Gordita Conspiracy

by Lyle Christie

  “Yeah, I bet, and speaking of which, is there any news about my fucking German tourist? I’d sure like to know how that asshole fits into this picture.”

  “No, but I have contacts at Homeland Security checking all the passenger manifests from recent flights in and out of SFO, Oakland, and San Jose, so we’ve got to find a hit somewhere. He couldn’t have magically appeared.”

  “What about Harold Fuchs? He’s German. Any chance he’s gotten a little greedy and decided to get into bed with someone in the UAE?”

  “No, and he would never be so obvious as to use one of his own countrymen.”

  “True, I guess you don’t get to the top of the food chain by being stupid.”

  “Definitely not. Well, I’ll be in touch if I find out anything new.

  “Likewise.”

  “Good luck, Finn.”

  “Thanks, and keep your head down, Douglass.”

  “I will, and keep yours up.”

  I hit end and immediately went up to the massive bathroom and took a well-deserved three martini piss. Upon finishing up, I brushed my teeth then changed into a T-shirt and some pajama bottoms and grabbed my laptop and slid into bed. I decided to start by checking my email and found that I had forty-two unread messages. Interestingly, forty-two was the magical number that answered the question of the meaning of life, the universe, and everything in Douglas Adams’s Hitchhikers Guide to the Galaxy. In the case of my email, it represented spam, non-spam, and personal messages, among which I would have hoped included one from Estelle, but sadly that wouldn’t be the case.

  I closed my laptop, took a swig from a bottle of sparkling mineral water on the bedside table, then turned out the light and stared up at the ceiling, wondering what was happening back home. Was Estelle walking down the aisle at this very moment, soon to be another man’s happily wedded wife? My bed was suddenly feeling very large and very empty, and it left me feeling very much alone as I lay on the decadently soft cotton sheets, but such was the life of a man-whore, I suppose. At last I rolled over, closed my eyes and fell into a deep, dark slumber, ever hopeful the companionship I lacked in real life would come to me in my dreams.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Mall Rats

  I AWOKE FIFTEEN minutes before eight and went into the bathroom to brush my teeth before heading downstairs to make myself a latte on the Nespresso machine that resided behind the bar. Two short minutes later, I took a heavenly sip then moved to the couch to peruse the breakfast menu. I chose a veggie, cheese, and bacon omelet with potatoes, toast, and fruit on the side. A half hour later, it arrived, and I ate like a king at the large dining table, enjoying both breakfast and the view of the Palm Jumeirah, which made me think about how strange it was going to be to talk to my old friend. I wonder if he had changed and become jaded by the money and jet set lifestyle of Dubai’s elite. I certainly hoped not, as he had been a pretty damn good guy back when we first met.

  I finished breakfast and made myself another latte and headed back upstairs, ever careful not to spill even a drop of the holy elixir. I picked out clothes for the day, stripped, then grabbed my laptop and entered my porcelain sanctuary. There, I set my latte on the counter then placed my laptop on the convenient fold out stand. My final task was to drop my backside onto the great porcelain throne where I would lay my waste. Properly seated, I opened my laptop, brought up my browser, and typed Dubai news in the Google search bar with the intention of learning a little more about my surroundings in case I got into any conversations at the party. A moment later, a page full of hits came up with the top news story being about a member of the royal family coming under scrutiny for torturing and trying to kill a business associate. Apparently, he took him out into the desert, beat him with a stick, lit his nuts on fire, then ran him over with his Land Rover, but by some miracle the man survived to tell the tale. It was certainly an extreme way to settle a business difference, but then they also stoned men, women, and children to death in this part of the world for crimes that wouldn’t even be a misdemeanor back in the States. God only knew what potential punishment I would be facing for trying to lure their golden goose out of the country.

