A Date You Can't Refuse Page 7

  I tried to imagine Palomino Hills rolling out the welcome mat for Wiccans. No.

  Only my brother was indifferent to Calabasas. “I'll be needing more books,” he said. “I'm almost done with Cutting Through String Theory. Do you have bookstores there?”

  “Yes, P.B. I'm still in America.”

  I'd used up half my cell phone battery before the 101 North disgorged me onto Valley Circle. At 8:55 I left a message on the MediasRex voice mail, saying I was fifteen minutes away, relieved to confess to a machine and not a person that I was late for my first day of work, thus letting down the team. Also, I was in moving-day clothes. Bad call.

  The guard at the gate of Palomino Hills was even less affable today, unable to choke out so much as a hello. I decided to make it my goal to win him over. With a smile, I nodded to the backseat. “I'm moving in. Hence the suitcases. My name's Wollie, by the way.”

  He didn't acknowledge me, but did show interest in my car, writing its license number on his clipboard before waving me through. Wordlessly. He could've worked for Bennett Graham.

  Grusha stood outside Yuri's house, looking grim. She wore an apron over her housedress, reinforcing the impression of hard manual labor. I imagined her getting up in the morning with the cows and accomplishing by noon more than most of us achieve by midnight. She ignored my apologies and grabbed a bag from my hand.

  “Late is bad. You give me car keys. I take things to your room. I park your car. You go inside now. Everyone is in library. They wait for you.”

  “Yes, sorry, but—where are you taking my stuff?”

  “House of Blue. You go inside now, the Big House.”

  Federal prison? No, she must mean Yuri's place. Odd, since all the houses appeared, from the outside, to be the same size.

  “Quickly,” Grusha said. “Everyone waits for you. In library.”

  It took me a few minutes to find the library, and they were indeed waiting, all eyes turning to me as I entered the large room. I grew conscious of my painter's pants and Nebraska Cornhuskers sweatshirt, since the Milos wives, Donatella and Kimberly and the Milos children, Alik and Parashie, were dressed for a Fortune 500 meeting. With them was a man I didn't know.

  “Sorry, everyone,” I said. “Sorry I'm late.”

  “Wollie, meet our first arrival,” Donatella said, adding, sotto voce, “Change clothes.”

  The strange man stood. He was over six feet and gave the impression of having football gear under his skin, because his upper body was all muscle, straining to break through the seams of a polyester shirt. His nose was bulging. Even his ears appeared to bulge. He was dressed at least as badly as I, in huge, ill-fitting corduroy pants of some indeterminate earth color. I judged him to be around thirty, maybe younger.

  “Wollie, this is Zbigniew,” Donatella said. “Zbigniew is just now come to America for the first time and he is one full day early.” This seemed to irritate her. “He is from Moldova. Zbigniew, you will no doubt recognize Wollie.”

  While I wondered why Zbigniew would recognize me, my hand was taken in one the size of an oven mitt and squeezed rather than shaken. His lips parted in something resembling a smile, revealing crooked teeth. “Sop deert,” he said.

  “Oh. SoapDirt. Yes,” I said, recalling that this show had made me some kind of celebrity in—Moldova? “Nice to meet you, Zbig—Zb—”

  “Zbigniew!” Donatella supplied. “All right, this name, it is impossible. Zbigniew, in America you will be Zbiggo.”

  Zbiggo was fine with that. Or perhaps he didn't hear. “You will date me?” he asked.

  Uh-oh. “No. Well, not”—I glanced at the others, then back to Zbiggo—“exactly. I'm your social coach. We'll be spending time together, certainly, and—”

  “She will date me?” he said to the others.

  His use of the word “date” suggested more than dinner and a movie.

  “Yes, of course, date,” Donatella said. “Wollie will certainly date you, Zbiggo.”

  “Yes,” I said, “But let's just clarify—”

  “Let's sit.” Alik put an arm around Zbiggo, which was a stretch. “Wollie, on the sofa next to Kimberly Zbiggo, over here by me. Wollie, I was just explaining to Zbiggo that it's your first day so we're late getting up and running. Due to an Air Moldova snafu, Zbiggo was forced to take an earlier flight, or else be delayed three days. Zbiggo, good choice.”

  “What is it you do, Zbiggo?” I asked.

