A Date You Can't Refuse (10 page)

“What for you want it?”

“Well, it's a hobby of mine. A new hobby.” So new, in fact, I'd just that moment started it. “I love to see passports from other countries,
check out what they look like. Every country's different. It's always fun to see how other people do it.”

“Do it?” He looked at me and grinned. “Do it?”

“Yes. Do … passports. Design them.”

“You like to see people do it?”

“We're talking about passports, right? Yes. I would find that interesting.” How had this become sexual?

Zbiggo grinned bigger, showing me the full glory of his teeth. No state-subsidized dental care in his country, apparently. “You want see my passport?” he asked, spreading his hands, palms up, in a “be my guest” gesture. “Come. Look for it. You find it, you can have.”

“Okay, never mind,” I said. “In America, we keep our hands at ten and two on the steering wheel while driving.”

Some of us did, anyway. Me and one or two frightened student drivers. But this shut down conversation for a moment, giving me time to reflect once more on my dead predecessor and wonder how she'd handled the clients. And wonder again why the FBI seemed not to have heard of her, let alone express concern. And wonder why that damn red car was still behind me.

I got off the Santa Monica Freeway without signaling, and lost the Escort.

The Four Seasons Beverly Hills was an imposingly high white building guarded by palm trees. I led Zbiggo through the lobby, telling myself that no one was looking at us. There were employees and guests dressed impeccably, even gorgeously, and many dressed casually as well, but no one was dressed like Zbiggo and me. Perhaps if the Teamsters were holding a union meeting in one of the ballrooms, Zbiggo wouldn't appear so out of place. As for me in my Cornhuskers sweatshirt, I just looked like a very tall, aging college coed.

One problem was Zbiggo's gawk factor. I tried to keep him moving, but he moseyed along, stopping to turn in circles and admire the hotel lobby. At one point, he plopped onto a sofa and expressed a wish to “haf drink.”

“Water, definitely,” I said. “Alcohol, no.”

“Vodka, yes?”

“In America, we consider vodka alcohol. Come.”

“Why I not drink vodka?”

Good question. If he was drinking, he might grow sleepy, which could make my life easier. Unless he turned mean. Or danced with lampshades on his head. Yuri would probably not like that. “Later, Zbiggo,” I said. “I promise.”

I got him through the lobby and onto an escalator, where he continued to ogle not just women but also men, artwork, the ceiling, flowers, shops, and the escalator itself. “Are you from a small town, Zbiggo?” I asked.

“Vulcanesti.”

“Ah.” No Four Seasons there, probably.

On the lower level, I found Spa Services. Inside, the strong scent of lavender greeted us. Ambient music permeated the room, the kind that always seems to accompany expensive massage. A sign on the desk requested that we abstain from cell phone use, to preserve the spa experience of our fellow guests. I took a moment to turn off mine.

“May I help you?” whispered the woman behind the desk.

“I'm here to see Fredreeq Munson,” I whispered back.

“Are you the Fruit and Pumpkin?”

“Excuse me?”

“You're her eleven o'clock? Mrs. Van Breughel? Fruit and Pumpkin Enzyme Peel?”

“No, Ms. Shelley. Friend.”

She frowned, a tinge less subservient. Then she saw Zbiggo, and visibly stiffened.

“And he's … with me,” I said.

“You give massage?” Zbiggo asked her, not whispering at all.

“Me personally? No.” She matched his volume. “I can schedule one for you.”

“No,” I said. “He doesn't need a—wait. How much are they?”

“Swedish? Deep tissue? Shiatsu?”

“Any All.”

The treatments began at one hundred twenty-five and went up to over a thousand for the all-day plan. As I looked over the price list, Fredreeq came out from the back room.

“Wollie, what are you doing here?”

“Got a minute?” I asked.

Fredreeq looked at Zbiggo and then at the receptionist, who frowned at her.

“What?” Fredreeq asked. “Hey, no need to give me the evil eye. When Mrs. Van Breughel comes, they'll go.”

I looked at Zbiggo. “You like massage, right?”

“I get woman?”

“A masseur would be far better.” I turned to the receptionist. “Is that possible?”

“I'll see who's available. Which type of massage would you like?”

“Shiatsu.”

“When?”

“The sooner the better.”

She looked at her book. “For how long?”

I handed her Alik's envelope full of cash. “As much as this will buy.”

