by Michael Priv
Clara woke up around 11 a.m. and joined us at the kitchen table in her bathrobe, all soft and pleasantly fuzzy from sleep. In her late thirties, Clara was a small, pretty woman, her shoulder-length blond hair tied with a colorful ribbon into a simple ponytail. Not particularly beautiful, Clara was genuinely alluring in a feminine way. She smiled, not especially surprised to see me, and asked me to forgive her for not wearing any makeup. With that, I embarked on a compliment so convoluted and sugary that I lost my train of thought about half-way through, but so did she, so that was fine.
We talked about Russia, America, Israel, presidential elections, religions, Britney Spears, and recent movies. It was fun. Linda called me around noon with the news that she was parked outside Eugene’s house. Was I happy to hear her voice! After a deliberate mutual thanks and a farewell ceremony, complete with handshakes and hugs all around and multiple kisses from Aunt Rosa, Clara and even Masha, I finally waddled out of there with all the tea sloshing audibly somewhere down low and with a bag of sushkisfor Linda—compliments of Aunt Rosa. Got to watch that old lady. Given half a chance, she’d smooch you to death.
23 Linda ’s Honda Civic was double-parked outside with its engine running. I’d barely gotten in and tossed the sushkis onto the back seat, when Linda took off like a mad person. I knew she’d had a rough night, and her morning wasn’t any better. She looked tired. I thought I also discerned bruises around her wrists—her lip was swollen a bit and her hair was a mess.
I looked around. Nobody was following us.
“Picky!” Linda squealed in delight.
I peered into her caramel face I loved so much, her dark smiling eyes, her hair, the familiar hoop earrings, her graceful neck, her stunning breasts, pressing against the thin blouse. Together again! We’ll be all right. “Hi, love! Did I tell you I love you?”
Linda grinned at me.
“How are you doing?” I grinned back, squeezing her hand, which I also loved, and she squeezed mine in return, affectionately. “How...?”
Linda nudged me to shut up, making big eyes, and scribbled the words “car bugged” on some old receipt lying around. What did they do to my Linda? Not only had she known about the car being bugged, but she also understood the value of keeping her knowledge from the bad guys.
“I’m a ll right, honey,” she said. What a terrible night! How are you holding up?” Linda asked, concerned. At a time like this she was concerned about me. Need I say more about my lady? “What’s on your head? Bandages?”
“Cut myself shaving, no worries.”
She was there at that furniture store, she knew what had gone on. I was certain, she wasn’t worried about a couple of scrapes. My love gave me a long, adoring stare. “What now?” she wrote, then glanced at me raising her dainty eyebrow. “Drive,” I scribbled back. I had to think. With the danger coming from the Russians and potentially still from the Marines, the first thing was finding out where I stood with the law.
I smiled, projecting reassurance to Linda, I hoped. She nodded. She trusted me to make things right. “ How is Yvette?” Linda asked.
“Yvette’s dead, hon,” I answered, sadness gripping me again.
Linda shook her head in disbelief. “Killed?” she asked. “Or an accident?”
“Killed,” I said. Linda squeezed my hand. A thought went through my mind suddenly about how different Linda was now than, let’s say, fortyeight hours ago. We drove in silence.
“I’m p ooped. Got a room at the Burton Hotel near Union Square. A pretty decent place. Let’s take a shower, get some sleep. Some bad people are after the information I have. I tried selling it to them, but they blew it, the imbeciles. Let’s rest a bit, and then I’m taking the goods to the Chinese,” I explained and scribbled “Starbucks.”
I could not think of a better use for the bug. I’d keep the Russians busy while talking to a cop, any SFPD cop, to find out how they felt about me at the moment.
Sending the Russians to the Burton Hotel, which was very probably being stalked by SFPD, put a perverse little bow on the whole package. I had to admit I was still a bit cross about Eugene ordering the Buriat to kill me and several other things that put a sizeable kink in our relationship. Meanwhile, I wanted to talk to a cop. In a pinch, where would you find a police officer? Starbucks was a good place to try.