  This wasn’t exactly helping with my morning movement and was, in fact, working quite the opposite, so I closed my laptop and set it on the counter. It was time to clear my mind and focus on the moment by having a good dump—always the harbinger of a good day. I took a sip of my latte, relaxed, and set in motion the great cycle of life. It was truly a perfect moment, for I was in the nicest of hotels, enjoying the greatest of bathrooms, thereby making a potentially good day—great. Suddenly, a figure appeared in the doorway, and my sphincter came down on my fecal traveler like the blade of the guillotine on the neck of the French aristocracy. A high pitched scream escaped my lips as I tried to grab a towel from the nearby rack, and the movement practically caused me to fall off the toilet. I covered my privates and looked over at the intruder only to realize it was the maid. Sweet porcelain nightmares! I suddenly remembered that I had forgotten to put the little do not disturb tag on the door, and I was paying for my lack of vigilance in the most awkward of ways. The maid was equally startled and apologized profusely as she raced out of the bathroom. This was not a good sign, and, quite to the contrary, was an omen of bad things to come. Whenever my special time was interrupted, bad shit happened—literally. I sat there and patiently waited for my heart rate to return to normal, so that I could complete my release. A minute would pass before I was done and quietly sitting there with great feelings of trepidation. I wiped, flushed, and stepped into the shower, where I spent my time under the five showerheads trying to get my mind back to a happy place.

  Refreshed and clean, though still somewhat rattled, I dressed and headed downstairs to put the do not disturb sign on the door before settling down on the couch to wait for Bill. He arrived ten minutes later, and we headed off to go tuxedo shopping at the world famous Mall of the Emirates, which had some of the most exclusive shops outside of Beverly Hills’s Rodeo Drive. Oddly, it also had one of the largest indoor ski areas in the world—that privileged title of course dependent upon the fact that there actually was another indoor ski area somewhere else.

  The mall was on Sheikh Zayed Road about a mile inland from my hotel, and the first thing that came into view was the enormous slanted tube of its signature eighty-five meter high ski area. It was quite a piece of architecture, and it was hard to imagine that inside there were twenty-two thousand square meters of mountain and five runs, including one black diamond. Only a country with the wealth and imagination of Dubai could bring snow to the desert.

  We pulled into the parking lot, and, even though the mall opened at ten and it was only a quarter past, there were already scores of shoppers plying its retail shores, thus making finding a space a real motherfucker. Ted, the Yale man, eventually gave up and parked in a loading zone, and we stepped out to join in the procession of people entering the world renowned Mall of the Emirates.

  As expected, it was a great thriving city of retail that stood three stories tall and was open and spacious and topped by a glass ceiling that allowed in the light but shielded out the harsh heat of the Middle Eastern sun. The walls were painted off-white with tasteful touches of gold, while the floor was a polished marble incorporating a myriad of colors and patterns. It was distracting, and, combined with the crowd, made it easy to get lost in the moment and forget I was here for one reason—to buy a tuxedo. Bill said they had several store choices ranging from Burberry to Dolce & Gabbana, and I went with the latter, imagining it might make me a touch more dashing amongst Dubai’s elite at the royal Palace.

  We navigated the sea of shoppers, and finally entered the quiet confines of Dolce & Gabbana, where I was immediately pounced upon by a young, attractive, and incredibly well put together female sales associate who was both gracious and welcoming—not something I was expecting. I always thought it was particularly ironic that some of the most pompous people I’d met in the world were salesp
eople. The most snobbish of all often had nary a pot to piss in, yet scrutinized their potential clients as though they were being vetted for the Supreme Court. Perhaps their pompous demeanor was the result of a contact high with their wealthy clients, and their mutualistic relationship was similar to that of a pilot fish to its host shark. The pilot fish gained protection from its larger buddy and, in return, kept the shark free of parasites. In the retail existence, the salespeople were obviously the pilot fish and, instead of gaining protection, they gained esteem by keeping their wealthy client, the shark, looking hip and fashionable. Interestingly, there was a Porsche dealership back home that had some of the most pompous sales people on the planet, and I had gone in there with a wealthy friend who was more than ready to buy a brand new Carrera Turbo S. Apparently, his athletic attire did nothing to stir any interest from the three salesmen, and we subsequently left, and he bought the very same car about one hour down the road at a dealership in Silicon Valley.