Fredreeq, as I suspected, knew quite a bit about
America's Next Top Model
.

“I seem to remember a Chai,” she said, closing her eyes momentarily. “Yes. It was the season that Yolanda ‘Yolie’ Yvonne ended up winning. Chai, yes. Tall? Blond?”

“Aren't they all?”

“No, they like to get some ethnic variety going, stir up racial tension. What do you want with Chai?”

“Nothing directly. I just need to know how she died.”

“Chai
died?”

I told Fredreeq what I knew and explained my sense of disquiet that was approaching obsession. “So anyhow,” I said, “I'm wondering what the official word was on Chai.”

Fredreeq picked up the phone. “Shaz will know. She's a shut-in. TV is her life.”

Fredreeq put her cousin, who lived in Mar Vista, on the speaker-phone. “Sure I remember Chai. Brown hair, not blond. They tried to make her cut it, but she wouldn't. They kicked her off for not having enough range, but also, the child had a bad runway walk.”

“Did you know she's dead?” Fredreeq asked.

“Dead? No.”

“Yes.”

“No. Hold on. I'm googling her.”

Fredreeq turned to me, raising her eyebrows. Within sixty seconds, Shaz was back on the line. “Well, would you look at that?”

“What?”

“She's dead all right. Sad little obit in the
Oxnard Star.”

“Shaz, this is Wollie,” I said to the phone. “How come the
Oxnard Star
?”

“Her hometown,” Shaz said. “Nothing in
TV Guide
, or the
L.A. Times
. Not even
Variety
. That is just plain wrong. She was one of our own. Show some respect.”

“Do you have the obituary there?” I asked. “How's it say she died?”

“Now that's another thing.” She tsked into the phone. “‘Cause of death was not reported.’ Is that really the best they can do? Be glad you don't come from Oxnard.”

An intercom on the wall announced the arrival of Mrs. Van Breughel.

“I don't like it,” Fredreeq said, walking me out. “No media attention for that girl? I'm not saying she was A-list, but she was young and beautiful and that should get you a paragraph in
The Hollywood Reporter
. You'd think
Top Model
would get some press out of it, maybe an
ET
segment. Thank God Chai isn't around to see it. Not to sound cold.”

It did sound cold, but it was true. And I found it sad.

“I'm going to tell you something else,” Fredreeq said. “I'm having a bad feeling about this. And my bad feelings are never wrong.”

Which wasn't what I wanted to hear. Because I was having the same feeling.

Z
biggo's all-day shiatsu was not a success.

All masseurs having been unavailable, he'd been given a masseuse, and had then done something unspeakable to her—no one told me what—that made her walk away. But the Four Seasons had a powerful the-customer-is-always-right policy and offered him instead a detoxifying moor mud wrap with manicure and pedicure, on the theory that three women working on him at once would lessen their chances of suffering whatever indignity Miss Shiatsu had undergone. They also served him three Bloody Marys.

I discovered this only after Donatella called me. I was at the Four Seasons bar, a lovely place called Windows, sketching a greeting card that featured a superheroine (“Good luck on saving the world!”) and hydrating. I had gone through an entire bottle of Evian, had been to the bathroom twice, and was on my way there again when my cell phone rang.

“What are you wearing?” Donatella asked.

“Uh—what I had on this morning,” I said, looking down at myself. “A Nebraska Cornhuskers sweatshirt—”

“I knew it! There is an outfit hanging on your closet door. Why are you not in it?”

“I never made it to my room, Donatella. Everyone ran off, doors were locked—”

“Yes, never mind. Where are you?”

“The Four Seasons. Beverly Hills.”

This produced an anguished scream. “Are you mad? Wearing that Cornsuckers shirt? And Zbiggo without a shower for seventy-two hours? Do you not see that you represent MediasRex? You
are
Medias-Rex. Yuri would remove my head if he were to see you.”

“I'm sorry to hear that, but—”

“Come home. At once. You must go to LAX and fetch Stasik. But now you must first change clothes, so now we are in a huge hurry. Huge. Drive like the wind. You cannot be late, ever, for an airport pickup.”

“Okay, but Zbiggo is having an all-day shiatsu, so could I—”

“Cancel it. You cannot leave him there.” And then Donatella hung up before explaining anything else, like who Stasik was. My next date, presumably.

