A Date You Can't Refuse Page 14

  “Baby. What kind of trouble are you in?”

  “I'm not. I mean—what do you mean?”

  “You didn't go home last night.”

  “No. Were you—how did you—?”

  “I'm a spy.”

  Okay, clearly I was going to have to fork over some information. “I have a room at the compound,” I said slowly. “It's a long drive to Calabasas, so it's easier to stay there when I'm working late than to—”

  “You're living with Yuri Milos?”

  His tone of voice stopped my heart again. Surely this wasn't good, these cardiac stops and starts.

  “Not in any romantic sense, of course, but—”

  “God almighty, Wollie, you're living there?” Now he was yelling.

  “It's a perfectly reasonable—”

  “Are you listening to me? The man deals in armaments. Guns. He's involved in affairs of state in Eastern Europe—”

  “We're not in Eastern—”

  “For all you know, he's stockpiling arms for a revolution. You have no idea what you're in the middle of—”

  “Then give me an idea—”

  “I can't.”

  “So I'm supposed to accept on faith, when you say jump,' it's in my best interest—”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, forget it.”

  And then there was silence. Simon had hung up on me. Or gotten cut off—that happened a lot, of course, with cell phones, so it was possible. If he'd been on a cell phone.

  But it felt like he'd hung up on me.

  I pressed “end” on my phone, fighting the impulse to cry. How had we gotten here from there? A minute before, Simon had given me his cover name. As grand gestures go, this was more than a key to his condo or the PIN to his ATM. This was a piece of him that all his experience told him not to trust anyone with. And he'd entrusted it to me.

  This wouldn't have meant as much to me even a week earlier. But now I was in the same boat, worried about my own cover and figuring the only way to ensure my safety was to keep my mouth shut and assume that every person taken into my confidence was a person who could betray me, even without meaning to, even with the best will in the world. I'd learned this from Simon. And maybe I wasn't so good at it now, but I would get better.

  Except that what was good for spies, I was beginning to see, was hell on long-term relationships.

  Four minutes later, I was still waiting for my Gelson's trio. Alik's car hadn't moved. But as I watched, Alik got out of the SUV and headed into the Calabasas vet clinic.

  Without giving myself time to think, I jumped out of the Suburban and walked quickly to his car.

  It was a black Toyota, a Highlander Hybrid, so new it didn't have plates. I peered in the windows. They were tinted in the back but not the front, so I could make out the UPS box on the passenger seat. It had a fair number of stamps and stickers on it, probably showing tracking numbers, insurance labels, and the like. I couldn't make out the return address, but I guessed, from the stamps and stickers, that it was foreign. That gave me an idea. After a glance toward the vet and another one toward Gelson's, where Nell sat, corpselike, I went into the UPS store.

  The place wasn't busy. In fact, there were no customers. There were three men behind the counter, one of them young, one middle-aged, and one elderly.

  “Can I help you?” the oldest and the youngest asked in unison.

  “Well, I hope so. I've got a new job, and I may already be messing up.” This was close enough to the truth to be credible. “One of my bosses, a guy named Alik Milos, has a mailbox here, and—”

  “Milos? He was just here,” the kid piped up. “Alik Milos.”

  “Thank goodness.” I gave him what I hoped was a pathetic smile. “See, I have a big list of stuff I'm supposed to do, but if he picked up a package already—you're sure he did?”

  “Yeah, he signed for it.”

  “Was it the one from Europe? Wait—let me just consult my notes—” I rummaged through my purse and pulled out my greeting card sketchbook and thumbed through it. “I thought I wrote it down, but—oh, my goodness, I am in trouble if I don't stay on top of this.”

  The kid picked up a spindle with little receipts skewered onto it. “Don't worry, he only comes once a week or so. Not even.” He looked through the receipts like he was going to show me. This was my lucky day.

  “Is it the package from—Belarus?” I asked, stepping closer to look.

  His elderly colleague moved in on him from behind the desk. “That's not information you're to give out, Brewster.”

  “Oh.” Brewster put down the spindle. “Sorry.”