Linda, with a concerned and bewildered frown, pointed at the large bag on the back seat. She made huge eyes at me again and scribbled “$1 million—Eugene,” and raised her eyebrows quizzically. Eugene kept a million extra. Figures. Lettuce prices must have gotten completely out of hand. I showed her my bag and scribbled “200K— me” and shrugged in a hey-what-do-I-know manner. She eyed me with a frightened frown and concentrated on her driving. Ma’ girl.
I ’d inadvertently put her life in grave danger. I was still unaware of what exactly I was involved in, but we were definitely up to our butts in crocodiles. She was kidnapped three times in one night— twice by the Russian Mafia. Must be a world record. She had also been freed within about 24 hours. Must be another world record.
The Starbucks on Fillmore was quite busy, as was typical for any Starbucks. A funny transcending phenomenon, the Starbucks. I remembered reading somewhere about Jordanian youth gathering at one of Amman’s numerous Starbucks to vent their anti-American sentiments over their low-fat vanilla lattes.
We ’d stopped at the one on Fillmore—I saw a cop through the window. The tag on the cop’s shirt read “Sgt. Feinstein.” Mazel tov. I picked up an old newspaper from an empty table and held it over my hand as if concealing a gun. I didn’t bother to conceal anything under the newspaper, but I did have a Glock in my pocket. I took an empty seat in front of the cop. He stared at me calmly. Early-fifties, gray hair cropped short, gray mustache, gray, intelligent eyes. Chewing his scone slowly, a cup of steaming brew in his left hand. A lefty. Both hands above the table.
“Hello , Officer Feinstein, mind if we join you?”
“We?”
“Me and my Glock,” I raised my arm in a significant manner.
“You shouldn’t threaten a police officer with a bare finger, Norman. Just ain’t right. You don’t need more trouble right now. You need less trouble right now. Verstehen?” The cop indulged in a bit of a smile, keeping both hands above the table. He looked quite relaxed sitting there, sipping coffee and munching on a reduced-fat oat scone.
“You know my name? Have we met, officer?”
“Call me Surge, Norman. We had a picture of you passed around last night. There was an APB on you.”
“Was? Not anymore?” “Oh, yeah, we still have an APB on you but as a witness now. Feds want to talk to you. You didn’t kill the FBI men, but you saw what happened. That makes you a witness. You should turn yourself in and turn in the gun, too, before you lose it or break it or something. Government property.”
“Thank you, sir, for the information and Happy Passover!” I got up.
“I’m German, you schmuck. Boy, are you mixed up!” “That I am. Nice chatting with you, sir. I’m going to walk out now. Please remain seated. I had a very rough night.”
“I ain’t interested in chasing you. But I want to know who killed the Feds.” “ Special Ops. The Marines.”
“Why?”
“I suspect it had something to do with escaping from this planet on the Guards’ transport. Okay?” “ Okay.”
“Take care, Surge.”
“You too, Norman. My advice—get some rest and stay off booze, amphetamines and coffee.” “Will do.” I walked out unhurriedly. The German Sergeant Feinstein would not blow a whistle on me—not till he was done with his java, if ever. I liked that about him.
“All done?” Linda asked matter-of-factly when I joined her in the car.
“Yes, honey. Chinese are paying up. We’ll be rich!” “Oh, good! We’ll buy a house in San Ramon and get two cats!” Linda was playing along like a real trooper.
“ Twocats? Could we settle on one cat and a dog? I’ve always been partial to
pit bulls myself.” “Shut up, Norman , do yourself a favor. Stop embarrassing yourself. A pit bull? Do you even know what being classy means? Where to now, by the way?”
“Burton Hotel. No, let’s get something to eat first.” “I’m starving. Let’s do Vietnamese. Wait till you hear what the Russians fed me. Talking about torture!”
“Poor baby,” I cooed, motioning to Linda to park her car next to a lonely Toyota minivan that I was planning to steal. How did I know how to steal a car? I didn’t. I never stole a car in my life. Yet, here I was, breaking in. Astonished, I realized I knew exactly what wires to connect and how to get to them. Thanks, Lady Jane, for restoring my brains!
24 The way I figured the current situation, our next destination was going to be Washington DC, to have a talk with whomever was behind this insanity. The Sienna I stole was nothing exciting but fully sufficient, as Toyotas usually are, with one indisputable key advantage over Linda’s Civic—it wasn’t bugged. Linda refused to take part in the car theft, so I had her wait a short way down the street.
