Lost Luggage

by Wendall Thomas

  Chapter Forty-six

  I dropped the golf club and dove for an airborne Barry. Fisher grabbed Jimmy’s keys and hit me on the head with the butt of her gun. Just the thing when you’re hungover.

  With Barry safe, I pretended to be knocked out and watched her roll the animals out. Finally, I heard the back door slam. Had the frog already touched the still unconscious Jimmy, or was it repelled too? Did all this really have to happen when I had jetlag?

  Thank God Barry was okay. I put him back in his Tupperware and in a drawer for safety, picked up my bag and the golf club, and dragged Jimmy out into the parking lot just as the Lincoln Town car was pulling out. I managed to smash the right rear brake lights before Fisher headed down the alley. She waved, probably assuming I was car-less and not knowing Jimmy kept an extra set of keys in his wheel well. I ran for his Trans-Am and gunned the engine, spitting stones as I hit Third Avenue.

  I kept my eye on the broken taillight and called Frank. He said he’d send an ambulance for Jimmy and he kept me on the line while I tried to figure out where Fisher was going. I looked back once as the bridge disappeared, said a quick prayer, and followed the car toward the Fort Hamilton Expressway.

  After about a quarter mile, I saw someone tailing me. In a Prius. Fisher’s Lincoln took a left to the docks. I turned left too. So did the Prius. I made a couple of quick turns and lost the tail, then circled back and spotted the Lincoln pulling into the Cruise Terminal. I slowed down and pulled over. The element of surprise was all I had.

  Frank confirmed my location and said officers were on the way. Then I saw a light in my old friend Lou’s parking/seafood shack office. He wasn’t usually there so late, but it was worth a call.

  “Yeah, this is Lou.”

  “Lou, it’s Cyd. What are you still doing there?”

  “I forgot Beth’s birthday. I’m afraid to go home.”

  “Look, I’m in the parking lot. It’s a long story, but I need to create a distraction. Do you have anything handy? Klieg lights, big vehicles, loud noises?”

  “Is this for real?”

  “Yeah, I’m trying to stall some animal smugglers until the cops get here.”

  “Have you been drinking?”

  “No,” I lied. “Seriously. I’ll fix things with Beth.” I heard him take a sip of something.

  “I have some searchlights.”

  I saw three figures on the inky dock, in front of the Cruise Terminal concession stand. I reached into my purse. My hand closed around the two-cup Tupperware bowl I had managed to get past Customs.

  “Give me ninety seconds, then shine it halfway between the dock and the Cruise Terminal,” I said. I bolted from the car and ran. Ninety seconds is not very long. Two men were pulling the luggage out of the Lincoln and putting it into a mouse-gray van.

  I put my camera phone on “record” and “zoom” as I made for my intended spot, making sure I got all their faces and hoping I still had some battery left. I used the cover of the open trunk to open the Tupperware and toss the contents around, then ducked behind some barrels and waited.

  The searchlights finally smashed on, lighting up the entire dock and parking lot. Fisher and her cohorts froze, then, as I had hoped, ran toward the nearest cover, the overhanging awning by concessions—until they stopped. Stuck. Totally stuck.

  I was definitely going to nab the North American distribution rights for bird lime. That stuff fricking worked. The three of them jerked around, trying to get their feet off the ground. I knew it wouldn’t take long for them to take off their shoes, but at least Fisher had pull-on Ralph Lauren boots under her leather pants, so that gave me a few seconds—just enough time for me to throw one of the faux fishing nets from the Terminal restaurant over them.

  “You can’t pull off leather either, you bureaucratic slut!”

  Fisher sprayed bullets at me through the net. I guess I hadn’t really thought the whole net/bullet thing through.

  Something stung my side. I ducked back behind the barrels. When I peeked back, they had their shoes off and were pulling off the net. With no cover between me and the Trans Am, I could only hope Frank’s guys were on the way. I was starting to feel faint.

  The burly guys got free and started grabbing animals from the Lincoln’s trunk while Agent Fisher ran right at me, gun out. I prepared myself for the fate I probably deserved: death by Eileen Fisher.

  Then someone dove from the side and she disappeared. Flashing lights appeared and half the Precinct rushed for the guys at the dock.

  I stood up to see Agent Fisher on the ground, a figure standing over her. It was Roger. He handed Fisher off to the cops and walked toward me.

  “Were you tailing me?” I asked. He nodded. “You suck at it.” I tried to stand up.

  He reached over and took my Balenciaga off my shoulder. A neat bullet hole had pierced the strap.

  “Dammit,” My knees buckled. I gripped Roger’s shoulder.

  He saw the blood dripping from my side, pulled out a handkerchief, and pressed it into the wound.

  “God, Cyd, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t worry. I know a guy.”

