by C. D. Payne
“Different CIA, Rick. After my accident I went to work for the Ks on their boat. It was a real one—a 42-footer. But Connie gets seasick so they sold it. They sent me to the Culinary Institute of America.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, paid for the whole thing. Guess they got tired of my hobo stew and hangtown fry.”
“You never made a play for Mrs. K? I think she likes you.”
“No percentage in it, Rick. Sure, I’d like to jump her bones. She needs somebody to. But what happens when it’s over, when we get sick of each other? Eh? I’ll tell you what happens. Dogo Dimondo is out on his ass. And I like this job.”
“Do you have a girlfriend?”
“I get my quota, Rick. Chicks go for my stump.”
“Beg your pardon?”
“My stump. Chicks are always checking it out. They start wondering what it would feel like.”
I put down my fork. “You can’t be serious.”
“I give it to ’em, Rick. Anytime they want it.” He held up his truncated but well-muscled arm. “All the way up past the elbow. That’s what they like!”
I didn’t finish the rest of my dinner. Just when you start thinking someone is a nice normal guy, he smacks a long one deep into foul territory. Not only that, I have to sleep unchaperoned right next to the fellow.
WEDNESDAY, March 31 — Mr. K is still delayed in L.A. with plant problems. Manufacturing truck springs must be a very delicate operation. Mrs. K said “to hell with him” and gave orders after breakfast for Dogo to weigh anchor. He started up the powerful diesel engine and flipped some toggle switches on the dash. The rooftop satellite dish powered down, the expando slide-outs motored in, the front awning and steps retracted, and the hydraulic stabilizing jacks raised up and locked. Dogo did have to disconnect manually the power cord, water hose, and smelly sewer hook-up. I assisted with these tasks and got a big smear of grease on my uniform while helping attach the towbar to the Plock II.
The original plan was to cruise down the length of Baja California to La Paz, but the campground manager confided to Dogo that some gringo RVers had been waylaid recently by bandits along the more isolated stretches of the highway. So Mrs. K decided to head east toward Mexicali, then travel south through Sonora state toward Guymas on the other side of the Gulf of California. Personally, I would have headed straight back to the Estados Unidos, where you can drink the water, understand the natives, and where the bandits are mostly confined to the urban districts.
Deviate or no, Dogo demonstrated his customary competence in whipping our immense motor home along Mexico’s narrow highways. For him a second hand would only be redundant, not to mention sexually confining. Mrs. K occupied the copilot’s seat with her dog-theme embroidery; the other passengers made themselves at home in the comfortable, though now less spacious, main salon. Anna and Vronski parked themselves on a padded window shelf and nodded to passing motorists like those plastic novelty figurines. While we glided northeast on Route 3, I did the laundry (tossing in my soiled coat), vacuumed the carpet, cleaned the bathrooms, and served assorted snacks and beverages to the pampered passengers. I suppose this is what is known as a working vacation.
Later in the morning I had a private tête-á-tête with Connie on her mother’s bed in the master stateroom. I was still wearing Dogo’s yellow rain slicker as a temporary cover-up while my admiral’s coat tumbled in the dryer.
“I talked with Sheeni last night, Rick, while we were getting ready for bed. She has a very nice figure.”
“I know, Connie. I’ve seen it. I’d very much like to see it again sometime soon. What did she say?”
“Well, she was surprised that you had phoned me and not her. I said you were afraid her phone line was tapped.”
“Good thinking. What did she say about writing the check?”
“Well, she didn’t say no. But there’s a slight hitch.”
“What?”
“Before she forks over the cash she wants to talk to you.”
“Damn. No way can I call her. She’d recognize my new voice.”
“Very true, Rick. You have quite a distinctive voice. Very masculine too for a kid with your build. Dr. Rudolpho is such a genius.”
We looked up in surprise as the door opened. My Love glanced in and immediately reddened.
“Oh, uh, sorry,” stammered Sheeni. “I was just looking for a place to lie down.”
1:20 p.m. After lunch Sheeni spent a half-hour in the forward bathroom retching her guts out. Speculating that she had picked up a foreign microbe, Mrs. K dosed her from the Plock’s extensive medical stores, told her to lie down in her parents’ stateroom, and sent the cabin boy in with a cup of weak tea.
