Lost Luggage

by Wendall Thomas

  Finally, I found an article about a long-term undercover operation called Jungle Trade, where U.S. Customs joined up with Interpol, Scotland Yard’s Wildlife Crime Unit, and U.S. Fish and Wildlife to take down smuggling kingpins in fifteen countries. Maybe Roger was telling the truth. And I found several stories about pet stores as fronts for smuggling rings. God. I thought about Jimmy’s recent jewelry purchases and the stabbed parrot. He could be a jerk, but surely he was too lazy and incompetent to pull off smuggling, much less murder. My money was on this Mr. Chu as the murderer. I hoped Bunty thought so, too.

  My phone was finally charged. My hands shook as I punched in my voice mail code. There were thirty-four messages. The first was from Uncle Ray: “Thought we’d have heard from you. Everyone is fine here. Love you.” You know how every family has a secret language? For example, whenever my mom said “Okay, go ahead,” she meant “I’m so angry I could smash your face in—you are a complete and total disappointment to me.” My uncle’s “Love you,” meant “You are dead to me.”

  He had every reason to hate me. I had probably single-handedly destroyed Redondo Travel. I had sold my clients out for a companion ticket and a glimpse of something I could have seen any night on the Discovery Channel. I had let senior citizens be frisked, their shrunken orifices examined for snake eggs and skinks and God-knows-what else. I saw a message from the Giannis. Whatever it said, I deserved.

  “Cyd, we’re just calling to thank you. You won’t believe where we are—Scotland Yard. Isn’t that exciting? I don’t know how you did it from there, but a man from the U.S. Embassy said you cleared everything up. Can you book us another flight? No hurry, we’re having fun.”

  I almost threw up with relief. Clearly, these “frail old people” weren’t so frail. I guess after the Depression and World War II and the whole “duck and cover” thing, the past forty years had probably been dull as dirt. But still, I wanted it to be adventure by choice, not by law enforcement. In six minutes I had them booked, upgraded, and discounted from Heathrow to JFK, with tickets delivered to their hotel, a limo courtesy of Redondo Travel to and from the airport, and a bouquet of prosciutto to be delivered to their house.

  I had to call my lieutenant brousin, Frank. I woke him up, but he wasn’t too mad once I told him about the whole Bunty/Bobby situation.

  “He had frogs there? Were they African frogs?”

  “How would I know? It’s not like they had frog passports. I’m not sure it was Bobby, though. He seems really upset about his mom. Supposedly they’re all working for a Chinese businessman, Mr. Chu. Can you check him out?”

  For now, I didn’t mention Jimmy. I needed to at least hear his side of the story before I turned him in. And I couldn’t do it on the phone: I had to see his face. Plus I had to prepare Uncle Ray, soften the blow somehow.

  “Bunty imports from South America too,” I said. “Does this get me off the hook?”

  “Not for running away to Africa.”

  I hung up on him and headed into Cassandra’s bathroom. I wanted to wash my face, but I also wanted to check out the competition. What did “natural” girls have in their medicine cabinets? Let’s just say it wasn’t quite as “natural” as you might think: no Tom’s of Maine toothpaste or rock deodorant here. Clearly, she knew that stuff didn’t work and had supplied herself with Crest White Strips, Garnier hair dye, and Degree “Fusion.” There was an interesting collection of “natural” hued makeups, not to mention the highly chemical packet of birth control pills. It was a brand I had used in my twenties, but it gave me a rash. Did Roger know she had hemorrhoids? I noticed a velour bag hanging in the closet, the kind hotels use to put hair dryers in, and figured I’d see whether she got those perfect waves with a diffuser.

  Inside was a curved, sharply pointed object that looked just like…well, like the rhino horns I’d seen on the Internet—the ones that were incredibly rare and valuable and horribly illegal and were responsible for there only being two hundred rhinos left in the world. I couldn’t believe it. Was everyone on this friggin’ continent smuggling animals and their by-products? This was exactly the kind of the evidence Roger needed. I took the horn out and replaced it with a rabbit vibrator I found in her drawer, hoping she wouldn’t notice for a few hours.

