A Date You Can't Refuse (11 page)

“PCH? Heading to Calabasas? No! You've gotta be at LAX. You're picking up Stasik, because I'm caught on the Antelope Valley Freeway, there's a four-car collision ahead of me and nobody's moved an inch in days. Didn't Donatella tell you—”

“Yes, yes, Kimberly, I
am
going to LAX, but Donatella said to change clothes, so—”

“Babe. Listen to me. Does that make an iota of sense to you? I don't
care what you look like, I need you to be on time to pick up this guy. Rule number one. On-time pickup. Yuri's a freak about that. Get off the freeway and turn around.”

“Okay but—”

“I'll take care of Donatella, you just get to the airport. Stasik Mirojnik, international terminal, a flight coming in from Heathrow, I'll call you back with the flight number. Bye.”

“Goodbye,” I mumbled and hit the turn signal, getting the Suburban off the freeway before being pulled into the vortex of Pacific Coast Highway, from which there would be no escape. I'd only just achieved this feat, with lots of self-congratulation, when the phone rang.

“Wollie, it's Donatella. Where are you?”

“I just exited the 10 West, and now I'm trying to get back on the 10 East, and—”

“No! No! Turn around. You are to come to Calabasas instantly.”

“Yes, but Kimberly just called me—”

“Is she your boss? No. I am accountable for your look and I will not have you running about in those clothes. Also Zbiggo looked like a train wreck. I gave you instructions—”

“What? Zbiggo was supposed to change clothes too?”

“We will settle for you. You cannot represent MediasRex looking as you do. Come now. If you hurry, there is just enough time. You should not have gotten off the freeway.”

“Okay,” I said, “but isn't it more important to be on time to—”

“That is minimalist thinking! That is not how we do things! I will not hear excuses from you because Yuri will not hear excuses from me. Do you hear? Do you love this job?”

Zbiggo began to slump toward me. I stuck out an arm to prop him up, and this caused my hands-free earpiece to slip, but I trapped it between my ear and shoulder, at an angle that precluded good driving. “At the moment, Donatella,” I managed to say, “I am not in love with—”

“If you value it at all, you will get back here at once. At once. I will hang up now.”

I hung up too and made my way back to the 10 West. I had no idea who was top dog in Yuri's absence, his current wife or his former wife,
but I knew who scared me more. Also, if I drove fast and prayed hard— not that I'm any prayer expert—then I might be able to make both women happy. Or, if not happy, at least not viciously unhappy.

This became my mantra, to reach Calabasas as fast as this automotive elephant could get me there. This meant not stopping to rebuckle Zbiggo, because stopping meant pulling over and once out of the flow of traffic, I was doubtful about my ability to jump back in. Precious minutes would be lost. My determination to pull this off got me to wondering about Donatella's last question. I did not love this job. Who could? I needed it, though. And they'd hired me in good faith, so I had to give it my best shot.

Which included not killing Zbiggo. He was being awfully quiet. Was he even breathing? I reached out and grabbed his wrist. I couldn't find his pulse. I started to panic, then grabbed his throat. No pulse there either, but suddenly he erupted into a kind of extended groan, frightening yet comforting.

By the time I reached the Calabasas highlands, I was exhausted, and I'd only been on the job for six hours. I parked in the driveway of Big House. My charge was still in the Land of Nod, so I left him there and ran inside.

“Wollie, thank God,” Donatella cried, meeting me in the foyer, arms filled with clothes. “You have only forty minutes now to get to LAX and pick up Stasik. We must pray his plane is delayed. Where is Zbiggo?”

“In the driveway. Asleep.”

“Alone?”

“Do you think someone will steal him?” I asked.

“Never mind. Dress, now. There is the bathroom. Is that clay on your face?”

“Yes, I—”

“Don't explain. Here—” Donatella handed me a folder. “The flight itinerary and a photo of Stasik and a sign for you to hold so he will know it is you. He will carry a banjo case. Hurry. Hurry. And water! Take water for him. Their hydration is your responsibility.”

I glanced out to the driveway. “And Zbiggo?”

“You will have to take him, of course.”

Of course. It was either that or dump him in the driveway, since I could see him still sleeping, his mouth wide open. I changed into the suit, grabbed three bottles of water from the kitchen, and headed outside. I couldn't help but notice a dozen or so men on the far side of the property. Couldn't one of them be pulled off the gardening detail and temporarily reassigned to transportation?

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.

A
lik 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 pointed 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.