by Dan Taylor
“How did Andre find out she was going to be at the jazz club tonight?”
“What does that matter?”
“Because surely he can use the same methods to find out where she’ll be tomorrow night.”
“Okay, I’ll ask him.”
“Wow, I didn’t expect that to be so easy.”
“What?”
“You agreeing like that.”
I wait for her to reply, but she’s hung up.
I go and lie on the bed, and think about the investigation so far, as I look at the ceiling.
Seems to me a few mysteries have developed. Why is Gerry acting so strangely, getting pissed at my failing when usually she’s the consummate professional? Who was the dude with the newspaper, waiting for me in the restaurant of the hotel I was supposed to stay at? What was on Bertha Handvinkle’s mind when we were sightseeing, and why did she slap me when I pulled my signature move of cupping breast at the point of peak passion?
Oh, and one more. Why does the hotel shower turn from ice-cold to scalding hot with one minute turn of the temperature knob?
I think about these things as I drift off to sleep.
32.
Somewhere in Antarctica…
COLE HASN’T FOUND anything in the observation station that gives any clue as to its purpose, unless Dmitry’s collection of nasty Russian porno magazines he found under his mattress is anything to go by.
Seriously, he thought it was a vintage collection, until he looked at the dates. Surely wax and flat irons have made their way to Russia? And who still wears those bathing suits with the super-high waist cutouts, and the tacky slits running up the abdomen? In fact, what are bathing suits doing in a porno magazine in the first place, hideous or otherwise?
It’s the day after he searched the place, and Dmitry has been acting strangely. Even stranger than usual. Maybe yesterday was just a honeymoon period, or maybe he knows what Cole found in the septic tank.
Cole’s having a shower after the freeze-dried breakfast Dmitry rehydrated and cooked up for them.
He’s only just gotten his hair wet when he hears a knock on the door.
“What is it, Dmitry?”
“I said five minutes, American. Five minutes.”
“I’ve only just gotten my hair wet.”
There’s a moment’s silence. “Are you washing your hair?”
“I was planning on doing so, yeah.”
“Come out of there, you little Barbie doll.”
“I’d prefer to have this conversation when I’m not in the shower, Dmitry. If you don’t mind?”
“I said come out.”
Cole sighs, grabs what he can only describe as a hand towel from the towel rack—the largest size he can find—and wraps it around his waist.
Immediately upon opening the bathroom door, he is confronted by Dmitry, who’s looking at him like he might’ve kissed his mother square on the lips.
Dmitry says, “You wasteful American pig. You used up three days’ worth of water, doing your manicures and full-body exfoliations.”
Cole puts his hands on his hips. “Hardly, I’d only just gotten in when you knocked on the door.”
“I told you to wet yourself, use the soap sparingly, and only in places that are necessary, then rinse yourself, and you get in there and start polishing your ass pipe.”
“My ass pipe? And what places do you consider necessary if my asshole isn’t one of them?”
Dmitry shakes his head. “Okay, no shower for you for four days!” He turns to go, but Cole grabs him by the shoulder, spins him around.
“Now hang on. You can’t do that!”
Dmitry’s eyes narrow. “Get your hand off me! I can do anything I want. It’s my station!”
In an adolescent move, Dmitry grabs hold of Cole’s skimpy towel and pulls it away, to reveal Cole’s Speedo, which he had on while showering.
Dmitry laughs, points, and then says, “What is that thing?”
Cole refuses to feel self-conscious, but he can’t help crossing his arms to cover up his nipples. “I thought it practical.”
“To shower while keeping yourself covered? I told you, American, we are in a tight spot here. I don’t need you stinking up the place.”
“A moment ago you complained about my washing. Now you’re complaining about my wearing a Speedo. You’re too much, Dmitry. You know that?”
Insulted, Dmitry prods Cole’s shoulder. After being momentarily taken aback, Cole responds by prodding Dmitry back. Taking turns, the prodding escalates to pushing, and then to punching each other’s shoulders. Before they know it, Dmitry and Cole are wrestling on the floor. Being the more athletic man, Cole’s easily beating Dmitry, who’s responding to being pinned down by trying to gouge every orifice of Cole’s he can get to with his thumb, first his eyes, then his ears, and finally…
“What the hell are you doing, Dmitry?”
Through gritted teeth, Dmitry responds, “You’re not fighting fair, so I thought I’d utilize an old Russian wrestling move.”
Cole’s voice is nasally. “By gouging my nostrils?”
Cole’s straddling Dmitry, fending off his thumb attacks by slapping his hands away. Wanting to end the madness, Cole flips Dmitry over, so that he’s lying on his stomach. He then forces his arm behind his back and up, making Dmitry cry out in Russian.
Cole says, “Do you give in?”
“Nyet!”
He forces his arm higher. “Another pound or two of pressure and I’ll dislocate your shoulder.”
“Okay, okay, I give up!”
Cole rolls off and away from Dmitry, and they lie panting on the floor.
When Cole’s caught his breath, he says, “What did you mean by it’s your station?”
33.
