Once again, I nearly dislocated my shoulder opening the door to the Suburban. Was it made of iron? Closing it took three tries. None of which woke my passenger.
Los Angeles International Airport is not where most people would choose to be on a Tuesday at rush hour, and many were grumpy, as evidenced by excessive honking of horns and cutting off of other people when lanes merged. Approaching the international terminal, I tried to wake Zbiggo. In fact, I'd tried to wake him since Calabasas, because I couldn't get his seat belt on him. He was sitting on the buckle part and no amount of pushing could budge him. I'd wasted five full minutes in the driveway working on it before deciding that risking his life in slow traffic was less dangerous than letting Donatella see him covered in moor mud.
His continued unconsciousness presented a problem, because I couldn't just park the Suburban and leave Zbiggo alone in it. I could write him a note, explaining where he was and that I'd be right back, but I had no guarantee he was literate in English and my Russian—was that what he spoke?—was limited to “nyet” and “borscht.” So I placed on the dashboard the sign saying STASIK MIROJNIK and kept driving. With luck, Stasik would find his own way through immigration, baggage claim, and customs and out to the sidewalk. I tried to call the cell phone listed on his fact sheet, but it wasn't accepting messages.
Curbside parking at LAX is a crime for which you can be shot on sight, so I was forced to circle the terminal, which meant circling the whole airport, an exercise in stress. I kept one eye on the collection of buses, limousines, and other drivers determined to keep me away from the curb lane, and one eye on the passengers, looking for Stasik. His photo didn't help. There were thousands of people waiting for rides at the international terminal, seven hundred of whom could conceivably be Stasik Mirojnik, all of them wearing the patina of travel exhaustion, their will to live having been sucked out of them by untold hours spent sitting elbow to elbow with their fellow man. Happily, very few carried banjo cases.
And then I saw him. At least, I saw the banjo case, which was enough. I honked, he raised a hand in greeting, and the Suburban muscled its way through the crowd and over to the curb, nearly annihilating a PT Cruiser in the process. As I was looking for the button to roll down the window, after realizing they were all tinted, Stasik opened the passenger-side door. Zbiggo began to slide out, but Stasik had good reflexes. He crammed Zbiggo back in and slammed the door shut—on the first try, too, meaning he was stronger than he looked. A second later he opened the back door and threw in his luggage, then hopped in after it.
“Who's he?” he said, nodding at the front seat.
“This is Zbiggo … Shpek.”
“Dead?”
“Dead? No, he's not dead. He's jet-lagged.”
He paused. Then, “Where's he from?”
“From—” What was the name of his country? My memory faltered. “He's a Vulcan. Or something. And a Taurus.”
“What's on his face?”
“Moor mud. You're Stasik, I hope?”
“Yes.”
“Good. I'm Wollie.”
“You're late.” He spoke in such clipped tones, it was hard to be sure, but he sounded British. He was twenty-four, according to his fact sheet, and from what I could see under a scrunched-up Greek fisherman's cap, both good-looking and bad-humored.
“I am late,” I said. “You're right. I'm very sorry. On behalf of Medias-Rex Enterprises, welcome to America.”
“You can skip the spiel,” he said. “What's your part in this?”
“I'm your social coach.”
He leaned back in his seat and pulled his cap down over his eyes. “Meaning what?”
“You may well ask.” At least his English was excellent. “I believe I'm a combination chauffeur, concierge, companion, translator, and tour guide. And date.”
“You believe?”
“It's my first day.”
“It was Chai's job.”
“You knew her too?”
“Obviously. So now she's dead and they've got you. Are you a model?”
“Do I look like one?”
“Not from here.”
I resisted an urge to check my face in the rearview mirror. “Where'd you meet Chai?”
“Bratislava. With Yuri.”
“Do you know how she died?”
He didn't answer at first. Then, “What do you mean?”
“The newspapers here didn't mention how she died,” I said.
“The American media is stupid.”
Hard to argue with that. “How was the flight, by the way?”
“I lived. Let's lose the pleasantries.”
“Okay.” I glanced in the rearview mirror. “Your English is amazing.”