  “Box,” he said.

  “How … nice,” I said.

  “Heavyweight.”

  “Yes. I can see that.”

  He smiled at me then, a wide, happy grin of a smile. “I fight Vegas in December.”

  “Wonderful,” I said, wondering if he meant Vegas the city or Vegas a fellow boxer. I'd never seen a boxing match in my life. Not even on television. I confused boxing with wrestling, in fact.

  Kimberly, wearing a tight black suit, said, “Zbiggo's trainer was delayed due to a passport problem. When he gets here, Zbiggo's training schedule will be synchronized with our seminar schedule, and it will be your responsibility, Wollie, to make sure he gets where he needs to go and still makes his sleep quota.”

  Zbiggo continued to smile. I smiled back. “How much sleep do you need?” I asked.

  “Again?”

  “Sleep,” I said, enunciating carefully. “How many hours each night?”

  “With who I am sleep with?” he asked.

  I turned to Alik, my smile frozen in place.

  Alik nodded at me and hopped up from the sofa. “How about a snack?” He went to an intercom on the wall of the library and pressed a button. “Grusha, let's get Zbiggo something to eat, please.”

  “Protein,” Kimberly said.

  “Protein,” Alik repeated. “Sausage, or—”

  Grusha's disembodied voice cried, “I know, I know. Am I stupid?”

  Alik turned to his younger sister. “Parashie, will you show Zbiggo to the kitchen?”

  I worried about the diminutive Parashie being alone with leering Zbiggo all the way to the kitchen, but no one else appeared concerned. Certainly not Parashie.

  “Come on, Zbiggo,” she said and headed out, with Zbiggo shambling after her.

  “This is an annoyance,” Donatella said, closing the door after them. “He could not warn us he was coming early? And you, Wollie. You must always, always be on time. It is fortunate that Yuri was not here, as he is mad for punctuality. We will not tell him.”

  “Cut her some slack,” Kimberly said. “Her day's going to be All Zbiggo, All the Time. Wollie, it can't be helped, but we'll make it up to you. We've got nothing scheduled for him till tomorrow, so today he's all yours. Good luck.”

  “What about jet lag?” I asked. “Might he not like to rest up?”

  “One can hope,” Donatella said.

  “He looks pretty wired to me,” Kimberly said. “Keep him on a short leash.”

  Grusha's disembodied voice squawked at us. “A man is at the guard gate. Bob.”

  “To see whom?” Donatella called.

  “The new one.”

  “Wollie, do you mean?” Donatella turned to me. “Do you know a Bob?”

  “Everybody knows a Bob,” I said. “Bob who?”

  “She doesn't know him well enough. Send him away,” Donatella called to Grusha.

  As I wondered about Bob, Alik stood. “I'll get you tomorrow's schedule.” He crossed the room and opened double doors, revealing an office. Nell was inside, working at a computer. Kimberly explained that Nell was the English tutor as well as Parashie's homeschool teacher, and did record keeping besides. Alik came out of the office with a file and spreadsheets, one of which had “Zbiggo Shpek” written at the top.

  “The week's schedule,” Alik said. “Zbiggo starts tomorrow morning with two hours of language skills, along with four other trainees whose English needs work; that will be here in the library with Nell. Then lunch, then a group hike in the afternoon. Today, you're in charge. Here's five hundred do
llars for incidentals,” he said, handing me an envelope. “Keep receipts. You'll have a MediasRex credit card by next week, but let me know when you run out of money. Here.” He peeled off another bunch of twenties from a money-clipped wad and handed them to me. “Just in case. Whatever it takes to get Zbiggo through the day.”

  “What does that mean, exactly?” I asked, but the phone rang and Alik grabbed it.

  “Okay, I'm outta here,” Kimberly said. “Gotta pick up hiking gear before the airport run. Wollie, what size shoe do you wear?”

  “Oh, don't worry about me, I'm not much of a—”

  “She is an eleven,” Donatella answered. “Wollie? Yuri expected us to have a team meeting this morning but you were late, so that is that. Alik? Are you finished on the phone? Can you give Wollie the tour?”

  “No time. I've got to deal with customs,” he said. “Athletic equipment. Then Long Beach Airport for Nadja, then back to LAX for Zeferina—Wollie, later. Good luck.”

