Beverly Hills Maasai (9 page)

Suddenly half a dozen pens were thrust into my face. Helpful … but where did runners carry pens? Oh, yeah, in their fanny packs.

I handed a pen to each of the guys. “You need to fill out these forms to register for the race,” I said.

They all nodded their heads in agreement and smiled, but nobody started to write. Wait … could they write? Nebala had gone to college, so of course he could write, but I didn’t know about the other two. What I did know was that nobody was filling out the forms. Nebala wasn’t writing, but he was reading, studying the form as if it were some kind of test. Koyati wasn’t even looking at the form, and he was holding the pen as if it were a knife. Was he planning on stabbing the questions he didn’t like?

I was trying to figure out how to ask about their literacy skills with the least possible cringe factor, but Olivia decided to just go for it.

“You three do know how to write, don’t you?” she asked.

“Samuel and Koyati read and write in two languages,” Nebala said.

“That’s great!” I said. “So they can—”

“The languages are Swahili and Maa,” Nebala explained. “I can read and write in
three
languages. I also read and write in English.”

“That’s great. So I can help Samuel, and Olivia can help Koyati.”

Olivia gave me a dirty look. That wasn’t nice, but Samuel was, and Koyati still sort of scared me a little.

“I can write,” Nebala said, “but I do not understand what all these things mean.”

“Forms can be difficult,” I agreed. “Which part is confusing?”

He put his finger against the form—what looked like the very first line. “What does this mean?”

I turned my head so I could see where he was pointing. “Name,” I read out loud. “You don’t know what to put down for your name?” That wasn’t the part I’d expected to confuse anybody.

“What does this mean?” he asked.

“Surname. That means your last name.”

“I am Nebala.”

“Yes, and I’m Alexandria … Alexandria
Hyatt.
Hyatt is my
surname.”
He didn’t reply. I wondered. “Do you have a last name?”

“I am
Nebala.”

“But there must be more than one Nebala at home. How do they know it’s you and not another Nebala?”

“I am Nebala, oldest son of
King
Nebala.”

I looked at the form. There were a dozen or so little spaces. Certainly not enough to put down all of that. Wait! I filled in “Nebala” for first name and then simply put in one word for his surname: “King.”

I ran my finger down the form. If surname was a problem, I couldn’t imagine how much more difficult the rest of it was going to be. All the usual stuff—address, zip code, and phone number—were not going to be that usual. I had a feeling that it was going to take me almost as long to complete these forms as it was going to take them to actually run the marathon.

We worked away at if for a while, and when Olivia and I had finally filled in all the blanks we could, we handed the forms back. There were a few missing sections, but we’d done our best.

“Fine,” said the man behind the desk “Three entries. That will be six hundred dollars.”

“Six hundred dollars!” I exclaimed.

“Two hundred per entry.”

I turned to Nebala. He pulled out a little bag that was hanging from his neck. It wasn’t Coach or Chanel, but it did look like a purse … sort of like the little change purse my grandmother used to carry in her handbag. He opened the drawstring and started to remove a stack of bills. But they didn’t look right. They looked more like Monopoly money. No, they were Kenyan shillings.

I did a quick calculation—I was very good at mental math. The current exchange rate was 61 Kenyan shillings to one U.S. dollar. So $600 worked out to 36,600 shillings. I watched as Nebala counted out the bills and placed them on the table—40,000 shillings. That emptied out his little purse. When he got his change he’d have only 3,400 shillings left, or $55.73. Not very
much. I guessed he had other money somewhere else. I hoped.

“What are these?” the man behind the table asked.

“Money,” Nebala said.

The man picked up one of the bills and looked at it quizzically, then laughed. “This isn’t
real
money.”

Nebala scowled. “This is good money.” He pushed the stack toward the man.

“I mean we don’t take foreign money. Only U.S. currency or credit cards. Do you have any credit cards?”

I almost laughed.

“Here, put it on this,” Olivia said. She snapped down a gold American Express card.

“Do you have enough room on your card for this?” I asked.