“I’m in love with a common criminal!” Linda greeted me, getting into the Sienna.
“A common criminal!” I exclaimed. “That’s a million dollars you’re holding in your hand, young lady!” “Jokes aside, Picky, what is going on? Do you realize we could both be dead by now? We survived this night by the skin of our teeth. Do you understand that?”
“I know, hon. How did the Russians treat you?”
“Okay, I guess. They kept me in some room with no windows. No idea where I was.” “Did they tie you up?”
“No. Not till we left for that basement in the city.”
“The furniture store?”
“I guess. I saw the explosion, Norm, I thought you were dead. It was terrible,” she sniffed.
“I’m sorry I got you into this, sweets, I really am.” I squeezed her hand again. She just smiled. “Norm, get me in the loop. I insist. You got me into something really bad here. I almost lost my life. I have the right to know what’s going on.”
“Hon, believe me, I don’t know either. I know some things but have no clear picture yet. Wait a little longer. Just trust me right now. Please?”
She shrugged and turned away, upset. I wasn’t ready for the big talk yet. I told her the truth that I did not have all the pieces to the puzzle, but I could conceivably get her on board in general regarding the prison planet, the 5th Battalion, the Guards, and the escape attempt. But I wasn’t ready. I knew it would take a lot of effort and fancy explaining. And I remembered what Jane said. The people here were wired to violently reject such notions as immortality, the thought universe, the Guards, and a horde of other things. I was exhausted. I was not looking forward to that talk, but I knew I would have to do it at some point.
Somewhere around Tahoe, we stopped at an out-of-the-way motel that had a full wing under renovation. Linda immediately disappeared into the shower. Using the cell phone so graciously bestowed upon me by the late Special Ops Colonel—never asked his name—I placed a call to General Roberts. The Pentagon. Wow! The Hub, Planet Earth. Think of all the power, intercontinental intrigues and trans-oceanic saber rattling that emanated from that seat of power.
It would seem that contacting the Pentagon on a privileged line would grow a few extra hairs on my chest. However, looking at it even from the viewpoint of say, a hundred years of planet Earth time, current US Government, or any current Earth government for that matter, loses most of its significance. Try looking from the viewpoint of millions of years of thousands of galactic civilizations constantly mired in interstellar politics. How much significance do the convicts really have in the overall scheme of things? None whatsoever— objectively speaking.
Voice mail message on the fourth ring. A voice mail? I left a message of two words, “Praying Mantis” and hung up. How could a call, placed on such a high-value line, solicit a voice mail message reply? Was this normal? Could be. I never called the Pentagon before. Roberts could be unavailable for a variety of important or unimportant reasons. But what if Roberts, aware of the Colonel’s death and failure of the mission, was now hot on my trail personally— unsuccessfully thus far, as I’d had the phone’s battery removed and the phone wrapped in aluminum foil, so my location couldn’t be traced.
What if he was expecting this call from me, waiting for it —he and a hundred thugs? Now I had placed the call and—what? They had located me. Some black Kevlar-clad dimwits with big guns were probably boarding some transport that very second. Next, I could expect a return call from Roberts when they were ready to strike to confirm my identity and establish I had the flash drive. And then we were dead. All right. I left the phone on, so they could track it.
Death, to me, was not as permanent a bummer as to a one-lifer, but a major bummer nonetheless. What with all the disappointment, pain, and losses (Linda, for one, a huge one)—not to mention the ridiculous pampers and the giddy ‘mama, papa’ routine, learning the alphabet, then the hormones fireworks and puberty hustle—some sixteen years of pure nonsense just to start being a person again. Pathetic. Not yet, not now.
Linda was still in the shower. We had to leave this place. Yes, drop the phone in the toilet, get in the car and drive off while we still had a chance. Perhaps, but then I wouldn’t get any closer to solving the mystery, would I? And I’d always have to keep running. And what about my friends who gave their lives running interference for me? I had a better idea. With our moneybags and a bewildered Linda wrapped in a towel, her clothes in a bundle, I simply walked down to the next room under renovations, carrying a blanket in a heap, and picked the lock, surprising myself once again. The room had no furniture, smelled of fresh paint and had plastic on the floor. It only took a minute to uncover the floor and crash. Ah, rest, finally. I closed my eyes and felt Linda’s hot breath on my face and then her lips on mine. Well, I wasn’t all that tired anyway.