“Given that I went to Oxford, not all that amazing.”
That was it. British with a touch of Eastern Europe.
“So how did Chai die?” I asked again, but he didn't answer. I looked in the rearview mirror and saw he was on his cell phone. I was left alone with my thoughts.
Had he really thought Zbiggo was dead? It must've been some kind of Euro-witticism, because who but an undertaker would jump to that conclusion, seeing a sleeping body?
And what was the deal with Chai?
My own phone rang.
“Wollie! It's Uncle Theo. My dear, did you say you're in Palomino Hills? Wonderful news: Apollo has a Caltech professor whose mother lives there, and tomorrow—”
The call-waiting beep sounded. “Uncle Theo, so sorry, I gotta take this call, I'm actually working right now.” I hit the talk button. “Hello?”
“Wollie, it's Alik. Where are you?”
“Sepulveda, going north,” I said. “I just picked up Stasik and—”
“Good. Listen, can you meet me? I need to give you my passengers. I have an emergency situation that needs to be dealt with.”
“Sure,” I said, glancing at snoring Zbiggo. “The more the merrier.”
“There's a Hamburger Hamlet on Sepulveda. I can be there in five minutes.”
“I'll be there in ten,” I said.
“What's going on?” Stasik asked, interrupting his own conversation.
“We're meeting Alik Milos, picking up more passengers.”
“Govno.”
“What's govno mean?” I said.
“Take a guess.”
I came to a sudden stop and Zbiggo once again hit his head on the dashboard. “Shit,” I mumbled.
“That's it,” Stasik said. “Very good.”
Emboldened by something approaching a kind word, I asked Stasik to help with Zbiggo's seat belt. He was able to simultaneously buckle up Zbiggo and teach me more Russian phrases. By the time we reached Hamburger Hamlet, I knew govno, yobe tvoyu mat, and zhopa, none of them suitable for polite company.
ELEVEN
Alik stood outside Hamburger Hamlet, surrounded by luggage. His back was to me. I pulled up in front of a fire hydrant just as he turned, revealing a cell phone at his ear.
“—know my father's lawyers, yeah. What, you suggest I call them?” he said, implying he'd sooner stand naked on Hollywood and Vine. Then he saw me and ended his call.
“You made good time.” He opened the driver's-side door and hit a button, popping the hatch. “Hey, Stasik,” he said, then switched to Russian. Obviously, they were well acquainted, and they launched into a spirited, irritable discussion as Alik converted the huge cargo space into a third row of passenger seating.
“That's a whole lotta luggage,” I said, climbing out of the Suburban and grabbing a suitcase. “Will it all fit?”
“It'll fit,” Alik said. “Let's get the trainees in.”
“Where are they?” I asked, breathing heavily.
Alik nodded toward the restaurant. “Inside, checking out our American culinary institution.” He threw the last of the bags into the back and slammed it shut. Then he turned to me. “Wollie, you're saving my life here. Yuri won't like it if he learns I dropped this in your lap, but I know you can handle it.” His pointe
d look made it clear what he was asking.
“Yuri doesn't need to know about it,” I said. “I mean, he won't hear it from me.”
Alik kissed me on both cheeks. “You're a sweetheart.” With that, he dashed inside Hamburger Hamlet, leaving me standing there, smiling in response. He came out a moment later with four people trailing him. His cell phone rang and he answered it, turning away.
I stepped forward to greet two women and two men. They were a motley crew, making me wonder why Alik and I had to be so dressed up to transport them. “I'm Wollie.”
“Mucho gusto,” said a motherly woman, shaking my hand. “Zeferina Maria Catalina Hidalgo de Abragon, but just call me Zeferina Maria Catalina.”
The man next to her stepped forward. He wore a dreadful Hawaiian shirt, but he himself was pleasant-looking, with red hair and freckles. “I am enchanted I am meeting you,” he said, beaming, then pulled me into an embrace. “My name is Felix. What a wonderful opportunity to be here in United States.”
“Welcome to Los Angeles, Felix,” I said, letting myself be hugged. When he released me, I turned to the third passenger, a thin, pale girl. “Hi. My name is Wollie.”
