Gordita Conspiracy

by Lyle Christie

  “In time, padawan, but right now, we’re focusing on fundamentals.”

  We came into another town, and the posted speed limit dropped to 50 kilometers per hour. The traffic was a little heavier, so I decided to hang back and leave a little extra room between us and the car in front.

  “Why are you slowing down?” Asaf asked.

  “When you’re in a town, there are more people and things that might enter the roadway, so you need to slow down and be prepared. You shouldn’t just hit the horn and hope for the best.”

  “Driving in America must be so boring.”

  “Actually, we have shitloads of good highways and back roads where we can get our thrills. There is a time and place to drive like a maniac—and it’s not on crowded streets. Unfortunately, most of the American teens drive like you—the only difference being that they also talk on their phones and text at the same time.”

  “Awesome!”

  “Not awesome and, in fact, quite illegal.”

  “Then why do they do it?”

  “They don’t care. Unfortunately, youngsters don’t develop adequate impulse control until they are around twenty-five, where the lucky ones who survived the idiocy of youth generally go on to lead much safer adult lives.”

  Asaf looked skeptical, as his youthful ignorance was likely tainting all the knowledge I had been trying to impart. Oh well, you could lead a teen to wisdom but you couldn’t necessarily make him wise. We eventually made a right turn onto Highway 15, a proper four lane highway that would take us to Aqaba, and, about a mile down the road, I pulled over, and let the car idle quietly on the side of the road.

  “What’s going on?” Asaf asked.

  “Your turn to drive.”

  “Seriously? It was going so well that I was actually thinking about taking a nap,” Farid said, from the back seat.

  “The boy blunder needs some practical experience if he’s going to have any chance of surviving until he’s twenty-five.”

  I stepped out, and we again crossed paths at the front of the car before taking our seats.

  “Alrighty then—how do you treat the clutch?”

  “Like a woman.”

  “Excellent.”

  He put the car in gear, gave it some gas, and slowly released the clutch, this time accelerating smoothly onto the highway. Second was a little clunky but third and fourth were as smooth as butter.

  “How are your hands?”

  “Good, I think.”

  “Now, can you feel how the car almost drives itself—kind of like a Ouija board?”

  “A what?”

  “Never mind, just watch the road and remember to keep your focus farther ahead and not just on the area directly in front of the car. Also check your mirrors every couple of minutes. Think of yourself as the Terminator robot, always scanning the highway and area around you, looking for that elusive Sarah Connor, or, in your case, cops, pedestrians, and other motorists.”

  Asaf seemed to be doing better, and I wasn’t sure what made the difference—my advice or the fact that I had been willing to entrust him yet again with our safety. Of course being on a two lane freeway with a concrete divider between us and the opposing traffic was certainly helping. Things were going so smoothly, in fact, that Farid actually managed to drift off and take a nap. A little less than an hour later we were on the outskirts of the city of Aqaba, and I decided it was time to take Asaf’s driving skills to the next level.

  “You’ve done so well thus far that I think you’re ready for the bootlegger.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yeah, pull into that big open dirt parking lot up ahead on the right.”

  He pulled in and stopped in the middle, smiling and looking over at me as though I were about to reveal the greatest secret in the universe.

  “OK, the bootlegger is actually very simple and relies upon basic physics. As you may or may not know, the majority of a car’s weight is generally in the front, and this makes the maneuver easy. Just get up a decent amount of speed, spin the wheel, and inertia will carry the front of the car around. At that point, putting it into gear and continuing is a matter of practice and coordination. Also, if you’re going pretty fast, it’s often best to go into second, as first can be hard on the clutch. OK, give it a try.”

  “Are you sure this is a good idea?” Farid asked from the backseat.

  “What could possibly happen?”

  “Oh, I don’t know—maybe he’ll roll the car and get all three of us killed,” Farid said.

  “Don’t listen to the troll—be the car, Asaf. Be the car.”

  He put it in reverse, let out the clutch, then started accelerating backwards.

  “All right, spin the wheel,” I said.

  He did as I said but only made it about halfway around. Regardless, he looked happy and was dying for another go. He tried again, this time making it farther around. He tried two more times, and on the last attempt managed to get the car fully around but was too slow to get it into gear to continue.

  “OK, last time. Do it!”

  He hit the gas pedal hard, dirt and rocks pouring out from under the front of the car as he got up to speed. This was it, the moment of truth. He spun the wheel, and the car slid completely around, at which point he put it in second and stomped on the gas pedal, at last completing a perfect bootlegger. He slammed on the brakes and threw his arms up in triumph as he looked at me with his smile stretching from ear to ear.

  “I did it!”

  “Yes, you did, and it was glorious!”

  Suddenly there was a knock on the window, and we all looked over to see a Jordanian policeman standing outside.

  “Where the fuck did he come from?” Farid asked.

  “The police station, obviously.”

  “Yeah, the very same place where the three of us are likely going to end up today,” Farid said.

  “What do we do now?” Asaf asked nervously.

  “What any upstanding citizen would do when dealing with the police—play dumb and act innocent,” I said.