“How do you feel?” I asked.
“Rotten,” she replied, holding an arm over her eyes.
My heart went out to My Love, though I kept my distance. In times of emotional distress I’m quick to offer a comforting shoulder, but for afflictions of the flesh I’m predictably useless.
“We’re bypassing Mexicali,” I pointed out.
“That is extraordinarily good news.”
I gazed silently at my suffering darling and heard her stomach gurgle unappealingly.
“I wasn’t doing anything with Connie this morning.”
“I didn’t imagine you were. Nor do I care if you do.”
I sighed. My Love peered at me from under her arm.
“Is there something else?” she asked.
“No, I’m leaving. I hope you feel better. Let me know if you need anything.”
“Thanks. You’ll be among the very first to know.”
3:42 p.m. My Love is still napping; Third World scenery continues to whiz past the windows. This part of Mexico is nice if you like barren brown hills, endless desert vistas, and giant trucks driven by machismo-steeped maniacs.
To help relieve the tedium, Mrs. K has been teaching her daughter and the Saunders to play bridge. None is proving a quick study, especially Sheeni’s mother, who keeps interrupting the bidding to bad-mouth Nick Twisp and divulge facts of intense interest to the eavesdropping cabin boy. It seems Mr. Mince of my bank read news reports on the Twisp manhunt and ratted to the cops about my account. They traced the transactions back to Mario and Kimberly, and also to Sheeni, to whom my business partners had been mailing my checks.
“He created some sort of satanic timepiece,” Mrs. Saunders explained. “A horrid thing intended to appeal to the most degenerate elements. The police at first thought my daughter was mixed up in it too. But she was merely forwarding the payments. Of course, we’ve punished her for that. Our lives have been a nightmare ever since she met that depraved criminal. And now he’s spread his evil corruption to our son as well. Tojo, we’re out of mixed nuts here.”
“Right away, Mrs. Saunders,” I replied, stifling François’s forty-seventh homicidal impulse of the day.
“And did the police seize all of his assets?” inquired Mrs. K.
“Unfortunately not,” replied Sheeni’s father. “He moved everything offshore to an anonymous account quite beyond the reach of the FBI.”
“They must at least know the name on the account,” insisted Mrs. K.
“It’s under the name Emma Bovary,” he replied. “They have reason to believe that may be a pseudonym.”
9:37 p.m. We’re camped beside the Sea of Cortez on the outskirts of Puerto Peñasco. If I ever decide to have a down-and-out episode in a tawdry Mexican town, Puerto Peñasco is where I’ll be making reservations. Presently jamming its dusty streets and rowdy mariachi bars are hordes of carousing youths (on spring break from Arizona colleges) and Connie Krusinowski. Dogo has accompanied her into town as designated driver, bodyguard, and deviate on the make.
Sheeni and I wanted to go too, but Mr. Saunders reminded his daughter that she was grounded, and Mrs. K reminded Bondo of his scullery duties. After hastily cleaning up the galley, I invited My Love for a dog walk along the beach in the deepening purple twilight. It’s occurred to
me that I should be taking advantage of these exotic foreign venues to commence Rick S. Hunter’s dogged wooing of his future Trophy Wife.
“Sheeni, I don’t see how you can be grounded 800 miles from home,” I pointed out.
“My father is an idiot.”
“How are you feeling?”
“Rick, you ask me that every two minutes. I feel OK.”
“Sorry. Uh, what’s that book you’ve been reading?”
“À l’ombre des jeunes filles en fleurs. It’s by Proust.”
“Marcel Proust?”
“Uh-huh. Have you read him?”
No way was I going to fall into the trap of revealing Nick Twisp’s all-too-familiar (and pedestrian) literary tastes.
“Not me, Sheeni. I don’t read, I live.”
“I wasn’t aware those activities were mutually exclusive. What sort of living do you do?”
“I live a life of action!”
“I see. You mean like vacuuming, cocktail-stirring, dog-walking—that sort of thing?”
“These domestic duties are just temporary. I’m experiencing life for my art.”
Sheeni glanced skeptically at me.
“And what sort of art is that?”
“I intend to be an actor,” I lied, “like my father.”