“Nadja,” she said, crushing my hand in a surprising grip.
“Ivan,” the other man said, nodding at me. He had at least three days' worth of beard going on and red-rimmed eyes. “I am the uncle of Nadja. Call me Vanya.”
I smiled. “Uncle Vanya. Like Chekhov.” No one smiled in response.
“What? Now?” Alik said into his phone. “Don't do a thing. I'm on my way. Wollie,” he said, turning to me. “Gotta fly. Get them home and hand 'em over to Grusha.” Without waiting for an answer, he got into the Voyager double-parked in front of me.
“Alik!” screamed Nadja. “My bicycle! Where it is?”
“In the back of my van,” Alik called to her. “It's safe. I'll be home later tonight.”
“No! I don't go nowhere without! Also my tings!”
“Nadja, I don't have time now to—” Alik said.
“Then I come with!” Nadja ran toward the Voyager, nearing hysterics. “I don't go without I have my bicycle!”
“Damn it.” Alik hopped out of his van, raced to the back, and began to pull items out of the trunk. Among Nadja's “tings” were a bicycle enclosed in bubble wrap, wheels, a helmet, and miscellaneous sporting gear. Nadja and her uncle took the items from Alik, and then I went to help, with Zeferina Whatever-the-rest-of-her-names-were and Felix right behind me. The stuff kept on coming, until all of us were loaded up with various bags and oversized items. I carried a bicycle pump and swimmer's fins.
“There. That's everything,” Alik said to Nadja as he closed the hatch. “You've got some trust issues we're going to address, but I don't have time now. This isn't the third world and no one's going to steal your bicycle. Okay?”
“Okay, it is only that—”
“It's fine, just go with Wollie and get some sleep.”
And with that, he was gone. Leaving us on the corner of Sepulveda with way too much stuff even for a Suburban. I knew this because when I opened the rear, the things Alik had just crammed in started spilling out. A garment bag slid onto my foot.
“The ceiling,” Zeferina Etcetera said, pointing to the top of the car. “In my country, we put things on ceiling.”
“The roof?” I said. Sure enough, on top of the Suburban there was a luggage rack, but how to reach it without a ladder?
“But not my bicycle. My bicycle, she sit with me.” Nadja clutched her bubble wrap.
“Also the wheels,” Uncle Vanya said, holding them up.
“You can put my suitcase up there,” Felix said, hoisting a duffel big enough to hold a body. “I have no trust issue.”
“Okay, good.” I climbed onto the back bumper and checked out the luggage rack. “I've never operated one of these. Anyone know how they work?”
No one did. Nadja's uncle hoisted me up on his shoulders for a better look. It was a simple metal apparatus, like a big dish rack, with no way to hold anything in place. In my own car I carried bungee cords, but the Suburban, under all the luggage, held only tools, the kind I figured were for changing tires. Not that I'd ever done that. “Anyone have a belt?” I asked. “How about a rope? The sash of a bathrobe? Extra-long shoelaces, that's all I ask.”
“I have suspenders.” Felix set to work opening his bag. “I find them now for you.”
Stasik emerged from the Suburban. “What's the bloody holdup?”
“Just getting luggage squared away” I said, throwing bags back into the trunk. “Got a bungee cord on you?”
Stasik stared at me, appalled. “I realize this is your first day,” he said, “but if it's any indication of how thing are run here, I've made a big mistake.”
“Stasik, it's not an indication of anything except—me. I'm under-prepared. It's not MediasRex. MediasRex is a well-oiled machine.” Why I felt so protective of Yuri's organization was anyone's guess. “Look, suspenders!” I took them from Felix gratefully. “Have you all met? Go ahead and introduce yourselves.”
Felix and I hoisted his suitcase/body bag up onto the Suburban. I trussed it as well as I could, thinking about what Joey had said to me, that I had only to summon up my tough-cookie character and inhabit her in order to pull off this operation. The problem was, she'd need superpowers just to get me through the job part of the job, never mind the spying part.