Snuggled next to Linda, savoring the delicate scent of sex, I smiled, remembering Linda’s enthusiasm a few minutes ago. Pleasant, languid satisfaction spread through my loins. Linda slept peacefully, smiling an adorable little smile—the newly found hardness melted away from her face. I set the cell phone on the floor within easy reach. According to my theory, a reasonably good one, our safety was assured all the way until they got here and called me to verify our position and the flash drive’s location. Meanwhile—rest. Not even sure how and when I fell asleep. I was dreaming of Linda. A long time ago. Her name was Ursula then.
I was barely sixteen when I caught up with Ursula. My heart skipped quite a few beats when I saw her. About thirty-four then, wearing a simple cotton work robe and soft rawhide shoes, Ussie was even more beautiful now. I was so happy to see her! Blood rushed to my head, numbing my senses, and turning my legs to jelly. If I could just touch her! I wanted so much to embrace her, kiss her lips. Not yet. Ussie wouldn’t recognize me. One-lifers trust their eyes too much, vastly overestimating the true capabilities of the primitive lens and optic nerves to see the truth.
My Ussie. She lived in our old house with her new husband Phillies now. He was a mean, burly guy of about forty, an old man. A strong, silent type. I hated him immediately. If he were such a tough guy, why didn’t he build his own house, hmm? Why did he have to take mine? Like I said, a fake. And what kind of a stupid name is Phillies?
Ursula did not recognize me at first in a homeless stray looking for work. I stared into her eyes and she held my gaze. She suddenly grew speechless, tears rolling down her cheeks. Then she sobbed, averting her gaze, and wiped her tears with the sleeve of her tunic. She allowed me to do some chores around the yard in exchange for food, and I could sleep in the barn. Later that day, as I was chopping wood, I saw her crying. She did not recognize me, but I guess I reminded her of—well, of myself.
I also met Thomas and Inez, my children. They were older than I was now, good-looking people, both, strong and cheerful. My heart went to them. With a start, I discerned shoulders, Unbearable as it was to keep silent that m
oment, I kept the joy of returning to my beloved family to myself. Both of my children stared at me for a long minute. Then Inez showed me around, smiling and holding my hand. She didn’t wish to let go. We were perfectly comfortable holding hands. I cherished the company of my sweet little girl, especially her open face and the graceful, composed way she carried herself—she took after her mother. Thomas was a toolmaker’s apprentice, recently married. I felt very happy around Ussie, Thomas, and Inez.
Ursula had two healthy boys with her new husband, little Peter and Paul, who were busy scurrying around most of the time, yelling excitedly.
a clear resemblance to me. Wide in the
high foreheads, and large strong hands. Soon, we were spending most of our waking time together. Then the inevitable happened. Ussie sent me to the creek nearby to wash clothes. She joined me a bit later. We washed the clothes, horsing around, and ended up in the water, fully dressed. Laughing, we splashed and chased one another. Then Ussie gave me a large linen sheet to dry myself, took one for herself and went deeper into the woods to change. I quickly won—or lost, as the moral uprights would say—a brief but very intense struggle with myself and followed her into the brush.
I found her drying her sweet, naked body with a sheet, gazing at me dreamily. I came over and stood in front of her wrapped in my sheet, shivering, staring. I adored that body. God, how much I missed her! She missed me too. I could feel it. Still naked, she rubbed my back through the sheet, explaining in a suddenly hoarse voice that she didn’t want me to catch cold. She brushed her hand against my genitals through the sheet several times, gasping. Then I felt her warm, eager hand inside the sheet stroking me rhythmically, while I caressed her delicious moist softness. We were both trembling and breathing heavily.
I had the body of a sixteen-year-old boy. She was a married thirty-five-year-old woman, a mother of four. In my estimation, the result of our lustful preludes was going to be a huge guilt trip, and she’d probably send me away forever and ruin everything. Preemptively, I whispered in her ear, “I love you, Ussie. I adore you. I’m back.”