  My saleswoman was the exception, however, and treated me as though I might be one of the many royals of the United Arab Emirates. She was one of those rare breed of salespeople who knew that you couldn’t judge a book by its cover and, therefore, treated everyone equally, with each new client having the potential to be that Holy Grail of commission windfalls. It was smart thinking on her part and would have made her very successful back home in Marin County, where earthy dot-com millionaires were as common as the redwood trees that dotted its many valleys and hills.

  In two shakes of a very chic lamb’s tail, she had me in a smart looking Tux that had been on everyone from Taylor Lautner of the Twilight movies to Matthew McConaughey. I did a few James Bond poses in the three way mirror, then stood there and quietly waited while she used some chalk to mark where the various alterations would take place. Just as she finished up, a figure walked past me and into one of the other changing rooms. I didn’t see his face, but his keffiyeh hinted that he was likely a local. A moment later he emerged in a similar Tux and stood beside me, where we proceeded to look at each other in the mirror. Holy fucking small worlds! I instantly recognized the man, for it was Mr. Friendly from the plane. He held his gaze on me as he scrutinized my face, and I realized that his drunken state had probably made his memory of that incident a bit hazy.

  “Excuse me, but have we met?” he asked.

  “Afraid not, my friend, so it’s probably just a matter of all of us infidels looking alike,” I said, trying to make a little joke.

  He didn’t exactly smile or laugh, but he at least turned his attention back to checking himself out in the mirror. Still, he kept throwing me the occasional glance, so it was probably about time to pay for my shit and make a hasty retreat from the store before he recognized me. Asma had said he was a powerful man in the Emirates, and, considering I was already on somebody’s shit list, there was no need to make any more enemies. I bid him farewell, changed out of my tuxedo, and dashed to the front counter, where I slapped my credit card down in front of my saleswoman. She smiled, ran the card, and told me she would have the alterations completed and the tux delivered to my hotel by four o’clock this afternoon. I signed the sales slip, added a nice tip, then joined Bill, who was a short distance away looking at some grey dress slacks.

  “Ready to go?” he asked.

  “Yeah, and the sooner the better,” I said.

  “What’s the hurry?” he asked, looking concerned.

  “Well, I had a little trouble on the plane with the Sheikh over there, but luckily he was pretty drunk, so he’s having a hard time remembering me. Unfortunately, that might all change any second, so it’s probably a good time to get the fuck out of here.”

  Bill glanced over into the dressing room area and looked alarmed.

  “Oh shit! That’s Sheikh Emir—first cousin to the monarch of Dubai. What the hell kind of trouble did you have with him?”

  “As I said, he was drunk, but the main problem was that he ended up getting a bit inappropriate with Olivia. The two of them got into a scuffle, and he pulled out a fucking ceremonial blade, so I put him in a Jujitsu hold until the Sky Marshal arrived.”

  “Oh shit! We’ve got to get the hell out of here. He is not someone to fuck with. Guys like him can make guys like us disappear very easily in this part of the world,” he said, gravely.

  Shit, Asma had said he was important, but I didn’t know he was actually related to the Royal family. Bill and I hurried out of the store and tried to blend in with the crowd of shoppers, but Sheikh Emir came running out behind us a second later.

  “You! You son of bitch! I remember you now! I will find you and castrate you like a goat!” he yelled across the throngs of shoppers.

  I smiled and waved, but it was to no avail for, even a hundred feet away, Emir’s anger burned as brightly as the sun.

  “You always this good at finding trouble?” Bill asked.

  “Apparently, but I like to think it’s the other way around. Trouble finds me.”