“I have all the room I want. Divorcing-parent guilt goes a long way.”

The man reached for the card, but before he could take it Nebala put his hand down, pinning the card and the man’s hand. He tried to remove his hand, but Nebala held it firmly in place.

“What are you doing?” the man squeaked.

“Take the money … Our money is
good.”
Both Samuel and Koyati moved closer.

The man now looked confused. What he should have looked was scared. He had insulted a Maasai warrior—no,
three
warriors. He didn’t know how quickly this could turn ugly.

He struggled to move his hand again, but Nebala reached over with his other hand and grabbed him by
the wrist, stopping him. The man now had the good sense to look scared.

“But you
are
paying,” I said to Nebala.

I squeezed myself between Nebala and the table, then took his hand and tried to lift it up. I couldn’t budge it. He had the man’s hand trapped beneath his.

“Olivia wants the money. She wishes to have some Kenyan money because someday she wants to go with me to Kenya … right, Olivia?”

“I would
love
to go to Kenya.”

“See? She wants the Kenyan shillings, and she’ll put the six hundred dollars on her card. You’re still paying.”

I could see Nebala relax, and I was able to lift up his hand at last.

The man removed his hand and rubbed his wrist with the other.

“Please put it on her card,” I said.

Tentatively he reached over and took the card. He looked relieved when Nebala didn’t try to stop him. He ran it through the machine, took out the little strip of paper, and handed it to Olivia. She signed it and handed it back. He took one copy, handed it to her, and placed the second with the three forms, stapling it to the top of one.

“So is this it?” I asked. “Are they registered?”

“Yes, just take these three receipts over to the next table and they’ll receive their race packages.”

“Thank you,” I replied. “You’ve been very helpful.”

We turned and started to walk away. I wasn’t sure who was more grateful we were leaving, him or me.

“Wait!” the man called out.

I turned around. What could he possibly want? Obviously Nebala hadn’t scared him enough.

He was holding up his copy of one of the forms, and he came around the table toward us. “You failed to complete the
qualifying
section.”

“There were a few sections that didn’t make sense to us.”

“But this section is
essential.
We have to know what other races they have competed in.”

“They haven’t run any other races,” I said.

“What?” he demanded. “No other races?”

“None. That’s why it’s blank. This will be their first.”

“But to be able to run in this marathon they have to have been in other marathons and made the qualifying time.”

“Qualifying time? What are you talking about?”

“There are standards,” he snapped. “To qualify to run in the Beverly Hills Marathon you have to have previously run at least a 3:05.”

“A what?”

He shook his head and gave me a look that could only be described as disgusted. “You have to have run another marathon and finished in less than three hours and five minutes.”

“Is that even possible?” I asked.

“That is a high standard—five minutes less than to qualify for the Boston Marathon—but very, very doable.”

“I’m sure they’ve run that fast before,” I said. “They are Maasai.”

“I don’t care what they are,” he said. “They need documentation.”

“But they don’t have any documentation!” I protested.

“Then I’ll need those back.” He reached out and tried to grab the registration forms from me. I held on tightly, and he struggled to rip them out of my hands. He bent my hand back and he pushed.

“Stop … you’re hurting—”

Koyati leaped forward with lightning speed, and before I could say a word, he pushed the man backwards. Instantly he released my hand. Koyati pushed him back until he was pinned against the wall, standing on his tippy-toes, his feet almost off the ground. Our Maasai warrior was holding him in place with one hand pressed against his throat. The man’s eyes were bugged out, and now, finally, he looked as scared as he should have been.

Olivia let out a scream, and the people who hadn’t seen what
had
happened were now all watching what
was
happening … and wondering if something worse was
about
to happen.

“Koyati,” I called out, and he looked at me. “Could you let him down … please?” I asked sweetly.

He didn’t respond. He continued to glare at the man. It was then I noticed that his free hand was hidden beneath his blanket. That could mean only one thing—it was holding on to a weapon. This could quickly go from bad to deadly.

