A Nose for Adventure (11 page)

Events are moving too fast for me. I feel like I’m in a weird dream. In this dream I’m standing still, and everything else in the world is whirling past. I grasp at objects I recognize but my hand closes around smoke, or empty air, or something totally unexpected. I reach for a tennis racket and get a spoon. I hear a friend’s voice, but by the time I turn around I’m staring into the mouth of an angry lion. I try to take my father’s hand and find myself clutching a stone.

What is happening to me? Why didn’t Dad meet me at the airport? How did I come to be mixed up with a rich girl, a talking dog, and a smelly package? Not to mention bad guys, with names like Earless and Slouchy and Hawkface – no, Hawkface is a god. What does it all mean?

Maybe it
is
a weird dream. But it feels awfully real, and it’s lasting all day long.

Anyway, when Special Agent Libby says hello and asks
me how I am, I say the first thing that comes into my head. “Confused,” I say.

We’re in the den. There’s a grand piano at one end of the room and a couch at the other. Family photographs smile down from the walls. Flowers hold their heads up straight and tall in vases. The agent and I are sitting side by side on the couch.

“First trip to New York?” he asks. I nod. “Well, that explains it,” he says. “It’s a confusing town.”

He rubs his face with his hand, kneading it hard, like pie crust. “I’m confused, and I’ve lived here all my life,” he says. “Take this afternoon. I’ve been working on Earless for the past six months. I’ve got a pipeline into his organization. I’ve been following this Ushabti every step of the way, waiting for it to come to Earless himself. I had everything I needed to get him this afternoon – and you saw what happened.”

“Too bad,” I say.

He shakes his head. “You don’t know the half of it. My people are searching through his gallery right now. I say ‘his,’ but there’s nothing there that links up to Earless. The gallery isn’t even in his name. I want him behind bars, and for that I need proof.”

Of course, he also needs to have Earless himself, who is missing, but I don’t point this out. “Sorry,” I say.

He shrugs. “Not your fault.”

He’s an okay guy. He asks a bunch of easy questions in a really friendly tone of voice – where I live, how old I am, do I like baseball. I start to relax, maybe because he likes
baseball too. “I went to last night’s game with the Blue Jays,” he says. “Got Williams’ autograph – for my son,” he adds. “He’s about your age.”

“Wow,” I say.

“Would you like to see it? It’s right here.” He reaches into his inside jacket pocket.

Sally wanders into the room. I smile and beckon, but she jumps onto the couch next to the agent. He frowns. I don’t think he likes dogs.

“Come here, Norb – I mean, Sally,” I say. “C’mere, girl.”

–
No
, says Norbert.

Startled by the strange squeaky voice, Libby jerks his hand out of his pocket. A photograph falls out, and lands on the glass-topped table right in front of me, as if placed by an unseen hand for my personal inspection. Nothing to do with baseball. This is a picture of Slouchy and Skinny sitting at a restaurant.

“I… I…” I stare and swallow. My hand, as if acting on its own impulse, nothing to do with my brain at all, reaches towards the photograph. “Who are they?” I ask. My voice comes from a long way off. It sounds like someone else’s.

Libby stares at the dog, shakes his head, and then comes back to me. “These jokers? They’re a couple of guys Earless uses here in New York. One of them works at La Guardia Airport. They’re related – cousins, I think. Why? Do you … do you mean you recognize them? You’ve seen them?”

I nod.

“It’s something to do with that piece of brown paper in your pocket, isn’t it?”

I nod again.

“Where and when did you see them?”

I don’t say anything.

“Come on, son.”

I swallow. “This morning,” I say. “I saw them both this morning.”

Oh, no. I’ve said it now. I’m scared, but I can’t take it back. The whole thing is going to come out. You can lie down and take deep breaths and fool yourself into thinking you’re not going to throw up, until the moment comes when you know you are. No good telling yourself it’s the right thing to do. No good telling yourself the police are the good guys.

Seeing Slouchy in the picture brings all my fear to the surface. I’m scared of what he’ll do to me.

Sally licks my hand, and trots out of the room.

The story only takes a few minutes to tell. About halfway through, the special agent stops me, goes to the door, and calls Culverhouse. Then he has me start at the beginning and tell it again, with Culverhouse taking notes. After I’m done, they go over and over certain parts of it. Am I sure they said Earless will be happy to see him? What time was that? What exactly did they say? Am I sure?