Oslo…
THE NEXT MORNING, I’m in the shower, having solved one of the mysteries. Well, at least I think I have. The shower’s too cold, so I bend down, put my ear to the temperature knob, as though listening to the turning of a safe’s dial, waiting for that click!
I apply a bit of pressure, and the knob doesn’t turn. A little more, and it jerks round slightly, turning the water to geyser hot.
“Oh fuck off!”
It feels significant when I have to get out, having not washed my hair, though for the life of me I don’t know why.
My cell phone, which I left conveniently on the end of my made bed, rings.
Having just walked past, I pick it up. It’s Gerry.
I say, “So, have you found a solution for this Bertha Handvinkle situation?”
“Yes and no.”
I sigh. “Nothing’s ever easy. Shoot.”
“We know where she’s going to be today.”
“Great. I’ll get dressed, do some sightseeing, and then pick up where I left off last night…wait, what does the ‘no’ mean?”
“I said today. As in we haven’t a clue where she’ll be tonight. But we do know where she works.”
“So why’s that a problem? I’ll go down there, invite her on a lunch date.”
“Let me ask you a question, Jake. How do you know where she works?”
“Ahh, I see the problem now. I wouldn’t, would I?”
“No. Unless she happened to mention it last night?”
I think a second. “She didn’t.”
“Damn. Andre and I were kind of hoping she had.”
“Wait, how did Andre know she’d be at the jazz club last night?”
“He had someone check her bank transactions, found that she makes withdrawals from the jazz club every week on the same day.”
“And there are no patterns of expenditure regarding tonight?”
“There is a monthly payment she makes at a local convenience store, which is due—”
“Oh, do you mean the time—”
“Don’t say it!”
I think a second. “Not even I can think myself out of this one.”
“I didn’t think you had the other times.”
/> “Anyway, we’re getting off track. So what do we do? I assume you and Andre will carry on digging while I soak in Oslo for the day.”
“I have no idea why you assumed that.”
“What, then?”
“You need to think of a solid reason why you happened to wander up to the place she works.”
“Really? We’re not going to go with the digging thing?”
“We’ll carry on with creating a plan our end, but we need a plan A.”
“Let’s call yours plan A and mine plan B. I’ll feel better that way.”
“Fine. Get thinking about plan B, which is the plan we’ll probably be going with.”
“I don’t know, Gerry. That sounds a lot like you just described mine as plan A.”
She sighs. “Just get thinking, Jake. I’ll text you the address.”
“I’m on it.”
“And don’t think you can just wing this thing by telling her she’s got beautiful eyes or by pointing out constellations in broad daylight. She’ll be onto you in a flash.”
“I’m hurt you’d think that.”
“Admit it, you were thinking of doing that.”
“No…I would’ve waited until nighttime to point out…The Bear Claw, and that other one.”
She humors me, which I always love. “Okay, Jake. Whatever you say. Anything else before I hang up?”
“Yeah, do you know anything about showers?”
34.
THIS IS QUITE the problem, so I need to get some good thinking in before the afternoon.
There’s a place I go to think when in Hollywood. The music soothes me; there’s a chilled-out vibe that’s conducive to really getting down to scrape the bottom of my neurological barrel; the women are friendly but rarely intrude on my thinking, with me being a regular, an’ all. And one last thing, the women in there have the best nipples in town. How do I know? It’s a titty bar and there’s not one thread of clothing between their cigar-butt or pencil-eraser nipples and my line of sight, or anyone else’s, for that matter. And definitely no tassels suction-cupped to them. But that’s a whole different story.
I’m on my way to Oslo’s equivalent, a place called Lamour Gentlemans Club—without the apostrophe, and without the E instead of the A. In fact, what the hell does Lamour mean?
Anyway, when I arrive, I find that it’s closed.
A young guy carrying a pair of heavy empty-bottle-filled garbage bags comes through the front entrance and starts waddling down the pavement. He looks like he might own the place.
So I ask him, “Hey, do you own the place?”
He turns towards me. “If I did do you think I’d recycle the glass bottles myself?”
“Now that you mention it, it doesn’t seem likely that an acne-ridden twenty-something would own a titty bar. But still, this is Oslo.”
I’m not sure whether he heard me or not. He’s still standing in front of me, as though we’re having a conversation, but he’s not saying shit.
“Did you hear me, kid?”
“I did.”
“Good. Then you’re not deaf. You guys opening late today?”
“It’s midday.”
He doesn’t elaborate, assuming that explained everything.
“It says on your website you open at nine. What gives?”
“Nine in the evening.”
“At night?”
He’s straining to hold the bags with his noodle arms, so I forgive him for his sarcasm when he says, “Who would think in the morning?”
As he turns and starts waddling the way he was going, to myself, I say, “At night? Messed-up country…”
I think about the walk here, get a little pissed, and call over to the waddling bottle carrier. “Tell your boss he needs to learn American. The sign doesn’t make any sense!”
The kid plays deaf again.
There are a few other titty bars, but they all seem to open late. Where do people go to think in this city?