  Asaf rolled down the window, and the policeman, who was around thirty years old and sporting a neatly trimmed mustache, glared at us as he stood in the remnants of the dust cloud we had just created. He was also wearing typical cop sunglasses and had mastered the menacing stare that all police used when they wanted to intimidate people.

  “Good afternoon, officer,” I said, from across the car.

  “Ah—American.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said.

  He turned his attention to Asaf.

  “So, young man, do you know how fast you were going?”

  “Um—what?”

  “I said, do you know how fast you were going?”

  “Perhaps thirty kilometers per hour,” Asaf said.

  “Twenty-three.”

  “But officer, is there actually a speed limit in a dirt lot?” Farid asked from the backseat.

  “No, no there’s not. Now, do you mind telling me what you three are up to?”

  “We’re helping my young nephew here learn to drive.”

  “Nephew?” he asked as he scrutinized me then Asaf and looked a bit skeptical.

  “By marriage, obviously.”

  The cop stared at us, though his facial expression was hard to read behind his sunglasses. His radio crackled, and he stepped away to talk for a minute before returning to our car, where he stared at Asaf for a long tense moment before finally speaking.

  “That was quite a bootlegger, young man, but perhaps you could choose a location other than the back lot of the police station to practice your high performance driving maneuvers.”

  We all turned and had a more thorough look at the building on the other side of the lot and realized it was indeed the local police station.

  “Absolutely, officer, and I’m sorry to have taken up your time.”

  “No problem, and, young man—please drive safely.”

  Asaf drove off smoothly and pulled back onto the road and made his n
ext four shifts perfectly as he reached highway speed.

  “Wow—I can’t believe that guy didn’t even ask to see your license and registration,” I said.

  “Good thing he didn’t. I don’t have a license.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Farid asked from the back seat.

  “Without a car, I haven’t been able to practice enough to take the test.”

  “Well, if they require a bootlegger—you’ll do just fine,” I said.

  He laughed, and we continued on towards the Red Sea, turning right onto Highway 65 and traveling the final mile or so to King Hussein International Airport. It wasn’t exactly the largest place, so finding the private terminal was rather easy, and we were soon parked and checking in with customs. Luckily, Matheson had already put us into the system, and we managed to avoid any lengthy or uncomfortable body search. Once inside, I found a currency exchange office and made a quick withdrawal of 7070 Jordanian Dinars. It equaled about $10,000 U.S. and was about to be the first major expenditure I’d made since becoming a millionaire two weeks previously. Asaf was waiting with Farid in the main lounge as I handed him the envelope full of money.

  “What’s this?” he asked, looking confused.

  “Payment for the ride.”

  He opened it, and his face flushed with color, and he looked as though he might faint.

  “I cannot accept this!”

  “Think of it as a wedding present.”

  “But I’m not getting married.”

  “I know, but now you can afford to, and I figure as long as you know you’re going to have a beautiful wife in your near future that you might actually drive a little more carefully. So, take the money and go get your girl.”

  I wrote down my name and number on a scrap of paper and handed it over.

  “If you make it to twenty-five, give me a call, and I’ll double what you’ve got there and pay for your college.”

  He thanked me again, except this time he hugged me as well. We said our final goodbye, then Farid and I headed off to the other side of the terminal.

  “That was nice—but if you go around giving every shitty driver you meet ten grand, you’re going to end up in the poorhouse.”

  “What the fuck? I’m a millionaire. Where’s the fun if you can’t do stuff like that?”

  “I drove you around Iran. How come you never gave me ten grand?”

  “Simple. You may be an asshole but you don’t drive like one.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  Two Tickets to Paradise

  THE DOOR LEADING outside was just up ahead, and Farid and I went through the final checkpoint and headed out to the tarmac, where I saw the Vandenberg Jet parked about sixty yards away. The boarding ramp was hooked up to the main door, and Brett and Tatyana were outside walking around the plane doing the usual preflight inspection when they saw us and waved. Farid abruptly paused and tapped me on the shoulder.

  “Dude! That’s our ride?” he asked looking legitimately surprised.

  “Yeah.”

  “And those are our pilots?”

  “Two of them anyway.”

  “No shit?”

  “Yeah, and believe it or not, the overly tan guy with the overly white teeth can fly.”

  “I’m not talking about him. I’m talking about that incredibly beautiful woman next to him.”

  I knew exactly who he was referring to but refused to miss an opportunity to give him a little shit.

  “Oh her? That’s Tatyana.”

  “Sweet Jesus.”

  “Yeah—it’s too bad she’s a brunette.”

  “That’s why God invented hair dye.”

  Brett and Tatyana came over to meet us.

  “How are you?” Tatyana asked.

  Before I could utter a word, she kissed me, but, as we parted lips, I noticed Farid was standing there hoping he would get the same greeting.

  “I’m good, but how are you? Our last meeting was a little—stressful,” I said.

  “I’m fine, and, as you can see, the plane is good too. I take it this is our special passenger?” she asked, as she turned to Farid.