  We moved to the opposite side of the mall to find a shoe store, as I now needed new dress shoes to go with the tux. The salesperson, a middle aged portly fellow, probably of Indian decent, steered me towards the usual patent leather, but I refrained, as I preferred comfort over tradition, and that meant Ecco’s—my favorite shoes. Established in 1963 by Karl Toosbuy in the small town of Bredebro in southern Denmark, Ecco was built on the philosophy that shoes must follow the foot, and indeed they did. They were also built to last, and my first pair of Ecco’s were with me through college, the Air Force, and well into the current day, where their semi-retirement was a quiet life on the shoe rack in my closet. I’ve since added many more Ecco siblings to my little shoe family and have yet to regret a single purchase.

  Today, I picked a fancier looking pair with shiny leather and a squared off toe that would offset the tux nicely and allow me the comfort and convenience of a more utilitarian rubber sole design. In my line of work, I never knew when I might need to run, jump, or operate a vehicle, so my shoes needed to man up to any occasion. I handed over my card, signed the sales slip, and we headed out and decided to go to one of the most audacious Starbucks I had ever seen. It had the customary counter and assortment of comfy chairs scattered across the floor, but the walls around it were at least a hundred feet high and culminated at a domed ceiling intricately decorated with a mosaic of blue, brown, and red tiles. I turned my attention back down to the counter and grabbed my grande coffee then added cream and sat next to Bill, who was already sipping his tall black coffee.

  “Wow, quite a mall,” I said.

  “Yeah, everything here is like Disneyland times a hundred.”

  “Even the bathrooms?”

  “Especially the bathrooms. Speaking of which, I need to hit the head after this coffee hits me.”

  “One or two?”

  “Both.”

  “So, you don’t mind using public restrooms?”

  “Hell no. After my time in the service, I could shit in a shoe box.”

  “Well, I could shit in a shoe box—if it were in my bathroom back home, but these days, I do my very best to avoid public restrooms when I’m out and about.”

  Bill finished his coffee, excused himself, and headed to the restroom while I looked around the nearby tables and found a discarded tabloid magazine. Unfortunately, spoiled heiresses, actors, and reality stars were the only thing filling its sordid pages, so I decided instead to people watch. Around me flowed a great sea of shoppers, the majority of whom, I assumed were tourists, while the minority appeared to be locals. I saw one particularly large group of Arabic women and children and suspected they might all be part of the same household. I found the idea of multiple wives to be such a strange custom and wondered how women in this part of the world accepted such an inequity. I suppose if you do anything long enough, you’ll eventually accept your fate, whether it’s living a mundane life in suburbia, or being with your husband, his seven other wives, and your army of children.

  Fifteen more m
inutes and about two hundred and fifty shoppers later, I was starting to wonder what was taking Bill so long. I didn’t see him grab any reading material, but it was possible he was screwing around with his smart phone. Not everyone knew that a proper dump needed to be properly timed. Too short and you left some trains in the tunnel while too long meant the risk of developing hemorrhoids. You had to find that sweet spot but, right now, Bill was just a few minutes shy of developing some painful new friends on his back door. Feeling a little concerned, I finished my coffee and decided to take a piss and check on my new friend.

  I zigzagged through the tide of endless people and felt as though I was fording a human river until I at last reached the entryway to the restrooms. There were two large ornate corridors, and the one on the left led to the women’s restroom while the one on the right led to the men’s. I went right and followed it for about twenty feet before turning the corner and finding a stern faced, burly Arabic man standing in front of the bathroom door. As I drew closer and moved to walk around him, he stepped into my path and held up his hand.

  “Restroom is closed,” he said, in accented English.

  “That’s strange, because my friend is in there taking a shit.”

  “No, you are mistaken.”

  I was getting a bad feeling, and suddenly my thoughts returned to the cleaning woman’s untimely interruption of my morning dump. Clearly, our accidental interaction had inadvertently set in motion some very unfortunate mojo.

  “Look, potty guard, I really need to pee and check on my friend.”

  “Go somewhere else. Bathroom is closed.”

  I had a closer look at the man and noticed that he was dressed in a nice suit and didn’t exactly look like a janitor or bathroom attendant. Of course, this was the UAE, so it was possible they had different uniforms than we had back in the states.

  “Aren’t you a little overdressed for bathroom duty?” I asked.