by Neil Russell
“Where are you on the Tongan citizenship matter?”
“Did you forget my position on clients asking for progress reports?”
“I didn’t, and I don’t care. I need an answer. But before you go, I owe you an apology for previous remarks.”
“Hold on to it. I want to be sober enough to remember.”
* * * *
Bronis set up a late lunch on the bedroom terrace, then phoned us when it was ready. I’d already worked out, but Birdy was still dead to the world. She managed to wrap herself in a voluminous aqua and orange terry robe and pull her hair into a ponytail before joining me. I thought she looked terrific.
Scrambled eggs and ham on a clear desert afternoon made everything seem new again, and the exhilaration in Birdy’s voice as she described her evening evaluating one of the top three-year-olds in the country should have made me happier. Unfortunately, out in the real world, Chuck and Lucille Brando were still dead, and I hadn’t felt completely right since that night. I wanted to get moving.
“So how was your evening. Grumpy?” she asked.
“Sorry, preoccupied. It was fine. Please continue with your equine adventure.”
She shook her head in amazement. “MrSaturdayDance is like no horse I’ve ever seen. He’s as big as Secretariat, and if he’s brought along correctly, this time next year, the whole world will know who he is.”
“Can I assume you’ll be the one bringing him along?”
“They want me to stay for a week and get his diet adjusted so he can travel. Then we’ll truck him to Santa Anita. I already know which barn.”
“Can I assume you’ll go with him?”
She smiled. “What kind of trainer would I be if I didn’t? We’ve got to get to know each other.” She paused. “I must be pretty good at it. Look what happened with you.”
I lifted my orange juice. “Bob Baffert, watch out.”
She looked uncomfortable. “There a problem?” I asked.
She shook her head. “I gave them a preliminary yes, but I said I had to check with you before I could finalize.”
“Check with me?”
Her lower lip trembled. “No one’s ever treated me like this before. I’m so overwhelmed I. ..”
I reached across and put my hands over hers. They were trembling too. “I haven’t done anything. Nick did. Birdy, don’t be tentative when you see a string of green lights. Jump on the accelerator. But I want good seats at Churchill.”
She came around the table and kissed me with passion. Too much passion. I gently pushed her away.
She looked at me like maybe she’d done something wrong. “Don’t you want to?”
“If you need proof, I’ll stand up. But I want that sexual tension in you when we get where we’re going.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll be tense. I’m right on the edge. Do I need a briefing?”
“Dress provocatively and pretend you’re a little dumb. Not stupid, but eager to please.”
“Hey, I’m the chick who went riding with a meth head. I’m a natural.”
“Clever, but not funny. Relax, smart people make bad decisions. And no real names. What do you want me to call you?”
“It’ll come to me when I need it. You’re going to tell me what this is all about one of these days, aren’t you?”
“I am, but I’m still figuring it out myself.”
“Maybe I could help?”
“You can. Show lots of leg.”
* * * *
When we came out of the villa, Bronis had a silver Genesis sitting in front. You won’t find Hyundai on the Christmas lists of many Beverly Hills residents, but maybe it should be—especially the tall ones.
In both my Rolls and Ram, I’ve had the driver’s side seat track lengthened. Even though I can drive most regular-sized vehicles, the extra few inches makes the difference between serviceability and comfort. I own a couple of dozen other cars that I couldn’t resist, some of which I can only open the door and visually admire the workmanship. I think of them as expensive paperweights.
But the Genesis seemed like it had been designed with me in mind. It wasn’t cavernous but nicely proportioned, and the steering wheel was positioned better than any Mercedes. The proof is always how tight a car sounds when you close the door, and this one was as solid as a bank vault.
As Bronis helped Birdy in, I noticed a folded note on the dash.
Don’t you just love this damn thing?
Half the price of a BMW and twice as quiet.
And how about that grille? Sensual, huh?
Guy in Seoul sent me a dozen.
He’ll guarantee ten rollers a gear if I use them as courtesy cars.
What do you think?
N
In a tight, midthigh salmon dress cut almost to her navel and matching fuck-me heels delicately strapped above her ankles, Birdy was a knockout. Exactly what I wanted. She’d also accented her deep neckline with a tight, gold collar that was vaguely reminiscent of Bondage Monthly. I saw Bronis trying to eye her inconspicuously and not doing particularly well.
When he closed her door, she looked around the interior. “Korean, right?”
“Right.”
“Nice, but the seat’s cold.”
“Ah, as we used to say in school, le butt du tout nu”
“If that means what I think, you wanted provocative, and I’m from the method school.”
“Then remember The Story of O and no complaining.”
“Who’s O?”
“Jesus, another thoroughly wasted education. We’ve got to get you to a library.” I made a mental note to check out the Genesis’s grille, but in the meantime I had one far more sensual to admire. To the man who insists he prefers conservatively dressed women, I offer: So you’d rather arrive at your reunion in a minivan instead of an Aston Martin? Sure you would.