  Chapter Forty-seven

  Dr. Kevekian came down to the Federal Building and patched me up. The bullet wound was just a graze. With any luck it would take a half inch off my waist. To be honest, it was my purse I was really worried about. It was really hard to match “Marilyn” red.

  I had to give a full statement and verify my status as a “confidential informant.” It helped that the Interpol wiretap and my speaker phone message had recorded Agent Fisher’s confession and I had video of the animal exchange on the dock.

  According to the FBI, Roger really was a fifteen-year veteran of the Fish and Wildlife Service (which was a real thing). He was a star, apparently—one of only six Special Operations Agents in the country, which didn’t seem like nearly enough, given the general slaughter going on. I had hoped he’d be the one to spring me, but he was busy with interviews and paperwork, so Agent Gant offered to drive me home. He wasn’t my favorite person at the moment, but he was free. He didn’t say much until we pulled up at the curb.

  “Your uncle is sticking to his confession. He confirmed both you and your cousin were unaware of any criminal activity. Interpol owes you an apology. I owe you an apology.”

  “And what? You’re just going to keep your job? After harboring that psychopath? After sending all those animals to the bad guys?”

  “Actually, I’ve been promoted. For breaking up the ring.” I guess governments were the same everywhere.

  Gant got out to open the door for me at least. I swallowed a yelp as I grabbed the dashboard. Holy God. Apparently, getting up from a sitting position used more of your waist than I remembered, but no way I was showing weakness in front of him. I’d scream later.

  Every light in the house was on. This homecoming was going to be worse than getting shot. My mother opened the door, ran down the stairs, and grabbed me for all she was worth, right on top of my bullet wound.

  “Ow!”

  But she wouldn’t let go and for once, she didn’t even sigh.

  ***

  The next morning at 8:05, I had a chat with Mrs. Barsky at the Greenwood Cemetery, plot 1783. I brought flowers and some watery decaf. I told her about most of my trip and how Bobby had called her a saint. I left the other parts out. I figured, if the dead were all-seeing, she already knew; if not, who was I to spoil her eternal rest?

  A week later, things were almost back to normal. My wound was healing. Jimmy might have dodged an indictment, but my mousy mother had acted against type and had thrown him out of the house, so Eddie packed him off to work construction for some distant cousins in Fresno, which was the Brooklyn equivalent of prison. It didn’t really change anything for me, as he was just absent as usual.

  I went back to book
ing trips. Uncle Ray had done all the paperwork before he turned himself in: Redondo Travel was mine, impending bankruptcy and all. I was determined to turn it around, legally. The Andersons, the Minettis, and the Giannis were our new marketing strategy: they couldn’t say enough about Redondo Travel’s personal service. And after the article about me in the Brooklyn Daily Eagle, even Peggy Newsome’s clients were stopping by to see my gunshot wound. I’d already filled a golf/seniors Zumba package to Palm Beach and a Seniors Walking Tour to Zurich. I still needed a big idea, and fast, but my old boyfriend Sam at Bay Ridge Savings had promised me a bridge loan, so I’d bought myself a couple of months.

  We never found the frogs Agent Fisher let loose, but the Precinct’s expert said they were only poisonous for a few days after they lost their native food source, so I decided they were welcome to hang around.

  It was a tough decision, but I took Barry to the Brooklyn Zoo. Gant had arranged for an “importation certificate” so I wouldn’t be arrested, and the reptile keeper said I could visit the chameleon anytime. He had a pretty cushy glass enclosure with a plaque that read “Sponsored by Redondo Travel.” Nothing like free advertising.

  I was at the zoo visiting Barry when Roger found me. We hadn’t seen each other alone since the night on the pier. He was dressed in a leather jacket and jeans, with those same eyes and, worse, same sandals. Who wore a leather jacket and sandals? I pointed through the glass. Inside, were four tiny Barrys, zapping lettuce with tongues about a quarter inch long.

  “Barry was a girl?” Roger said.

  “The curator told me even that David Attenborough guy can’t tell a boy from a girl when it comes to chameleons.” I smiled, happy that at least in this case, I’d helped populate a species rather than end one.

  Roger and I sat on a bench by the orangutans and he told me the burly guys had rolled over like kittens. It turned out when Agent Fisher had caught the infamous Mr. Chu, she had taken over his name and network. Her compatriots were pretty sure she’d killed him. Aside from being fired and charged with international conspiracy and animal trafficking, the confession I recorded in the office meant Agent Fisher had taken my place as prime suspect in Mrs. Barsky’s homicide by frog poison. Roger said Grey Hazelnut had paid off the Tanzanian Police and was in the wind. Neither Bunty nor his body had been found. Now that I knew he hadn’t murdered his mother, part of me hoped toxic saliva might have been a wake-up call. Besides, I didn’t get my new apartment until he came home or the court appointed another executor.

  Roger asked about my family. I wasn’t ready to talk about my uncle yet. It was too raw. And too confusing.