  I had to get back to Dar es Salaam, where there were cell phone towers and taxis. Happily, I had a special relationship with FedEx and American Express. With my deal, if I lost my card, they guaranteed a replacement delivered within twenty-four hours, anywhere in the world. I lied and reported my card stolen, then called my contact at FedEx. She promised that the driver would deliver the card before ten the next morning and give me a ride back to the city.

  I heard footsteps and shut down the computer, hiding the rhino horn in my bag. Cassandra stuck her head in. I gave her the codes for her new upgrades and thanked her. As a goodwill gesture for the other guests, I sprayed both touring vehicles with the last of my Obsession on the way back to the tent. At least someone would see lions.

  When I checked the bathroom sink, Barry wasn’t there. I completely panicked. Had he gotten out? I would never find him in the jungle, but some vulture might.

  “Barry? Barry? Here, boy.” Sometimes I forgot he wasn’t a dog.

  I went through the tent inch by inch, starting by the flaps and working my way to the middle, looking for anything that might be moving. I couldn’t blame him for bolting. He had been stuck in my purse like a used tissue for days. I felt like crying. How could I be so irresponsible? Poor Barry, who hadn’t asked for any of this. I decided to make one more circuit, but before I started, I needed a drink. I couldn’t remember if there were still any airline bottles in my bag. And as I walked toward it, I saw a twitch and there was Barry, making his halting way across the zipper.

  Then, I did cry, for the second time in three days. I cried for Barry and Roger and the end of my travel consultant career. I cried for the barbecued goat. I cried because I was homesick and because I was finally on my own. I set the alarm clock on my newly charged phone and finally fell asleep, tangled in mosquito netting and jungle sounds.

  ***

  I was packed and ready when I heard careening tires and spotted my ride. There was nothing like the blocky whiteness of a FedEx truck to ruin the illusion of the exotic. My friend Sara from college said it was like coming across a McDonald’s in Iceland. Part of you was disoriented and a little disappointed, but part of you was relieved as hell.

  The driver almost rolled the truck over pulling in. He was barely taller than I was, with a dirty blond John Denver haircut, a wide neck, bow legs, and an ill-fitting uniform: his FedEx shorts were so long they looked like gaucho pants. He ran up to Faraji, who shook his head no. They argued, then almost as an afterthought, he tossed my replacement Amex card at my host and started the vehicle. I grabbed the package, jumped on the running board, and started pounding on the truck. It jerked to a stop. The driver leaned out.

  “What?” He had a peculiar smell: part monkey cage, part emergency room.

  “Cyd Redondo, Redondo Travel,” I said.

  “Yeah, so?”

  “You’re supposed to take me with you. Your dispatcher made special arrangements for you to take me back to Dar.”

  “Nobody rides in the truck.”

  After I threatened to get the Worldwide office on the phone, he finally caved.

  “I have more deliveries,” he said. “I’m not going back right away.”

  “That’s fine.” I climbed into the passenger side, setting my carry-on at my feet, and holding my bag with Barry and the rhino horn tight in my lap. I had put Barry back in his aerated Tupperware, so he wouldn’t get gored. There was a weird antiseptic smell coming from the box of light green Handi Wipes on the dashboard. I had only seen white ones and wondered whether the whole “green is for hope” marketing idea was taking Africa over as well.

  The driver veered around potho
les, sweat popping out on his forehead. This guy seemed too nervous to be in charge of vital deliveries. It was like putting a meth head in charge of our nuclear arsenal. I heard a banging in the back.

  “What was that? Shouldn’t you check?” I said.

  “Check on what? What do you mean?”

  “Check on the packages. Should they slide around like that?”

  He ignored me for a mile or so, then stopped the truck. “Delivery,” he grunted.

  I looked around. Delivery to where? A tree? When I turned around, the driver smashed a thick wet stack of Handi Wipes over my face. I managed to loop my purse twice around my wrist before I passed out.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  I came to in the back of the FedEx truck, feeling like I’d swallowed one of those oily green Glade air fresheners or a soylent green milkshake. Since when did they make Handi Wipes with chloroform? For overwrought mothers? This kind of behavior was not up to FedEx standard. Besides, being abducted twice in one vacation did nothing for my self-esteem. I had three days left in Africa and I was not ready to spend them tied and gagged in a boxy vehicle.