  “Here, Wollie,” Donatella said, putting keys in my hands. “Keys to the car that you will drive. It is in the garage. The big one. And for God's sake, change clothes. This sweatshirt gives one nightmares. And logos? Never. And no jeans, please.”

  “Yes, okay, but can you tell me what exactly I'm supposed to do with Zbiggo?”

  “This is completely up to you. As Yuri likes to say, keep them out of jail, out of the newspapers, and off the streets.”

  Any hopes I had that Zbiggo might be sleepy were dashed the moment I found my way into the kitchen, a big state-of-the-art affair with the usual granite counters, center island, Sub-Zero refrigerator, and industrial-sized oven that was so common to upper-crust Los Angeles houses, whether or not anyone actually cooked.

  Zbiggo stood at the center island, chowing down on what looked to be raw meat.

  “He drinks a lot of coffee,” Parashie whispered in my ear. “And he is restless. Maybe you could take him out for a run or something.”

  Like a dog. Or a Clydesdale. “Can you come too?” I whispered back.

  “No, I have a ginormous shopping list. Grusha runs me ragged.”

  “Parashie, come.” Grusha clapped her hands at the girl, then removed her apron. “I drop you at Ralphs, I go to farmers' market.” She then pointed to Zbiggo and me. “You. And you. Dinner is seven o'clock. Not sooner, not later. Now, you go. Out of my kitchen.”

  “Grusha, where will I find my bags?” I asked.

  “In your room. House of Blue.”

  Zbiggo and I followed Grusha and Parashie outside. They hopped into a cute little Honda parked in front of the house and zoomed away. I led Zbiggo to the house I'd not yet been in, the House of Blue, only to find the front door locked. Great. I led Zbiggo back into Big House, and called out, but no one answered. I led him next door, to Donatella's house, but that too was locked. We returned to Big House.

  We appeared to be alone in the complex. What a good time to do spying, I thought. But what to do with Zbiggo?

  “Hey, I've got an idea,” I said. “How about we hang out here for a while?”

  “What is that?”

  “Hang out? You know, lie around, watch T V, or sit in the library and read. Great opportunity to improve your English, unless they've got some books in Moladovian. Which they might. Anyhow, want to?”

  “No. I come to see L.A.”

  So much for that. “Okay, one problem is that I'm not dressed very … elegantly.”

  “What is this means?”

  “Elegance? It's … the point is, I look like a bum.”

  “What is bum?”

  The best description of bum would be Zbiggo himself, but it hardly seemed kind to point that out. “Never mind,” I said. “You want to see L.A., let's go.”

  En route to the garage, Zbiggo attempted to hold hands, so I explained in stringent tones that this was not customary in America between people who'd just met, unless they were under the age of six. This could get tricky. Zbiggo was not remotely my type. I have nothing against large people—Simon himself was six foot five—but there was something ungainly about him, and uncivilized. Too much testosterone. Not a wolf, more like a moose. An oversexed moose. I would just have to find something likable about him.

  The garage, not surprisingly, was huge. One car resided there, with room for at least seven more, by my estimate.

  “And this must be ours,” I said. “My, it's big, isn't it? Good. I'd hate to have you squeeze into a Mini Cooper. For instance. This is a—what is this, anyway?”

  “Zuhboodbun.”

  “Pardon me? Oh, of course,” I said as Zbiggo pointed to letters on the back of the vehicle. “A Suburban. Great.” Another first. I'd never driven a sports utility vehicle. I avoid sports, period. I tried the doors. Locked.

  “You drive me?” Zbiggo asked.

  “Yes, that's the plan.”

  This seemed to fill him with glee. “You drive me. You date me.”

  “You and two others. That's the gig. But I am not a standard date, I am a social coach, and there's a distinction.” I pressed buttons on the key until I heard a click, then tried the door again. It opened with difficulty. When I pulled on it, I nearly dislocated my shoulder. “Good God, it's like it's made of concrete,” I said.

  Zbiggo stepped in and took the door from me, swinging it wide. I brushed against his massive torso, which was rock hard, and then he made a move toward me and I imagined him tossing me up and into the Suburban the way you'd throw someone onto a horse. To preempt this, I launched myself into the driver's seat, avoiding full physical contact. His hand did connect with my derriere, but there was a slight chance he was just trying to be helpful. I pushed him away with a firm “Thank you.”