“I’m sure,” I say, “and there’s another person involved too. A woman.” I tell them about Veronica. The agent nods, but he doesn’t seem as interested in her. “She’s the attendant,” I say. “On the airplane.”

“Yeah, yeah,” he says. He tells me to forget about her.

Frieda and Bird are called into the room and asked to confirm my story. Sally comes too. Frieda strokes the dog absently. Mrs. Miller stands in the doorway while Frieda speaks. She’s staring at her daughter as if she’s seeing a whole new person. When Frieda gets to the part where the truck drives away with us in it, Culverhouse clucks his teeth sympathetically. Mrs. Miller turns away. Frieda scratches behind Sally’s ears.

Libby wants to hear one more time about the bundle inside the wheelchair. “Andrews and Jones both knew about it?” he asks. Andrews is Slouchy’s real name. Jones is the skinny government guy, and he owns the Amphora Jones gallery – at least, his name is on the deed.

“They both knew,” I say for the third time. “And Veronica unwrapped it. She wanted to take it to Earless herself, but the slouchy guy – Andrews – said no.”

Libby nods to himself.

“Later, Sally found part of the wrapping,” says Frieda. “Didn’t you, sweetie!”

“And it smelled like creosote,” I say.

The special agent is massaging his face again. He looks hopeful. I feel for him. I know how hard hope can be.

Here’s a strange thing. After I talk to the C & E – that’s what Customs and Excise call themselves – I feel better. You’d think I’d be worried. I’ve broken a promise. I’ve told, after I said I wouldn’t. If Slouchy finds me, who knows what horrible thing he’ll do.

Maybe I should feel scared. But I don’t. I don’t feel scared at all. I feel relieved. It’s like I’ve been walking around with a stomach-ache. Now that I’ve thrown up, I feel better.

“I want to phone my dad,” I say.

A half hour later I’m sitting in the kitchen with milk and cookies, listening for the phone. I’m hoping my dad will call back. His secretary said he would. I told her where I was, and gave her the Millers’ number, and she said my dad would be sure to call back. She said that –
I’m sure he will
– in a voice I’ve heard my mom use, meaning
he should, but he might not get around to it
.

The secretary sounded surprised that I was in New York. “You sure you’re not calling from Canada?” she asks.

Special Agent Libby is waiting for a call too. He’s pacing up and down the kitchen, folding phone in one hand, cookie in the other.

Bleep!!

A ring, but not the one I want. “Yes?” says Libby. Crumbs spray out of his mouth. He ignores them. “Where is she?” he asks. “Why hasn’t she called?” He stops moving and listens. “Say that again,” he says. A late lightning flash lights up the sky outside; the flash is reflected in his eyes. “That’s at La Guardia? Are you sure?”

He takes a small pad of paper from his inside jacket pocket – not the pocket with the photographs; the other one – and writes down some numbers. “Got it,” he says.
“Anything else?” He’s pressing the phone against his ear. Here’s the hope again, riding across his face like a hero on a white horse. “Okay,” he says. “Let’s go. Clear it up the line. Use my authority. I want units in position in …” he looks at his watch “… in forty minutes. I’ll get there with the boy as soon as I can.”

He comes over to where I’m sitting, and bends down so his eyes are on a level with mine.

“I’m the boy, aren’t I?” I say. “The boy you were just talking about on the phone.”

He nods. “Jones’ car is sitting in the airport parking lot. We need someone who saw it in the alley with the kidnappers’ truck.”

“Me?”

The special agent points to Bird. “He didn’t see the car. You did.”

“So I’m the boy?”

“You are the boy.”

“Hey!” says Frieda.

“What about me?” says Frieda.

Libby puts away his telephone. He looks almost naked without it. “What about you, Miss Miller?” I’m the boy. She’s Miss Miller.

“Why can’t I go?”

“Do you want to go, um, dear?” asks Frieda’s mother. The last word sounds odd on her tongue, as though she isn’t used to it.

“If Alan goes, I should go too. Two witnesses are better than one. I’m older than Alan, and I have a better memory.”

Go instead of me, I think to myself. But I don’t say it.

“But, Miss Miller, you’re … well, you’re …”

“A girl?”

“No. I mean, you are a girl, of course. But …” The agent is having trouble saying what he means.