* * * *
23
Richer Seas
SIX WEEKS AGO
SOUTHERN CHINA
Cheyenne Rollins was sick to her stomach again. Already, the driver had had to stop the truck twice for her to throw up in the bushes, leaving her soaked and shivering from the cold, unrelenting rain. Between the diarrhea and the vomiting, it had been almost two weeks since she’d been able to keep anything in her system long enough to nourish her, and she was thinner than she’d been in her adult life. Her prized, fur-trimmed Burberry hung so loose, it felt like it belonged to another person.
By contrast, the baby was fine and eagerly gummed the putrid rice balls the orphanage nurse had provided for the trip. Cheyenne supposed that was some consolation, but as she stumbled from the truck and dropped to her knees in the mud, it quickly faded.
The sour taste in the back of her throat wouldn’t go away, fueling the nausea further. She grabbed a handful of wet grass, stuffed it in her mouth and forced herself to chew, releasing the chlorophyll. Regardless of what the doctor at the orphanage said, this wasn’t a reaction to RU-486, the so-called Morning-After Pill. Both she and Sherry had taken that before, and it didn’t make you sick like this. They’d been poisoned, but they didn’t know with what.
It’s what they had been talking about when Sherry had put her hand on Cheyenne’s cheek and told her she was sorry for getting her into this and made her promise to find her sister. “She’s going to think I blame her for this, but you need to make her believe I don’t. Tell her she’s been the best big sis anybody could ever want.”
Then Sherry had taken a final breath and died. For a long time afterward, Cheyenne had held the lifeless body and fingered the blackening ligature marks cut deep into her dead friend’s neck. They were on her arms and legs too, and the one across her back had sliced through the flesh on her hips. Sherry wouldn’t talk about them, and part of Cheyenne was relieved she’d never know. That was only a week ago, but it seemed much longer, and Cheyenne knew that unless she could find a way to eat, she’d be joining Sherry soon.
The plan had been to be at the orphanage only a couple of hours,
collect their two children, and depart for the cruise ship waiting in Hong Kong harbor. But both she and Sherry had begun vomiting on the way there, then gone into convulsions. Cheyenne remembered her grandmother telling her that whatever you taste when you‘re sick is what got you there. If that was true, then the poison tasted like licorice.
So the two hours had turned into twelve days, and their ship had long since sailed, along with their documents. The orphanage director had done everything he could to make them feel unwelcome, and after Sherry died, he told Cheyenne that she had to leave or he would turn her in to the police. She’d stretched it another day to try to gain a little strength, then allowed herself to be put in an old stake-bed truck the director sent for. Two thousand dollars was the last of her money, but she was in no condition to argue price.
She felt guilty about not bringing Sherry’s child too. They’d certainly tried hard enough to give the three-year-old boy to her. But an infected snake bite had forced the amputation of his leg below the knee, and Cheyenne knew she couldn’t handle him and her infant too. She promised herself that when she got home, she’d go to confession and ask the priest to say a prayer for Sherry and all the children who were still stuck in that godforsaken place. She’d have to be careful with the confession, though. Not many priests were up to what she could dump in their lap.
Her driver, a scrawny guy with permanently brown teeth and a perpetual leer, periodically glanced at her in a way she knew all too well. At nearly six feet with blonde hair and a pair of breasts that were ordinary in Las Vegas but unheard of in this part of the world, even the puke on her blouse wasn’t enough to turn him off. He also smoked incessantly, which, in the enclosed space, wasn’t helping her fluttering insides.
Neither spoke the other’s language, and her pantomime for him to put out his cigarette drew only a laugh and more staring at her chest. Cheyenne didn’t know his name and didn’t care to. She called him Shit Teeth, which he didn’t get, and if she hadn’t been so weak, she’d have kicked his ass out and gone on alone.
When her stomach quieted a little, she spit out the grass and forced herself back to her feet. As she did, she thought she caught a whiff of sea air. She took another breath, and underneath the sulfur, smoke and rot lurked the unmistakable smell of big water. Thank God, she thought. She climbed unsteadily back into the prehistoric rig, grateful for the running board. Shit Teeth didn’t wait for the door to close before he lurched forward.
There were no docks on this section of the Pearl River. Thousands of junks and houseboats were simply tied together offshore, forming a city of creaking hulls and rubbing wood. People climbed from one vessel to another to conduct commerce and socialize while swarms of Chinese children scrambled across decks and up and down ropes in a game of tag, oblivious to the rain.
Shit Teeth pulled to the water’s edge and stopped. When Cheyenne didn’t move, he barked something and pointed to the door, but she had no intention of being left alone in this alien world. She shook her head, and he became enraged, screaming in rapid Chinese, saliva flying. She sat impassive until he finished then calmly said, “You were paid to do a job. Do it.” He may not have understood the words, but he got the message.
He banged out of the truck, pulled down his wide-brimmed hat, turned up his stained collar and leaned into the downpour. Cheyenne watched him make his way along the shoreline until he came to a sorry-looking skiff pulled partway onto the sand. A pair of fishermen were working on deck, and Shit Teeth yelled something to them. They ignored him, but after more yelling and gesticulating, one of the men interrupted what he was doing long enough to point farther up the beach. Shit Teeth returned to the truck, muttering angrily to himself.