  “No, I'm sorry,” I said. “I don't want to get you in trouble, I just—anyhow, see you next time. If I've still got my job. Which I hope I have.” I smiled my pathetic smile. “Bye.”

  Walking out, I wondered what this meant. Alik had a mailbox here and picked up packages every week. But why not have them delivered to the house?

  “Hey!” The voice behind me made me jump.

  I turned to see the elderly man standing in the doorway of the UPS store. “Yes?” I said, walking back toward him.

  “Not Belarus. Estonia.”

  “Excuse me?”

  He held up a bunch of slips. “The package he picks up, every two weeks, is from Film Estonia. That's where he sends them, too. Now listen: for pickups, you'll need a letter of authorization from him, and for anything you bring in to send, you fill out these waybills and commercial invoices at home, and it will save you quite a bit of time. And can I give you a bit of advice, young lady? Write things down. Don't depend on your memory. You should go right now and jot down everything I've just told you. You're a professional and you need to act like one. That's the way people keep their jobs.”

  Alik hauled a gigantic bag of dog food into the back of the Toyota, slammed the door, and took off.

  I pulled up to Gelson's in the Suburban and collected my produce-laden passengers. When they were buckled up, I asked, “Hey, if I have a package to mail, should I bring it here to the UPS store? Is that easier than the post office?”

  “You don't have to,” Parashie said. “We have FedEx; it comes to the house. You just call, and they come.”

  “So you never use UPS?”

  “Never,” Grusha and Parashie said in unison, with more vehemence than I thought the subject warranted. I wondered why.

  Nell, in the backseat, said nothing. But through her sunglasses I could see her watching me.

  NINETEEN

  “Did you not read the schedule?” Donatella called, rushing to meet me as I emerged from the garage. “You are to be teaching your class.”

  “What?”

  “Class! Class! Your class on dating!”

  “Right now?” I asked, alarmed. “But I thought I was free until—”

  “Three minutes ago!” Two bangled-covered arms danced in the air, punctuating her points. “You don't understand English? Is there another language we should talk in?”

  “I mean—okay. I didn't realize it was an actual class, I thought I was just—what exactly am I supposed to be covering?”

  “Dating!” The bangles shook violently.

  “Yes, I know, but what aspect—”

  “All of it. You are responsible for their social skills. My God, you are so slow. And I must be off. They wait for you in the library. Now. Go.” She brushed past me into the garage, quick yet graceful in a pair of seriously beautiful high-heeled shoes.

  I hurried into Big House, straight into the library. Zbiggo, Stasik, and Felix lounged there on the leather furniture, each with a bottle of Pellegrino nearby.

  “Hello, boys—uh, guys. Gentlemen.”

  “Good morning!” Felix, at least, seemed delighted to see me. “And what do we call you? Woman?”

  “Wollie's good,” I said. “Oh—you mean, people of my gender? ‘Women,’ if you're talking about us in the third person. But don't address someone as ‘woman,’ because that's too John Wayne—”


  “How about ‘dude’?” he asked.

  “No. ‘Babe,’ if you're talking to a bird,” Stasik said in his Oxford accent. “Doll. Crumpet.”

  “Chick,” Zbiggo said, and added something in Russian that made Stasik laugh.

  “Yes, if you want to alienate half the population. You could always use names. First names. Or,” I added, remembering Bronwen, “as a gesture of respect, Ms. Whomever. Oh, if you're hailing a waitress, at dinner, you don't yell ‘Waitress!’ because that's considered rude. And—” I stopped as the library door opened and Parashie came in, armed with a pen and notebook, and took a seat near the back, giving me a smile and a nod. I returned her smile, wondering what she was doing here. “But let's back up. As this is a small class, I'm happy to tailor it to your specific—”

  The door opened again. This time a man, large and florid, entered the room. He looked like he'd just fallen out of bed, despite wearing a suit. “May I help you?” I asked.

  “No, no—” He began to cough but waved me off in a “don't mind me, just go about your business” manner.

  “So, anyhow,” I said, addressing my trio, “I'm here to help you feel at home in the culture of L.A., which is representative of America as a whole.” I thought about that. “Well, except for the Americans who consider L.A. the land of fruits and nuts. But many customs, like opening the car door for your date, are universal. In polite society.”