  “Yes, this tall, slightly dark, and handsome man is my old friend Farid Ardeshir.”

  “Nice to meet you, Farid. I’m Tatyana,” she said, holding out her hand.

  It wasn’t the greeting Farid was hoping for, but he was happy to take her hand and kiss it nonetheless.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Tatyana, and may I say that you are the most beautiful pilot I have ever seen,” he said.

  “Well, thank you,” she said, a little surprised by Farid’s compliment.

  “I’m Brett, it’s nice to meet you, and does that mean I’m the second most beautiful pilot you’ve ever seen?” he asked, holding out his hand.

  “No, in spite of the fact that your teeth and tan are truly magnificent.”

  “Did you tell him to say that, Finn?”

  “Of course not. Don’t you remember that I said I wouldn’t tease you about your tan and teeth after that excellent emergency landing you pulled off back at SFO?”

  “Yeah, but I didn’t believe it for a moment.”

  “Hey, any man who can perform an emergency landing with a jumbo jet and one working engine doesn’t deserve to be teased, least of all for his artificially tan skin and freakishly white teeth.”

  Brett scowled.

  “Couldn’t resist could you?”

  “No, but I really tried.”

  “Well then, why don’t you gentlemen come aboard, and we get the fuck out of Jordan.”

  “Where are we headed? America?”

  “Not yet. We were told to fly you to Nice first.”

  “Sounds like the best news I’ve heard anyone say all day,” Farid responded.

  “Yeah, assuming we don’t have the same problem we had in San Francisco,” I said.

  “Wait, what problem? Does this have anything to do with the emergency landing you just mentioned?” Farid asked nervously.

  “Don’t worry, it’s all fine now. We made it this far didn’t we?” Tatyana said.

  Farid looked at me a little nervously as we boarded the plane but relaxed after I gave him a brief tour of the Vandenberg jet. There was nothing like a little luxury to calm the nerves. We stowed our things in our respective cabins and settled into the main salon, where the other pilot Wendy came in to say hello.

  “Nice to see you again, Tag, and it’s nice to meet you, Dr. Ardeshir,” she said, turning her attention to Farid.

  “It’s nice to meet you, and please call me Farid,” he said, kissing her hand.

  “I’m Wendy, and the pleasure is all mine. Now, if you boys don’t mind, I must excuse myself and get back to the cockpit. A woman’s work is never done, I’m afraid,” she said, as she turned around and walked from the room.

  Farid watched her go the way a dog watched a bite of steak go from his owner’s plate to his owner’s mouth.

  “Is she close enough to blond for you?” I asked.

  “Most definitely.”

  A moment later, I heard the plane’s outer door shut, then Wendy’s voice came over the intercom.

  “Hello, passengers. Please fasten your seat belts and prepare for takeoff.”

  The big jet taxied out towards the runway, and we got in line to wait for clearance from the tower. A smaller Emirates Air flight took off first, then we were next. The massive engines spooled up to full power, and we began accelerating down the runway, quickly gaining speed before at last lifting off. The big jet climbed steeply into the sky, and Farid and I were both held firmly in place by the g forces as we headed out over the Red Sea. The jet banked left and settled into a northwesterly heading, where it continued to climb until reaching its cruising altitude and leveling off, whereupon Wendy came over the intercom.

  “We have reached a cruising altitude of 35,000 feet, so feel free to move about the cabin. Our flight steward Yvonne will be visiting you shortly to take any food or drink orders. Flight time to Marseille
Provence Airport should be about four hours. Please feel free to sit back, relax, and enjoy flying Vandenberg Air.”

  Wendy clicked off, and, shortly thereafter, Yvonne came into the room and hugged me before introducing herself to Farid. He was once again looking bedazzled as he regarded yet another beautiful Vandenberg female employee. I was now used to seeing the unusually comely staff, but Farid was still in the new and impressionable stage and probably already suffering from a terrible case of visually induced blue balls. It was entirely understandable, as Yvonne was incredibly attractive with her exquisite bone structure, long brown hair, blue eyes, and toned yet curvaceous figure. She was also a nice person and an extremely talented chef, with her only discernible flaw being the fact that she was dating Brett, who, while being a pretty decent guy most of the time, had an annoying propensity for tanning, tooth whitening, and talking about his beloved Naval Academy.

  Yvonne, in her usual cheerful manner, told us our options for lunch then left to prepare what would most certainly be a lovely meal. Twenty minutes later, she was back with French dip sandwiches, salad, and mineral waters, and, after a long day in the desert, it was nice just to sit, eat, and rehydrate. We finished lunch, and Yvonne followed it up by bringing us cappuccinos and Madeleine cookies, though eating so much at one sitting had its repercussions, and, soon, I had some unexpected guests waiting to slip out the back door.

  “Farid, do you still have that shitty tabloid magazine?”

  “Yeah, why?”

  “I have to dump, and I need something to read.”

  He reached into his inside jacket pocket and handed me the magazine.

  “Here, keep it. I don’t think I’ll be wanting it back.”