  I was trussed up beside what I assumed was the real FedEx driver, a tall, chiseled man the color of Irish Breakfast tea, in a t-shirt and boxers, lying on his side with an ugly lump on his cheek and a bleeding forehead. Mostly he looked embarrassed. I wriggled behind him and tried to untie his hands with my teeth, but every time we hit a pothole, which was every five seconds, I lost my grip and jarred every tooth in my head. Then I remembered I had something sharp. I ass-walked over to my bag.

  It took forever to get the zipper undone. I kept reaching into the bag with both hands until I finally jabbed myself with the rhino horn. That sucker was sharp. Now, if I could just get a grip on it before we hit another fricking pothole. I’d never appreciated the Metropolitan Department of Public Works so much in all my life. Once I grabbed the horn, I tried cutting my gag, but all I did was jab myself in the cheek. My fellow hostage got the idea and did a handoff with the horn, working my gag off.

  “Cyd Redondo, Redondo Travel.” I hooked the horn into the side of the gag and pulled.

  “Hugh Dakar, FedEx. That guy came out of nowhere. I was doing a pickup, and next thing I knew I was in my underwear and tied up back here. So I am fired. So I am fucked.”

  “No you’re not. We’re going to get your truck back, okay?” I had untied myself and had the rhino horn in my hand.

  He stared at it. “That psycho said he believed in putting animals down humanely.” He pointed at the rhino horn. “You are a psycho too?”

  “No. It’s not mine.” I said. “Long story.” But I didn’t want to think about that. I wanted to think about how I was going to get the two of us out of here and find a way to Dar es Salaam.

  The truck stopped, slamming us against each other. If we started screaming too soon, we could endanger some innocent person who just wanted his Sports Illustrated or insulin. I couldn’t hear anything clearly. Eventually, because I had a gun and because Hugh looked scared, and mostly because I couldn’t stand not knowing what was going on, I cracked the back door and peeked out.

  I instantly wished I hadn’t. I knew where I was—Bunty’s compound. The place where creatures were tortured and then, apparently, FedExed to psychopaths overnight. I hesitated. If we stayed in the truck, we might have a chance. Staying in here was the smart move, no question. I turned to Hugh.

  “Try to get behind those boxes if you can.”

  He backed up, the snaps on his shorts scraping against the ridged, metal floor. A monkey was going nuts outside. I decided to look out just one more time. After all, Roger had said Bunty and the thugs were away. I stepped down out of the truck, purse anchored across my chest, .38 in my hand, and stuck as little of my face as possible around the side.

  As I did, Bunty’s Range Rover pulled up to the house. I edged out a little further and spotted Roger kneeling by the crocodile pen, taking pictures. Oblivious. Bunty, Henrik, and Jock got out and started walking in his direction.

  Then, everything happened very fast, probably because I stepped out and fired my gun over the house.

  Before I could pull back, Bunty, Henrik, and Jock pointed automatics at me. The faux FedEx driver dove behind a tree near the house.

  “It’s that wee bitch,” Jock yelled.

  “I am not wee,” I yelled back, jumping behind the truck. How could I get their focus off Roger? I decided shaming/infuriating was my best option and used my outside voice.

  “Hey, Bunty. Did you really think you could kill me? Sister Sandra Ignatius would be appalled.” I heard feet move toward me. More running. Where were they? “You’re a disgrace to the neighborhood, you crippled, pencil-dick matricidal motherfucker.” Someone cocked a rifle. “And by the way, your mother left the apartment to me.” Bunty and Henrik came around the truck, guns trained on me. I could probably only get one of them before I died.

  There was a huge crash, followed by a rush of wings and yowls and breaking crockery. The bad guys ran toward the cages. Three seconds later, I was knocked to the ground.

  “Get under the truck,” Roger said, crouching behind me.