“Maybe you’d better let the man decide,” says Mrs. Miller.

“He’s saying I can’t go because I’m a girl,” says Frieda.

“No, no, that’s not it at all,” he hastens to say. “It’s … oh, dear.”

She swivels her chair to face me. “Alan, what kind of car does the skinny guy drive?” she asks.

I think back. “It’s medium-sized,” I say. “Not too big. And not … what’s the word?”

“Small?” says Bird.

“No no. Not all one color.”

“Two-toned, yes,” says Frieda. “How many doors?”

I open my mouth. “Doors?”

She smiles sympathetically. She doesn’t want to make me look like an idiot. “Doors,” she says. “The things with hinges and handles that people use to get in and out of cars.”

Maybe she doesn’t care what I look like, at that.

“I don’t know,” I say. “I only saw one.”

Norbert snickers. I know it’s Norbert. So does Frieda. She puts her hand on the dog’s muzzle. “Shhh,” she whispers.

The special agent is staring at me. I know that look. He’s disappointed. My math teacher looks that way all the time. “Sorry,” I say.

“It’s a late-model Buick Regal hardtop,” she says crisply. “Two-toned in blue. Light blue body, dark blue top.”

“I didn’t know you were interested in automobiles, dear,” says her mother.

“Four doors,” she goes on. “And one of those pathetic tassels tied to the aerial.”

Libby is still staring at me. “I remember the tassel,” I say.

So Frieda gets to come to the airport too. With her is her mom, hesitant but determined. And Sally. The special agent doesn’t want to take the dog, but Frieda insists. “You’ll see,” she says. “There’s more to this dog than you think there is.”

“That’s true,” says Mrs. Miller.

“That’s true,” I say.

–
That is true
, says Norbert.

We’re all in the Millers’ front hall. Libby frowns, shakes his head, opens the door.

“What about my dad?” I say. “He’s going to call here.” If he remembers. But I don’t say that. “I don’t want to miss his call. I’ve missed him all day.”

“Beatrice will tell him where you are,” says Frieda.

Beatrice is standing next to me, holding the front door open. She pats my arm.

“He was supposed to meet me at the airport this morning,” I say.

“But the plane was early,” says Beatrice. “Don’t worry, little one. I will wait for your call. A boy should be with his
padre.”

We’re cramped in the unmarked C & E car. I’m in the front, between Special Agent Libby and Officer Culverhouse. Frieda and her mom and Sally are in the back. The storm
is over, and the pavements are steaming in the misty sunshine. Everyone but me and Sally is wearing sunglasses. Frieda’s new pair look like her old ones. Mrs. Miller’s have pale yellow rims, to match her topcoat.

Bird is in the back too. Driving past Central Park, the special agent asks him where he thinks he’s going.

“Airport,” says Bird.

“Why?”

“Don’t know yet,” says Bird.

“Where’s your wagon?” Frieda asks.

“Got what I need from it,” he says. He reaches into a capacious pocket and brings out a woven leather leash. “For you and your talkin’ dog. Happy Wishday.”

“Oh, Bird. I can’t take it.”

“You got to – it’s the law.”

Frieda weighs it in her hand. “Then, thank you,” she says. “Thank you very much.”

“Shew-ah.”

“But how do you know that this is all you need?”

“I just know.”

There’s a hands-free phone in the car. A female voice on the other end of the phone wonders where we are and how long it will take us to get to La Guardia. Lieutenant Aylmer’s voice. “Ten minutes,” Libby tells her.

The East River is behind us now. We’re in Queens. Culverhouse drives fast, headlights flashing. Cars ahead of us pull out of the way.

“I’ll meet you at the west entrance,” says Lieutenant Aylmer. “They’ve blocked off a large section of the east side for a movie they’re shooting.”

“Those signs we saw this morning,” I say to Frieda. “Remember?”

“Of course I remember,” she says. “We passed a crew setting up tracks for the camera.”

“We did?”

On an impulse, Mrs. Miller stretches her arm across her daughter’s body. “Can I?” she asks, and strokes Sally behind the ears.

“I didn’t know you liked dogs,” says Frieda.

Traffic jam. Libby swears, and reaches under his seat for a blue light that clips onto the roof of the car. When the siren starts to wail, it’s not quite like on TV. It’s louder, for one thing.