The sudden whoop! whoop! of a police siren interrupted my operation, and I turned to see a squad car pull up behind me.
“Got a problem there, ma'am?” the cop called through his open window.
“No—yes—no,” I said. “Just securing a bag, Officer. I'm not parked. I know this isn't a parking space. I know it's a fire hydrant. Sorry. Very sorry. Be gone in a second.”
“Right now,” the cop said. “Or I'll have to cite you.”
Okay, that wouldn't be good, getting a parking ticket on the first day. Under any circumstances, encounters with cops gave me a fluttery stomach. Not happy butterfly flutters, either. More like a bucket of worms. I worked feverishly and managed to get the suspenders tied around Felix's oversized bag. “No problem,” I said, climbing down the rear bumper.
Which was when I saw that there was no sign of Stasik, Felix, Zeferina Whatsername, Nadja, or Uncle Vanya. Or the excess luggage. I opened the driver's door to the Suburban and stuck my head in. There was Zbiggo, snoring softly but no one else. I looked around the street.
“Ma'am? This is your last warning.”
“Yes, I'm going.” I got in the car, started the engine, and rolled down the window. I pulled forward slowly, fighting back panic. How could I misplace five of the six people I was in charge of? I glanced in the rearview mirror. The squad car was there, tailing me, making sure I was leaving. I'd have to circle the block and come back. Please God, I thought, let someone commit a real crime in the meantime, so this cop has someone else to pick on.
It seemed like an eternity before I got to Exposition Boulevard, my first opportunity to turn left, at which point the cop peeled off, seeking bigger lawbreakers. I got back to National Boulevard without getting sucked onto the 405 freeway, but it was ten minutes before I made it to Hamburger Hamlet again. There, thank God, were my trainees, complete with the bubble-wrapped bicycle, waiting on the sidewalk.
“What was that all about?” I asked as they piled in.
“Did you lose him?” Stasik asked.
“The police? Yes,” I said. “But why'd you all disappear?”
“I don't like police,” Nadja said, apparently speaking for all of them.
“In America,” I said, “they don't throw you randomly in jail. Not even for parking in front of a fire hydrant.” I felt like some kind of tour bus operator. Or docent.
No one responded to that. They simply arranged themselves in the two rows of seats, moving bags and bike gear around them as best they could. Next to me, Zbiggo snored on.
“Can we go now?” Stasik asked.
&nb
sp; “Absolutely” I said. “Everyone buckle up. Cops do take that seriously.”
Everyone complied without further ado. Things are looking up, I said to myself.
And they were, until I glanced in the rearview mirror and saw through the back window Felix's bag bouncing onto Sepulveda Boulevard.
TWELVE
If you've never caused a traffic jam by dropping a large object onto a six-lane boulevard, I can tell you that it's an experience that generates terror, noise, embarrassment, and a large amount of bad will and bad language. In our case there was also underwear.
Felix was gracious about it, considering that it was his underwear, and socks, shirts, and pants strewn across Sepulveda. I pulled over as soon as I could, around the corner on Exposition, and then I hopped out, along with Felix, Zeferina, Nadja, and Stasik. Uncle Vanya stayed in the Suburban, presumably to guard the bicycle and perhaps Zbiggo.
Stasik ran into the street, dodging traffic to rescue the soft-sided suitcase, an act of heroism that completely surprised me. The rest of us grabbed clothes and sundry items liberated from the suitcase due to a zipper that must've given up the ghost midair. There were also books littering the landscape, mostly foreign, but three in English. I'm always intrigued by what people read and even now noted the titles: Don't Put the Lord on Hold and Big Dreams, Big Results and Alternative Energy Sources for the 21st Century.
Felix, chasing a shirt, called to us to let everything go, assuring us that he had nothing worth risking our lives over, but this was a strangely determined group and only when all visible items were gathered did they call off the search.
We piled back in the car, rearranging bodies and luggage and the former contents of Felix's suitcase. Every passenger held something on his or her lap. The ice was broken now, and conversation flourished. Felix overflowed with gratitude at the communal rescue effort.
A Date You Can't Refuse Page 9