I rushed to the spa and explained that I needed to collect Zbiggo, which was when the receptionist explained the shiatsu snafu. “I'm very sorry,” I said. “He's new to our ways.”

“So I heard. He's informed us that in his country, he's a professional killer.”

“Excuse me?”

“A hit man.”

“I'm sure he miscommunicated. He's a boxer. His English is—a work in progress.”

She sniffed. If she weren't so refined, she would've snorted. “This way,” she said, and she led me to a room where three women were working on Zbiggo. They appeared unmolested. He appeared asleep. Naked but for a towel over his private parts and covered in mud.

“Zbiggo.” I prodded a bicep or tricep, but he didn't move. I had no idea how three Bloody Marys could do this to someone his size, but Zbiggo had hit the wall. I addressed the women. “Please, I must get him out of here. Fast. Preferably clothed. Family emergency.”

The quartet gazed at me with interest, but no one cried, “Allow me to help!”

I handed out twenties and promised to write a letter of commendation to the president of the hotel, at which point the four seasons, as I began to think of them, rose to the occasion. They got Zbiggo dressed with great dexterity and no squeamishness, and with the help of two bellhops and a luggage cart, got him into the Suburban and buckled up. Small pieces of moor mud were caking off all over the upholstery, but this was the least of my worries. The operation had set me back forty minutes. I headed west with Zbiggo next to me sawing logs, his body sprawled across the seat, held in place by the shoulder belt.

Traffic was nightmarish. I called the compound to report my whereabouts and ETA, but there was no answer. I left Donatella a message. There was a time when I considered it dangerous to talk on the phone while driving, even with my hands-free unit, but progress on the 10 West was so slow, I could've crocheted sweaters along the way.

My cell phone, now fully awake, chose to inform me of two messages that had come in earlier in the morning, something it did only sporadically. P.B. had called requesting a book on quantum physics, and Simon had called, wanting to see me. “No kidding,” he said. “And ASAP. I'll be in touch. Meanwhile, be careful. Very.”

What? This was bad. I glanced quickly in the rearview mirror, out the windows, and then at the snoring, heaving hulk beside me. That “be careful, very” would not be idle chitchat. Simon didn't indulge in casual messages, especially since he couldn't call me from his cell. But if you have to troll for public pay phones that actually work, why not say something specific? And must it all be warnings and negativity? An occasional “You're a wonderful human being,” for instance, would not go amiss.

At least there was no red car behind me, I thought, checking the rearview mirror again.

Another spylike thought occurred to me. This was a golden opportunity to find Zbiggo's passport. I glanced at him. Still out cold. I didn't understand it, but I couldn't overlook a gift like this, my big chance to get in his pants.

I waited for the next halt in traffic, then went for the pocket nearest
me. It was a long reach across the Suburban, but I have long arms. I was able to get two fingers into his pocket before the traffic moved, then steered with my left hand while my right did a search. His snores and grunts reassured me. Eventually I unearthed a plane ticket from Chisinau, wherever that was, to Istanbul. There was also a bottle of pills. Prescription, probably. I couldn't read the label, but on it was a tiny martini glass with a diagonal line through it. Aha. That could explain Zbiggo's comatose state. I returned these items to his front pocket and turned my attention to his rear.

I couldn't search the back pockets with Zbiggo's seat belt on, so at the next traffic stop, I made the sign of the cross and unhooked him. Instantly he started to list toward me, a two-hundred-something-pound husk of a man. I pushed him back into an upright position. After putting my right hand in places my hand did not want to be, I found the passport. It belonged to Zbigniew Alexeyevich Shpek, born May 7, 1980, in Vulcanesti, Moldova. I wrote the passport number on a gum wrapper in my purse, looking up from this task just in time to slam on my brakes and avoid rear-ending a Honda Odyssey. This sent Zbiggo careening forward, his head banging into the dashboard, but neither this nor my “Aaagghh!” awakened him. I pushed him back into his seat. So much for writing while driving. I decided to commit the other vital statistics to memory, and thus strengthen my memorization muscles. “Shpek, Vulcanesti, 1980,” I mumbled repeatedly, returning the passport to the pocket.

I was trying to rebuckle Zbiggo when my phone rang, nearly sending me through the roof. It was Kimberly “What's your location and how's it going with Zbiggo?” she asked.

“I'm on the 10 West, nearing PCH,” I said. “And Zbiggo—is calmer.”