting knife tucked in above his substantial ass. I was still having trouble accepting that this abomination was Mrs. Barsky’s offspring. He waved and several of the villagers gathered around. None of them were smiling. Roger jerked me down and started to pull me away.

  “What are you doing?” I said.

  “Cyd, he can’t find us here.”

  “I know, but we can’t just disappear. They’ve been so nice. It’s just rude.”

  “Who are you, Miss Manners? Bunty wants us dead. It would be a lot ruder for them to have to deal with our mutilated bodies. Or for them to have to lie. If we’re gone, they don’t have to.” I knew he was right, but it felt awful to leave without saying good-bye to Bopo.

  “Okay, but don’t you want to know what he tells them? In case there’s a direction we shouldn’t go?” I leaned by the wall to listen.

  Bunty asked in Swahili about two bwanas, which I explained to Roger meant us. Then he held his hand palm down, indicating at least five inches below my height.

  “Bastard,” I whispered, while Roger jerked me back behind the hut. We started moving, wall by wall, toward the acacia trees at the other end of the village.

  Then we heard the leopard. This time, Roger was the one who peeked out first. I ducked down under his arm to watch as Bopo proudly carried the leopard cage to Bunty, who gave it the kind of calculating, reductive look someone gives a rump roast, then nodded for Jock to put it in the jeep. It was all I could do not to run out and smash both of the men in the eye with my detached kitten heel.

  “Oh, God. It’s our leopard, Roger. They can’t give him our leopard. He might stitch its eyes closed.” I turned to Roger, expecting an argument.

  “Maybe we can do something about it.” Roger took out a camera the size of a flash drive. Maybe he did work for the government. “At least six or seven of those species are on the no-hunt list and two are highly endangered. If we can get him actually handing them money, we have him,” Roger said.

  “So that means we’re not running?”

  “That means I’m not. You should.”

  “Like hell.”

  Roger held his tiny camera around the corner and filmed Jock taking cage after cage full of birds and lizards and putting them in the back of the truck. Once the animals were loaded, the boys began unloading huge bags of rice and stacks of canned goods. Finally, a mangy goat tumbled out of the back and tried to run away. Two tiny girls caught him.

  “Damn,” said Roger.

  “They do it for food?”

  Roger slammed his hand over my mouth and jerked me back. Jock was coming our way.

  We ducked into the nearest hut. There was no bed to hide under or closet to get inside: just pallets and some cooking utensils. I picked up a long knife and handed Roger a metal pot as we got on either side of the entrance. I heard Jock stopping at the huts on either side and then ours. We held our breath and our weapons, ready to knock him out or stab him, depending on our mood. At least in terms of survival, Roger and I worked well as a team. It was just the relationship stuff that was tricky.

  Jock shoved his head in about five inches from mine. Roger had the pot right over the bastard, but the
henchman just looked straight ahead and ducked back out. My heart was going about a thousand beats a minute. As I heard him walk away, I fell against Roger in relief, accidentally stabbing him in the thigh.

  He screamed. Jock’s footsteps stopped and headed back our way.

  “Shhh,” I whispered to Roger. “Don’t be a baby.”

  We went back to our positions. Roger grimaced when he moved his leg. I rolled my eyes. We held our breath as footsteps stopped outside the entrance again. The door began to inch open, pushing into Roger’s thigh. “Don’t you dare scream” I mouthed, weapon at the ready.

  “Mr. Jock?” Bopo yelled from a distance. Run, Bopo, I thought.

  The door kept opening. Roger’s mouth was opening in a silent scream. Then, an insistent hand grabbed the smuggler’s sleeve.

  “Mr. Jock! How much for these eggs?”

  Jock looked once more, then closed the door. We heard him walk away with Bopo. I didn’t want to know what kind of eggs had saved our bacon, as it were.

  This time, I stayed where I was until I smelled a horrific blast of exhaust and heard tires bounce out of a pothole. I pulled out my mini first aid kit and told Roger to take off his pants.

  Roger stared at me. “Don’t you want to say something?”

  “Please take off your pants?”

  “How about I’m so sorry for stabbing you and almost getting us killed?” He unbuckled his belt. His pants slid to the dirt floor.

  “Please.” I was furious that he was right. “I barely broke the skin. I’ve had worse waxing accidents. Stand still.” I cleaned the small puncture wound and covered it roughly with yet another Lion King Band-Aid, glad I’d gotten them at Costco. I knelt down to put away the first aid kit. That was when the Chief and Bopo found us, with Roger’s pants around his ankles and me kneeling between his knees.

  I don’t know who was more embarrassed. I stumbled to my feet, Roger jerked up his pants and the Chief and Bopo backed out of the tent, all simultaneously. Roger and I emerged, blushing, and the Chief nodded, solemnly, looking down at the ground.