  “I’ve done what I could,” Roger said.

  “Thanks. For that, and for saving my life.”

  “I didn’t save your life. Your purse did. As usual.”

  “It’s a bag, not a purse.” We watched Barry’s daughters take out a spider.

  “I have a big favor to ask. Could you drive me to the airport? I’m on my way to Indonesia.”

  “Another undercover case?”

  “Interpol requested me again.”

  As we drove, I looked over at his dimple. It was just as cute from the side. The list of his betrayals was pretty much burned in my brain, and saving me from Agent Fisher couldn’t wipe all of it out, even if I wanted it to. We rode along for awhile in silence. When we got to the turn-off for Departures, he asked me to veer left, down a service road.

  “Why? Where are we going?”

  “It’s something the Customs guys told me about. I thought it might help if you got homesick for Africa.”

  We stopped in a big stand of trees near the fence that marked off the cargo runways. I could hear the growl of a 777 taking off and smell diesel fuel, but there was something else in the air. It smelled, like, well, monkey dung. Other noises started to filter in: vervet monkey calls and loud squawks. Three bright blue Macaws shot across the clearing.

  “What the hell?” I said.

  “When the animal cages go across the tarmac, sometimes the crafty ones escape. There are supposedly hundreds of species here; the airport staff call it the ‘Suburban Serengeti.’ Come on.”

  He led me down a path to a large, white Out of Africa tent. Leaning on the side was the collapsible snake handler. Roger twirled it, for old time’s sake.

  “Don’t you have a plane to catch?” I said.

  “In the morning. I thought I’d spend the night trying to convince you to be on it with me.”

  I have to say, he made a compelling case. His first kiss was tentative and tasted of tarmac and Altoids, but his second was like rocket fuel. I tried to be cool, but I totally failed as I felt his long fingers on my back, and then tight around my waist. When I pulled back and saw the pleading look in those Raisinet eyes, I completely folded, mashing my lips against his and gasping as he lifted me over his shoulder and through the “tent threshold,” then threw me down onto the camp bed he’d made for us. It collapsed on contact, but by then Roger was on top of me and grinning and by some miracle I hadn’t thrown my back out, so, there in the jungles of Greater Manhattan, I gave into the best—and maybe worst—of my animal instincts, untied my consignment wrap dress, kicked off my Charles Davids, wrapped my legs around Roger, and held on for dear life.

  The first time was frantic, a “we survived the leopard trap, komodo drool, and FBI bastardry” kind of sex, complete with canvas burn and a few insect bites where nobody wants them. It was a blur of my hands flat on Roger’s “four pack,” his dark, silky hair on my breast, monkeys bouncing on the roof of the tent, and macaws squawking. Or was it pigeons? When Roger pressed my wrists above my head, who cared?

  The second time, after a lantern-lit picnic of airline nuts, olives, and tiny bottles of Jack Daniels, was different—just as intense, but in slow motion. Roger lingered over every part of me until I felt memorized. His fingers were dry and warm and insistent and the mole by the side of his mouth added a grace note to each kiss, from the back of my neck to the tip of my coccygeal vertebrae. The damp ground, the distant sirens, the vibration of A380s, none of it mattered if he was touching me. After he’d fallen asleep, I listened to the birds and smelled the night trees and traced his dimples with my finger. I’d never wanted someone as much as I wanted Roger, but I still wasn’t sure what had been him and what had been the job. One night wasn’t long enough to figure that out.

  The planes and the monkeys woke us up. In the light, we were suddenly shy. Roger kissed me once, then we got dressed and broke camp. Neither of us spoke. I guess he didn’t want me to say no and I didn’t want to have to say it. Finally, he pulled a ticket out of his pocket and held it out.

  “Here. You’ve never been to Indonesia, right?”

  “Not yet,” I said. Part of me wanted to just let him whisk me away. But if my time in Tanzania had taught me anything, it was that I had to do my own whisking. I turned and grabbed his hand. “Someday. But right now, I need to stay here.” We just looked at each other. “You can still get a partial refund if you turn it in before the flight.”

  He grinned and closed my hand around it. “Nope, this is yours, either way.”

  When we were packed, he said he’d pick up the tent and the snake handler next time he was in town. We sat on the endless hood of the Galaxie and watched the planes take off until it was time for his flight.

  We drove to the Terminal, I parked illegally, and we stood on the curb as luggage crashed around us. He kissed me one more time, hard enough to almost make me change my mind. I wasn’t ready to say good-bye and I wished it were the old days and I could have seen him off at the gate. Instead, I watched him walk through Security and disappear.

  I drove back on the JFK until I saw the bridge. Fifteen minutes later I was in my new ergonomic chair—the other one had been retired for sanitary reasons—when the phone rang.

  “Cyd Redondo, Redondo Travel.”

 
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