  Zbiggo asked, “What about sex?”

  “Not on the first date.” I owed the women of America that much; anyone seeing Zbiggo more than once was on her own.

  “Are you saying,” Stasik asked, “that a guy who wants to boink you has to shell out twice for your dinner, then?” The florid man stopped coughing and Parashie looked at me with an expression of interest, pen poised to write.

  “Charmingly asked, Stasik,” I said. “I myself came of age in the era of going dutch, so money isn't the—”

  “Three times?” Felix asked.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Three times dinner, then sex?”

  “There are no hard-and-fast rules, Felix.”

  “And how long must you wait,” Felix asked, “until you telephone her after the first dinner, before the second dinner?”

  “She is hot, this chick?” Zbiggo asked.

  “Make her wait a week,” Stasik said. “Supply and demand. Withhold supply to create demand.”

  “Stasik,” I said, “are you sure this is your first time in L.A.?”

  “Govno,” Zbiggo said. “A week? If she is hot? His balls fall off.”

  “I ask this,” Felix said, “because I am a virgin.”

  There was a moment of silence, except for the sound of Parashie's pen scribbling, and then Zbiggo said it again. “Govno.”

  “Felix,” I said. “Don't worry about it. Women respond to conversation. Show genuine interest in her, look her in the eye, pay attention when she talks, don't order chateaubriand for two if she just told you she's a vegetarian, be your normal, kind self, and don't even try to hit on her until the second, maybe the third—”

  “You have kiss a girl, yes?” Zbiggo asked Felix.

  “Yes, I have kissed a girl.”

  Zbiggo turned to me. “You buy dinner, then you can kiss?”

  “Possibly,” I said. “However, it depends on—”

  “Mouth open?”

  “Occasionally,” I said. Simon flashed through my mind. “But again, there's no—”

  “How about this?” Zbiggo said to Felix, his hands outstretched, palms out, making spasmodic squeezing gestures. “You do this?”

  The florid man in the back of the room made a barking noise, less like a dog than some creature from Sea World. Felix turned to me, eyes wide.

  “Zbiggo,” I said. “Have a seat, please. Felix, there are plenty of women, especially in other parts of the U.S., like Utah, who would consider it a plus, your lack of previous—”

  “Or this?” Zbiggo asked, making a circular movement with his forefinger. He was talking to me now.

  “I'm not sure what that is,” I said.

  “I think you do,” Zbiggo said, advancing toward me.

  In spite of myself, I backed up. “Zbiggo, have a seat, would you?”

  But Zbiggo kept coming, finger twirling, mildly menacing in a class-clown kind of way.

  Stasik stood.

  Zbiggo walked past him and I couldn't see what happened then, only that Zbiggo's hand, which had been in front of him, was suddenly behind him. He stopped, uttered something—the Russian equivalent of “ouch,” probably—and then he was looking at his fingers. I saw a dot of blood appear on his index finger, which he then stuck in his mouth.

  “Sorry,” Stasik said, moving nimbly away, out of Zbiggo's reach. His hands were behind his back, slipping something into his pants pocket.

  A knife?

  Zbiggo threw him a confused look, but let it go. I was confused, too, about what had just happened. Had Stasik really nicked Zbiggo's finger? Did all my trainees carry knives?

  At the other end of the library, the florid man was holding up a cell phone, apparently taking photos of me, and Parashie was writing in her notebook, seemingly oblivious. I was about to ask the florid man who he was and if he'd mind not taking photos of me, when he slipped away into the office and closed the door.

  I spent the rest of the hour discussing tipping procedures in restaurants and the relative merits of handshakes, hugs, and a kiss on the cheek as goodbye rituals, using Felix for my demonstration model and making Stasik and Zbiggo practice on each other. Parashie complimented me on this, walking me to the dining room after class.

  “Also, that was good, about tips,” she said. “No one from Europe remembers to tip.”

  “I know. I used to wait tables, long ago. Were you really taking notes?”