My Love gazed intently into Rick S. Hunter’s dingy brown eyes.
“Who was your father?” she asked urgently.
“Well, I’m not exactly positive. You see I was adopted—from an orphanage in France. My adoptive parents, the Hunters, died recently in a tragic car wreck before I could find out any details of my birth. I’m on my own now. But I do have this sense of a profound connection to … well, you probably know who I mean.”
“That’s incredible, Rick. Have you tried contacting him?”
“Why no,” I replied, tugging sensually on my lower lip. “I’m sure I’m just an indiscretion he’d rather forget.” My lip remained stuck far out from my face; I hastily shoved it back in place. “Mom and Dad were very strict. They never let me see any of his movies or learn a word of French.”
“Rick, that’s amazing. You really should go to France.”
“I don’t know, Sheeni. I’d rather make it on my own.”
A stone struck me in the back of my head. A ragtag band of local youths on a nearby rock began gesturing obscenely to Sheeni and tossing pebbles at me. Although they risked a thrashing by the virile son of you-know-who, we grabbed our Chihuahuas and beat a hasty retreat.
Later I considered kissing My Love in the warm moonlight, but I decided to wait until I was sure her microbe had been subdued.
THURSDAY, April 1 (April Fools’ Day) — I spent an uncomfortable night in the back seat of the Plock II. Dogo got lucky and returned with a fortyish brunette with heavy thighs and a nervous giggle. I found out later from Connie that she was the chaperon for a sorority visiting from Tempe. I dragged my pillow and blanket back to the Plock II and tried not to think about what was happening in the luggage basement. No screaming at least. Oh well, it probably qualifies as safe sex—as long as he washes well beforehand. She was gone before I woke up. In the campground restroom Dogo looked well-rested and pleased with himself.
Every morning to keep in shape Dogo does 50 one-arm pushups. He’s promised to show me some exercises to beef up my physique. I realize I have to alter Rick S. Hunter’s body in some basic way before I dare risk seducing My Love. Since I can’t get any skinnier, my only recourse is to bulk up. The winkie is more problematic. No way I can subject that sensitive part to what my face just went through, even if such operations are a specialty of Dr. Rudolpho and might entail Angel changing my bandages and result in Breathtaking Size. I suppose I’ll have to borrow a page from my old pal Lefty and insist that we keep the lights out.
9:15 a.m. Despite her hangover Connie was bubbling with excitement at breakfast. After I finished the washing up, she dragged me outside for a private conference on the beer can–littered beach.
“Rick, I spoke to our housekeeper Benecia this morning. She says Daddy spent last night in the pool cabana!”
“Don’t get your hopes up, Connie. It could be an April Fools’ Day prank.”
“I’ve been bribing Benecia for years, Rick. She’s completely trustworthy. Besides, she knows better than to cross me. She’s in America illegally.”
“Are you going to tell Paul?”
“Of course not. I can’t risk Lacey becoming what Paulo cannot have. He’ll find out when the time is right. How’s it going with you and Sheeni?”
“Not bad. She thinks I’m the son of Jean-Paul Belmondo.”
“I hope you know what you’re doing. Rick, you’ve got to be a little more aloof. No offense, but whenever you’re around Sheeni your body language screams availability. You’ve got to play it cool and let her come to you.”
“But what if she doesn’t?”
“She will. You’re the only available male we’ve got—except for Dogo.”
“That reminds me, Connie. What do you think of Dogo … as a man?”
“Do you mean would I like to do the ugly on his you know what?”
“Uh, well, yeah.”
“Rick, it’s pretty obvious what guys are all about. Your job is to put it there on the money. But a woman’s sexuality is much more diffused. It’s much more complex.”
“My God, you’ve done it with him.”
“Not me, Rick. Dogo’s like a second daddy to me. But a couple of my girlfriends had a three-way with him once. They really dug his tattoos. Apparently one part of his anatomy has been decorated to look like a U-boat periscope—complete with simulated rivets.” She glanced at her watch. “Oops, time for you to phone your sister in Oakland. According to Benecia, she’s been calling Lacey every hour on the hour trying to find you.”