  “You first,” I said, not eager to crawl in front of him. I hadn’t been to the gym in a week. We scrambled on our stomachs. Great—another outfit ruined. I did manage to hold onto my Balenciaga this time, at least.

  “What the hell just happened?” It was chaos. Someone had knocked over the clay pots and opened the pens. The animals that were able to move were escaping, including gobs of snakes, heading this way.

  “That should slow them down. They’re too greedy to shoot their own merchandise,” Roger said as I moved behind, using him as a snake shield.

  “You did this? Good thinking, Rog,” I said as a bullet hit about four inches from my leg. I saw two monkeys run in front of Bunty and head for the trees.

  “If you hadn’t shown up to ruin yet another operation, everything would have been fine.”

  The shooting finally stopped. There was more shouting.

  “Really?” I said. “One of the guards was about to shoot you. And, I was kidnapped.” The bullets started again.

  “Kidnapped? Come on? How many times are you going to trot out that old chestnut?”

  “Fine, I’m out of here. Deal with this yourself.” I turned to crawl sideways, then froze.

  Our old friend the leopard had joined us under the truck and this time, he was not in a good mood. He gave a lightning fast swipe, mortally wounding my bracelets.

  “Hey! Bad cat!”

  “No Obsession today?” Roger said, trying to swap places with me. It’s not like we could move that fast on our stomachs. Then something else moved to my right.

  “Shit,” Roger said, gripping my shoulder.

  “Shit? Shit is not what I want to hear. Shit is not helpful.” I turned my head and saw a huge lizard—maybe six feet long—with skin like mildewed chain mail. It was dripping drool in a particularly disgusting way, not that drool is ever attractive. “What is that?”

  “A Komodo dragon. God knows how they got it. I wonder if…?”

  “Roger. Focus.”

  He lowered his voice. “Be quiet and don’t move.”

  The two animals had noticed each other and were about to go at it right over us. I was not interested in being part of a fang/saliva sandwich. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw three black snakes and a chubby porcupine go by.

  “I say we risk the lizard. Its teeth don’t look that bad,” I said.

  “It’s not the teeth, it’s the drool,” Roger whispered. “It’s toxic enough to drop a water buffalo. Basically it dissolves anything it touches.”

  “That is disgusting. What do we do?”

  “There’s not much to do, Cyd,” he said. “Just be still and hope they go away.”

  “Yeah, right, just long enou
gh for Bunty to shoot us.” I watched a tiny river of drool work its way toward my Balenciaga. That bag had been through enough. I pulled it closer and inched it open.

  “Stop moving. I’m not kidding.” Roger said.

  “I haven’t spent ten years putting half my salary in a 401K to be dissolved by saliva,” I whispered, sliding out the rhino horn.

  “Where the hell did you get that?”

  “Your eco-girlfriend, Cassandra. She was hiding it in her room,” I said, handing it to him and pulling another weapon out. The leopard growled. The lizard eyed the bottom of my shoes.

  “Occupy the leopard. I’ll take care of the lizard,” I shifted slightly to get in range.

  Roger paled. “Cyd? Don’t. Please don’t, it’s…”

  “It’s what?” I said, pointing my weapon straight at the lizard’s eyes and spraying.

  “Endangered.” The leopard swiped at Roger. I turned and sent a shot his way as well. The cat backed off, yowling. “What the hell was that?” Roger said.

  “Giorgio,” I said. “I’m saving my bullets for the bad guys.”

  A shot almost dinged my ring finger. The truck vibrated to life and we barely avoided tread marks as it rolled over us toward the road. Without it, we were as exposed as Jayne Mansfield’s nipple. Henrik and Jock yelled, alerting Bunty. Bullets spattered behind us. We sprinted for the back of the truck—the door was still open. A truck driven by a lunatic was better than an amputee with an AK-47.

  Roger stopped, staring at the carnage. A shot whizzed past his head and blasted a tree limb to our left. “Jesus,” he said, “what have I done?” There were disoriented animals everywhere. It was terrifying. But so was Bunty with Roger in his sights.