  He got in the passenger seat but rejected the seat belt. “I don't like.”

  “Click it or ticket, Zbiggo.” I folded my arms, prepared to spend the next eighteen hours in the garage. After an aggrieved sigh, he stretched the safety harness across his broad expanse of chest and buckled it.

  The engine started up with a roar that would make an airplane proud, and I backed the SUV down the driveway with something akin to terror. It felt like I was driving a house.

  “What this? TV?” he asked, pointing to the small screen on the ceiling behind us.

  “Probably a DVD player.”

  “How it work?” he asked, pressing buttons on the dashboard in a random manner, causing windshield wipers to wipe and the radio to blast forth static. Zbiggo kept himself happy for several minutes, finding music stations. I pulled out of Palomino Hills and noticed a grungy red car parked on the shoulder of the road just outside the gates on Mulholland Highway. It started up and, with a squeal of spinning tires, jumped onto the road behind me.

  Zbiggo settled on hip-hop.

  “Well, then,” I said with a glance in the rearview mirror. “Now that you're in America, how would you like to spend your first day?”

  “Meet girls,” he said. “Beverly Hills. Hollywood. Disneyland.”

  “I can do two out of four,” I said.

  The drive through the Santa Monica Mountains was long and tortured, and the red car, a Ford Escort, stayed behind us the whole time. Part of the torture was moving this whalelike vehicle through the winding Las Virgenes Canyon roads—not the best route, I discovered—then down Pacific Coast Highway at a reasonable speed while staying in one lane; the rest was Zbiggo's fractured speech. The hip-hop station disappeared into static, and Zbiggo felt a need to talk. After twenty minutes or so, his accent began to yield up its secrets and I could hear letter substitutions that were consistent, the d's that were actually rolled r's and a clipped quality on certain vowel sounds. We kept at it and began to experience something approaching conversation. Zbiggo, when not focused on sex, was a lot more bearable, although I found myself glancing at the Suburban's dashboard clock, wondering how many waking hours he had in him.

  “… the car Chai drive?” he said, interrupting my mental calculations.

  “What?”

&n
bsp; “Is this car also for Chai?” he asked.

  I glanced over at him. “You knew Chai?”

  “Da.”

  “When?”

  “In my country.”

  I was confused. “Chai visited … Moldova?”

  “April, she is come to Ukraine, to Kyiv. With Yuri. I come to Kyiv also. To meet. MediasRex.”

  Interesting. Why would Yuri take Chai to Ukraine, if her job, like mine, was transporting the clients around Los Angeles? I glanced in the rearview mirror as PCH turned into the 10 East. The red car was still with me. “Zbiggo, you know that Chai's dead?”

  “Da. In Kyiv, she is sick.”

  “Chai was sick in Kyiv?”

  “She is stay in hotel. Sick. Throw out.”

  “They threw her out? Of the hotel? For being sick?”

  He shook his head, then made retching noises. “Throw out?”

  “Oh. You mean throw up. Well, that's a shame. But Chai didn't die from being sick. She drove off a cliff.”

  Zbiggo grunted.

  “So, Zbiggo,” I asked, “was Kimberly also in Kyiv? Or Alik? Or—”

  “No. Yuri. Chai. Only these.”

  I found this disquieting, that Chai had traveled alone with Yuri. And what exactly was Chai's job there? Not driving, probably. And was this something I'd be expected to do too?

  Speaking of jobs, I was working for Uncle Sam now too, in addition to MediasRex. “Hey, Zbiggo,” I said, “can I see your passport?”

  “What for you want it?”

  “Well, it's a hobby of mine. A new hobby.” So new, in fact, I'd just that moment started it. “I love to see passports from other countries, check out what they look like. Every country's different. It's always fun to see how other people do it.”

  “Do it?” He looked at me and grinned. “Do it?”

  “Yes. Do … passports. Design them.”

  “You like to see people do it?”

  “We're talking about passports, right? Yes. I would find that interesting.” How had this become sexual?

  Zbiggo grinned bigger, showing me the full glory of his teeth. No state-subsidized dental care in his country, apparently. “You want see my passport?” he asked, spreading his hands, palms up, in a “be my guest” gesture. “Come. Look for it. You find it, you can have.”