Sally lets out a startled yelp and scrambles over Frieda’s lap and onto Bird’s. She’s on her feet, trembling, taking up most of the backseat.

The car pulls left, across the double yellow line. Lights flashing, motor revving, we’re barreling along in the wrong lane. Oncoming cars are leaping out of our way.

–
Down!
calls Norbert. I can’t help it, I duck. So does Culverhouse.
Not you, Dingwall. Sally, down, girl!

“Who’s that?” asks Libby. “That you, Frieda?”

–
Sit!
says Norbert. I am sitting and, a moment later, so is Sally.

By now we’re roaring into the airport. We park at the near end of the terminal, behind the cab rank. Before we can even get out of the car, Lieutenant Aylmer comes running over. She sticks her head in the window.

“You made good time, sir. We’ve set up a command post inside.”

“Personnel?”

“The terminal is crawling with cops and C & E agents. We’re like fleas on a dog here.”

–
Hey!
says a squeaky voice from the backseat.

“Shh,” says Frieda.

Libby asks about Earless. Lieutenant Aylmer shakes her head.

We all get out of the car. Mrs. Miller helps Frieda into her chair, bending to swing her daughter’s legs into position. Sally licks Mrs. Miller’s hand. She gives a little shriek, then composes herself.

“I’m trying,” she says. I don’t know who she’s talking to. “I am trying. I’m not afraid.”

Aylmer steps back to let Libby out of the car. “You said you’d bring the boy, sir. Why’s everyone else here?”

“Extra witnesses,” Libby says shortly. “The girl’s got a good memory. Boy’s is like a sieve.” He says this last bit in a low voice, but I hear it. Ah, well.

“I understand the car is in lot P-3,” says Aylmer.

“Isn’t that where it was parked this morning?” I ask.

“No,” says Frieda. “It was across from the west taxi rank. Under the overhang.”

“Oh, yeah,” I say.

“See what I mean,” Libby whispers.

Aylmer nods. “But the girl is….” She doesn’t finish.

“Yes, I know,” he says.

The smell of plane exhaust makes this underground parking lot a bit more exciting than usual, but it’s still a big gray grimy noisy low-ceilinged shed full of cars. P-3 is on the third level below ground. When we get there, the car is easy to spot. “There it is,” I say, pleased with myself for beating Frieda to the punch.

“No,” she says. “It’s too small.”

“But it’s got a tassel on the aerial.”

“So does that one there,” she says, pointing to a red minivan. “And that one too.” She points to a sports car, whose all-black windows are covered in stencils of bull dogs and bikinis. The licence plate says BAD DUDE. I wonder why he needs a tassel. You’d think he’d know which car was his.

Frieda wheels herself down one row of cars and up another one. Her mom walks beside us. Aylmer follows at a distance. She’s in charge of us now. Libby and Culverhouse are busy inside the airport.

“There it is.” Frieda sounds sure of herself. Blue and blue, like she said. It’s parked carelessly between a Jeep with wooden siding and a black luxury sedan. Sally starts sniffing around the luxury car. I suppose it must have run over something especially smelly.

“Could be the right car,” I say. “But there’s no tassel.”

Aylmer ignores me. Her sharp eyes glint. “Good for you,” she tells Frieda. “You’ve tied the car to the kidnap scene. That’s another charge on the slate against Jones. We have a forensics team standing by.” She takes out a phone and gives some orders.

“You mean you knew all along,” I say.

“Our pipeline was in the car,” says Aylmer. “You guys are confirmation.”

She punches a number into her cell phone and walks a short way off to talk.

It’s 4:30 by my watch. I have a sudden clear picture of my dad, checking his watch as he makes a phone call. He always does that. The picture is so vivid, I can count the creases in Dad’s summer suit, smell the aftershave he wears.

“What’s wrong, Alan?” asks Frieda. She rolls herself over to where I’m standing, and puts her hand on my arm.

“Nothing,” I say.

“For a second there you looked like you were going to burst into tears.”

“Me?”

When I was a toddler I used to like to shave with my dad, early in the mornings. He’d sit me on the bathroom vanity and put foam on my cheeks, and give me a razor of my own without a blade in it, and after we’d wiped our faces clean he’d splash his aftershave on us both. I felt as grown up as you can feel, when you’re still too young to go to school.