I wander and find a nice little bar called the Amundsen. All the women are fully clothed, but it has the largest selection of beers I’ve ever seen and there’s a microbrewery! Nice.
It takes maybe five minutes for a barman to notice me and come up to ask me something in Norwegian.
I reply, “Something dark, not American in style, and preferably made by your fine selves.”
He laughs. “I asked you how your day is.”
“Oh, then good.”
He’s a fifty-something dude, has a crew cut and puffy face, and for some reason, he hasn’t taken a shine to me. “And what would you like?”
“Seriously?”
I don’t know if he’s thinking or whatever, but he seems to be playing the same weird trick as the bottle-carrying kid.
I reiterate my order, saying it slowly, “Something dark, not American in style, and preferably made by your rude selves.”
Suddenly he’s all smiles and full of pizazz. “Then I recommend the…”
I won’t bore you with the rest.
I take a seat, glance around the bar. It’s full of dress-down-Friday and bank-manager types on their lunch hours, sipping lattes and espressos. There’s not a single person in the place drinking a beer. Do people know this place serves it?
Anyway, back to this Bertha Handvinkle situation. I managed to think of a few reasons for my knowing her place of work, but none of them cuts the mustard. I could turn up and say, “I found you on Facebook, so here I am!” (creepy); “I followed you home last night, found out where you live, and then followed you to work this morning, but have only just worked up the courage to ask you out for a drink after work” (even creepier); or, here’s my favorite, and definitely the creepiest: “I followed you home last night and looked through your trash, found an old pay slip. You should really buy a shredder!”
I laugh and shake my head as I think about that last one, imagining myself rocking up, maybe an old banana skin hanging off my shoulder, a cross-cutter shredder under one arm as a creepy gift. “They were all out of flowers!”
I’m all out of ideas. And I used all my brainpower up on silly ones.
My cell rings. It’s Micro Manager of the Year Award-winner Gerry Smoulderwell.
I say, “There are a whole load of people here who you’d get on with swimmingly.”
“Jake, where are you?”
I think a second. “A pool.”
“Using your cell phone?”
“Okay, I’m at a bar.”
“I thought we agreed no drinking.”
“I don’t remember agreeing. You just said it at me.”
“When an employer tells you you can’t do something, they’re not asking.”
“I’ll take it under advisement.”
She sighs. “At least tell me you’ve thought of a solution to this you-knowing-her-workplace situation.”
“They sell cross-cut shredders here, you think?”
“What’s that got anything to do with it?”
“Never mind. No is the short answer.”
“What’s the long?”
“I was thinking of maybe saying I found her on Facebook.”
“Creepy.”
“That’s why it was part of a long no. Anything on your end?”
“We’ve identified no spending habits for tonight.”
“Is that bad?”
“It means we’re going with plan B.”
“Which is nothing at the moment, unless the women here have got a lower creepy tolerance than back in the States.”
“The lady slapped you while you had your hands on her hips. I think we can assume they don’t.”
I nearly tell her about the boob move, but think better of it. “Then we’re in the tits…I mean shit.”
“Unless you can think of a reason, then yeah.”
“Why is the burden on me? Why aren’t we all spit balling?”
“Because you’re in Oslo. You can have a look around you, try and find inspiration from the culture. Maybe there’s a commo
n pastime you—”
While she was talking, I was thinking back to the Irish nut from LAX, which gives me an idea, so I cut her off. “Gerry, you’re a genius!”
35.
“I AM?”
“Well, not really. But I did think of an idea while you were talking.”
“Great. Give it to me.”
I chuckle.
“Jake…”
“Maybe I don’t find a reason for stumbling into her workplace. Maybe I just bump into her.”
“Go on…”
“What’s the one thing that’s guaranteed to get her standing outside her place of work, where I can walk past, with it being a huge coincidence?”
“I don’t know.”
“A bomb threat!”
I said it too loud, and half the bar turns and looks at me. I hold my hand up, apologizing.
“What?”
I whisper it this time.
“This might just be the dumbest idea you’ve ever come up with. Ever.”
“Think about it for a second. I phone the building, put on an accent, and tell them there’s a bomb in the building. Emergency services are called, and people evacuate. Sirens are wailing; crowds gather to see what’s happening. And maybe from as far away as five hundred yards. Suddenly it isn’t such a coincidence that I’m standing outside her workplace.”
She’s silent a second. “There’s no way I can go along with this. This is unethical, dangerous, reckless, and downright stupid.”
“But it could work, right?”
She sighs. “It could work…”
“Great. Then let me finish this beer and then I’ll get the ball rolling.”
“I just want to make things clear, Jake. I can’t give the green light on this course of action.”
I wink, despite our not talking face to face. “I get it.”
“Did you hear? I can’t look the other way while you do this.”
Gerry’s doing that thing where she tells me to do something by kind of telling me not to do it. I think I would’ve done it anyway. It’ll be a blast.
“I heard you loud and clear, Gerry.”
“So we’re agreed? You’re not going to do it.”
“Of course.”
“Of course you’re not, or of course you will.”