The deep ruts and hidden rocks made the ride along the beach bone-jarringly unpleasant, but Shit Teeth took no notice of Cheyenne’s comfort. Feeling her nausea rising again, she reached over and slapped him. He bellowed and raised his fist to strike her, then changed his mind and slowed a little.
A low, wide pier extended a hundred feet into the Pearl, and waves generated by the open sea a few miles to the south washed against it, occasionally spilling across its planks. At the pier’s end sat a medium-sized cargo vessel of ancient vintage showing as much rust as paint. Cheyenne guessed it had once been dark red, but in the gloom, she could have been off by a spectrum. On the bow, peeling white Chinese characters rose above the English lettering:
RICHER SEAS
She wondered if that was a tribute to the ship’s past or a prayer for its future. Either way, it didn’t apply to the here and now. It was a dreadful-looking tub on a dreadful-smelling river, and desperation hung over it like a shroud.
The truck stopped again, and this time Cheyenne got out. She carefully covered the infant with an extra blanket, then took her Tumi valise from behind the seat. The Tumi had been a gift from her boyfriend, Kevin, who’d probably stolen it. Kevin had run off to Dallas with a gay high roller a casino host had pimped him out to—a major violation of the rules—and now, he’d have to take a beating if he wanted to work again. They wouldn’t hurt his face, but he’d be laid up for a few weeks, and he couldn’t afford it.
That’s what had gotten Cheyenne into this mess. Trying to make some money to take care of both of them while she nursed Kevin back to health. Everybody told her she was crazy to be hung up on the guy—even Sherry—but they didn’t understand. Cheyenne didn’t crave him sexually. He was a selfish lover and mostly interested in men. She longed for his warmth. You can live all your life with everything— or nothing—but awakening in the dark and feeling willing arms around you can’t be bought or begged. And Kevin’s were the first arms that hadn’t abused her, or worse. What she wouldn’t have given for them now.
How had a few lousy electronics store commercials turned into this? She wanted to be pissed at Donnie, but it wasn’t his fault. She’d volunteered. Hell, she’d badgered him. Miss Quick, her fifth-grade teacher back in Youngstown, used to say that if you don’t make your own destiny, you’ll end up part of someone else’s. Problem was, Miss Quick didn’t tell you how to do that when your mom was dead, and your old man was drunk before you left for the school bus.
Cheyenne started for the pier, but Shit Teeth grabbed her by the wrist and led her toward a long, unmarked one-story building set just off the beach. Inside, a few naked, overhead bulbs provided enough light for her to see armed soldiers watching over several hundred ragged, shivering Chinese of all ages. Some huddled in groups, others sat against the walls on crude wooden benches, but despite their numbers, there was very little noise, only the scraping of feet and an occasional tubercular cough. Fearful eyes turned toward her, making her feel even more conspicuous. Shit Teeth pointed to an empty space on one of the benches, and she gratefully sat, clutching the baby and her valise to her chest.
An angry, bemedaled army officer approached her escort, and the two began a heated exchange. Occasionally, the officer turned and appraised Cheyenne with undisguised hostility, and she could only imagine what Shit Teeth was telling him. Finally, the driver pressed a wad of bills into the officer‘s hand, which he pocketed without glancing at them.
Cheyenne had undone the buttons on her coat, and this time when the officer looked at her, his gaze lingered on her chest. She’d been told she’d be traveling with refugees, but with the army involved, this was clearly something more. At a minimum, deportees; at a maximum . . . who knew? There was nothing to do but ride it out, and if that meant she had to spread her legs or lips for this creep, well, she’d done that before.
Suddenly, there was shouting outside and the sound of approaching vehicles. The officer’s head jerked up, Cheyenne forgotten. Moving as one, the mass of Chinese humanity crowded toward a long row of windows. Curious as well, Cheyenne clutched the baby to her and did the same.
The rain had stopped, and a dozen troop carriers roared past the building and onto the sand, split six to each side, then slammed to a stop at the pier’s edge. Immediately, a stream of tall, spi
t-and-polish soldiers dismounted from the vehicles and formed two columns, their bayoneted assault rifles at port arms. An officer blew a whistle, and the columns quick-timed onto the planks, a soldier from each row peeling off at five-pace intervals, then turning and facing his counterpart across the divide. When the last two reached the Richer Seas, the man with the whistle barked a command, and the soldiers came to parade rest, banging their rifle butts on the pier in a single thunk.
As if on cue, a massive, black sedan appeared, and the officer who had been eyeing Cheyenne came out of the building to meet it. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Shit Teeth exit behind him and begin slinking toward his truck. Soldiers who had not previously been in evidence now ran from all directions and took positions beside the officer, who looked extremely nervous. For some reason, that pleased Cheyenne.
When the sedan stopped, Cheyenne noticed the pair of four-star flags on its fenders and knew that meant some kind of general. The soldier at the wheel bolted out and opened the rear door. A thickset, pock-faced Chinese, wearing enough gold braid and battle ribbons to outfit a roomful of drum majors, stepped onto the concrete. His welcoming committee, already at attention, snapped off a stiff salute.