I put my hand on Koyati’s arm, the one pinning the man—who was now starting to turn a little blue. Hopefully all that running had given him extra lung capacity.

“I’m okay … Please let him down.”

Nebala barked out a few words in Swahili. Koyati let out a big sigh, like he was disappointed, and then released him.

The man slumped against the wall. He rubbed his throat and then took in a very, very loud and deep breath.

“Are you all right?” I asked.

“He … he … choked me!”

“He was just protecting me,” I said. “But let’s not fight about that. We need to talk … well, not me and you. I need to speak to whoever is in charge. Right now.”

He nodded in agreement. That was smart. At least he was finally scared.

I settled into the seat. Soft leather. Imported. Expensive. Probably Italian. I looked around the room. The furniture was simple but elegant, expensive, well chosen. One wall was lined with books—probably just for show, more leather. The walls were decorated with artwork, tasteful, understated, the colours working beautifully with both the furniture and the walls. Whoever this office belonged to had taste. And money.

The door opened and a man walked in. He was in his middle to late twenties. Perfect hair, perfect complexion, perfectly put together designer clothes, matching and coordinated down to his leather Gucci loafers—I recognized them as this year’s most up-to-date style and worth serious coin. I didn’t know who he was, but he certainly wasn’t one of the runners—not with those clothes and those shoes and that sense of style.

He walked with a sense of confidence. Not a strut, but understated. His walk said, “I’m well respected, well connected, and … well, just plain rich.” I knew that walk. I
had
that walk. Olivia and I exchanged a knowing look—we were getting a good idea now of who we were up against, and we’d met his type before.

He did a comical sort of double-take when he saw the Maasai standing behind my chair, but he covered it well. Then he flashed a smile—perfect teeth with white veneers. Probably twenty thousand dollars’ worth of dental. He extended his hand to me.

“Good afternoon,” he sang out. “My name is Dakota … Dakota Rivers. And you are?”

“Alexandria Hyatt,” I said as we shook.

“Hyatt?” he questioned. “You wouldn’t, by any chance, be related to the Hyatts of Newport?”

“My father has cousins. Evan and Eleanor.”

“Yes, of course. They have a place on the water.”

“I think I remember my father telling me something about them having a little beach house.”

“Little? It is
quite
the home.”

“I guess we all have different definitions of little,” I said, trying to let him know that I was a few rungs up the social ladder from his friends, our cousins.

“Have you never been there?” he asked.

I shook my head.

“I’ve been to a number of summer soirees at their home. Wonderful hosts. I’ll pass on my regards the next time I see them.”

“Thank you.”

“It is such a small world,” he said.

“Yes. Definitely.”

I inhaled. He even smelled expensive. I thought that I recognized the scent. “You wouldn’t, by chance, be wearing Lalique Pour Homme ‘Le Faune,’ would you?”

He flashed me another perfect smile. “That is truly impressive. Obviously you are a woman not only of discerning taste, but of fine olfactory talents.”

“It’s one of my favourites,” I said. “Now my turn.”

He leaned forward until he was almost touching me. He was so close that I could feel the warmth of his body. He inhaled.

“Yes, that does smell familiar … very feminine … a certain elegance.”

I felt myself get a little flushed.

“I believe it’s Dolce and Gabbana.”

“Yes, it is!”

“Our turn to be impressed,” Olivia said.

He turned to Olivia now, all charm. “My apologies for not introducing myself to you as well!” Dakota said.

“This is my friend Olivia.”

They shook hands.

“Enchanted to meet you.”

“And these three are Nebala, Samuel, and Koyati.”

He offered his hand. Nobody reached to take it. They just stood there, stock-still, silent, and scowling scarily.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he said, withdrawing his hand and bowing his head slightly. Not bad. He’d managed to rescue himself from an embarrassment. I could work with this man. If he’d been a few years younger or I’d been a few years older we could perhaps have done more than just work. He was hot.

“Please, let’s all just take a seat and discuss this unfortunate
situation.”

He sat down behind his desk, and the three Maasai continued to stand behind us.