9:45 a.m. Good thing I delayed making my amorous moves. Sheeni’s microbe flared up, knocking My Love flat on her lovely back again in her parents’ cabin. Mrs. Saunders wanted to send for a doctor, but My Love insisted she just needed to rest. Mrs. K has administered more antibiotics. Meanwhile, I borrowed Connie’s cellular phone and dialed my familiar old number in Oakland. I wasn’t sure what my sister was doing there, but I prayed my mother was away at work. Joanie answered on the second ring. Only by alluding to her long-ago teen fling with future radiator brazer Phil Polseta was I able to convince my skeptical sister that the strange man on the phone was indeed her fugitive brother.
“Nick, I want you to know I never made it with Phil Polseta.”
“Then how come you had all those birth control pills hidden in your top dresser drawer?”
“Nick, you’re such a sneak. You’ve got to come home at once. Mom’s in jail. She shot Lance.”
“Our mother shot Lance Wescott, her cop husband!” I exclaimed. “Did she kill him?”
“No, but he’s in the hospital. He lost a lot of blood. She shot him in the groin.”
“Our mother shot Lance in the groin!”
My surprise was misplaced. Knowing my mother, where else would she shoot someone?
“She was upset, Nick. Apparently, Lance was abusive and had other women too. And you know he’s never accepted little Noel.”
Noel Lance Wescott is my embarrassing infant half-brother whom I’ve never seen.
Joanie continued, “Lance was threatening to walk out. Mother put all your money from Miss Ulansky in his name. He was threatening to leave Mom without a cent! Somehow his gun got out of its holster and he wound up shot. Mom’s in jail, Nick. I’m taking care of Noel. We need $25,000 for her bail, but Lance won’t pay it.”
“Joanie, is this some kind of sick April Fools’ Day joke?”
“It’s no joke, Nick. You’ve got to send us the money.”
“I don’t have it, Joanie. Sheeni has all my money.”
“Then get it from her, Nick. I’m desperate.”
“I can’t talk to her, Joanie. It’s kind of complicated. You’ll have to call her yourself. I’ll give you a numb
er where you can reach her. But don’t ask her for $25,000. She’d never agree to that much. Ask her for, uh, $6,000.”
“But I need 25 grand, Nick.”
“Trust me, Joanie. You’ll get it. Ask Sheeni to make out the check to cash. And any extra you receive you have to promise you’ll hold for me.”
“OK, Nick. Are you coming home?”
“I can’t, Joanie.”
“Mom needs you, Nick. And don’t you want to see little Noel?”
“He’s just a baby, Joanie. He won’t know me from Adam. Tell Mom I’ll, I’ll write her a letter.”
“OK, Nick. But say hi to Noel before you hang up.”
I said hello to my gurgling half-brother and advised him to watch his back at all times. Now I see where François gets his homicidal urges. Well, any fool who gives my mother access to a loaded gun deserves to get his pendulous nuts shot off. Boy, what a genetic heritage. It’s no wonder honor-student Nick Twisp went bad. At least I can take satisfaction in having warned her (in lipstick on her dresser mirror) that her marriage was doomed. The good news, besides Lance getting shot, is that this incident is likely to cause a further diminishing of Sheeni’s waning regard for Nick Twisp. All of which should make My Love even more susceptible to the reserved Gallic magnetism of Rick S. Hunter.
10:35 a.m. Five minutes after I hung up, Connie’s cellular phone rang. She answered it, then took the phone in to Sheeni. A few minutes later I was thrilled to observe her retrieve Sheeni’s purse from under a settee in the salon and carry it back to My Love’s cabin. After what seemed like an eternity, Connie emerged carrying a stamped white envelope, which the cabin boy promptly intercepted.
“I promised Sheeni I’d take this straight into town to the post office,” whispered Connie.
“And so you will,” I whispered, “right after I amend it.”
I pried open the still-damp envelope flap and removed the check, signed “Emma Bovary” in a looping 19th-century hand. The distinctive sea-green ink I knew to be a characteristic of the numerous engraved Krusinowski Metal Products Co. ballpoint pens scattered about as advertising keepsakes. Employing another such pen, I quickly added a fourth zero to the dollar amount. On the line with the written amount there was just enough space between the “six” and “thousand” to loop a “ty” onto the “six.” (Too bad I couldn’t squeeze in “hundred” instead.)