  “No, I am doing my homework,” Parashie said. “Nell gives me so much. But I like noise while I study, so I sit in the library during the training classes.”

  I was distracted by the sight, out the window, of a dozen or more men in tactical pants, shirtless, gathered on the north end of the lawn. I asked Parashie who they were and she told me they were putting in the swimming pool. Which was interesting, as the pool was going in behind the Green House, on the other side of the estate. “Did Chai teach the same class I just taught?” I asked.

  “Oh!” Parashie brightened. “Yes. Only Chai taught which are the cool clubs to go to in Hollywood and how to dress to get in and what is a cool drink to order, like a sidecar, and what celebrities to see in which club.”

  “Oh.” Insecurity set in. “That's not my area of expertise. I hope Donatella isn't disappointed.”

  “Donatella goes today to Mogilev for an emergency. Something big is happening there. Vlad comes from Mogilev and Donatella goes to Mogilev. This is not a good trade.”

  “Vlad—was he the man in the back of the room?”

  “Yes, the ugly one,” she said, nodding. “Bad Vlad, Kimberly and I call him. Stay away from Bad Vlad. He is a real asshole.”

  The last thing I wanted to do after lunch was hike. Hiking ranks high on my list of Activities I Don't See the Point Of. It's not like there's a skill involved, other than the ability to slog along, mile after mile, in blinding sun or torrential rain, for no discernible purpose. But Kimberly assembled us all in the great room, everyone in hiking gear, except for two men in tool belts measuring the glass doors leading to the deck. No one else paid attention to them, so I took the opportunity to sidle up to one and say, “Are we getting new doors?”

  “One-way glass,” he said, his accent Russian. No wonder Bennett Graham had a hard time placing an agent inside the compound. Even the glaziers were Yuri's countrymen.

  I thought back to my first lunch. “Maybe it should be bulletproof glass.”

  “Is already bulletproof. It stop the bullet, yes?” He pointed to a small indentation on the outside of the window.

  Jeez Louise. I was right. It had been a bullet. I was living
in a place where getting shot at was common enough to warrant bulletproof glass. I looked around at my fellow hikers. Were they all aware of that? And which one had written my mirror message? The bloodred letters had still been there when I'd gone to change into hiking clothes, and I'd copied them again on a scrap of paper, which I planned to carry with me until I found a translation.

  Kimberly handed me a shoebox. “Boots. Hey, did you see Olive Oyl throw up?”

  “No,” I said, startled. “Is she sick?”

  “Parashie says she is.”

  “She is!” Parashie said heatedly, overhearing. “Twice she vomited this morning.”

  “Dogs do that,” Kimberly said. “It's no big deal.”

  “What if someone poisons her?” Parashie asked. “Zeferina Maria Catalina says—”

  “Oh, that reminds me,” Kimberly said. “Zeferina Maria Catalina? Your name's great, but too long for Americans. How do you feel about Zeffie?”

  Zeferina Maria Catalina looked up from her new boots. In camouflage gear she was more interesting, a cross between Betty Crocker and Che Guevara. “If I must, okay.”

  Alik approached me with a Swiss Army knife. “Boots fit? Can I clip the tags?”

  I held out my foot.

  “You were right,” he said, snipping the tags. “Someone did shoot at us during lunch the other day.” He nodded toward the glaziers. “Not going to scare you off, is it?”

  “Heck, no.” Two days earlier it had been scary, but now other things were scarier. Like Chai's murder. And Alik's admission reassured me; it showed he was honest. It's a good tactic, a voice said, telling you a truth, you already know.

  Was that my inner spy? She certainly was cynical.

  “You look good,” he said with a final squeeze of my foot. “Grab a pack.”

  I chose an army green backpack from the mound on the table, but Kimberly took it out of my hands, replacing it with another. Inside was a rubber water container attached to a tube that ran along the outside. Parashie showed me how to flip the plastic switch at the end of the tube and suck, for hands-free hydration. She then tightened the straps on the pack, forcing my shoulders back. For the thousandth time, I wished I were flat-chested. If there's a sport in the world where large breasts give you an advantage, I'd like to know about it.