Kill Cupid: Internet dating just got dangerous (7 page)

Get real! Do I look like Santa?
‘You can use it now, yes of course’.

‘You will present it to me, da?’

He sat dumfounded. No way could she have his phone! Besides, he was paying it off on a phone company plan. But just when he thought she was about to pressure him again, another girl arrived at the table and captured the conversation.
Nice looking red-herring
he thought.

She glanced at Bronte and began a rapid exchange with Zhana who made no attempt to introduce him. After their brief chat in Martian, she looked again at Bronte and said goodbye. Then leaning over and kissing Zhana giggled in English, ‘Bye bye Rita’.

‘That was my friend from work. She is from another city,’ Zhana said aloofly, waving casually as the girl walked from the restaurant.

‘Did I hear her call you Rita?’ Zhana stared at him blankly.

‘I thought just now I heard her call you Rita?’ She looked down at the table then picked up his phone again before answering confidently,

‘Zhana is my middle name. Most people know me as Rita and usually, only family call me Zhana. You can call me Rita or Zhana.’

I’d like to call you crazy, strange, maybe Twisted, but not Rita.
‘I like Zhana thanks.’ Her black eyes were intense and her cheeks flushed as she desperately tried to throw him off the subject.

‘Let’s get out of here’ she stated. Bronte was too confused and bewildered to answer. Wishing the tide in his beer would come back in, he simply shrugged his consent.

              As they sidestepped people passing crowded shop fronts, he felt more and more troubled and less and less enthusiastic about his internet blind date. The first night started out with a whimper and from that moment things appeared to be progressively going downhill. First, he discovered the letters he’d been receiving were actually written by someone else. Now he learned that Zhana was not always Zhana. He had travelled thousands of miles to meet three girls in one quasi Russian schizophrenic. He was romancing Zhana, corresponding with Oly yet meeting Rita!

Confronting the realization this venture was not over yet and that another week lay ahead, he tried to relax and make the most of it. There was at least some comfort with Zhana or Rita or whoever she was nestled on his arm. When they passed an up market shoe shop, she did an immediate left turn, dragging him into the store with her.

‘Please, I want to look in here’. He thought that was obvious as he stumbled through the doorway with his arm tangled in hers, attracting the attention of the sales staff and other customers. Everyone in the shop stared like they’d just seen the abominable snowman with a suntan. He took refuge from view behind a large pot plant against the back wall.

Bronte began to think Zhana knew the Ukraine traditions for lovers after all,
although she’d learned them in reverse -
First the shopping, next the cards, then the alcohol
? While he wondered if she knew about the wild sex, she returned from another part of the shop holding an exquisite pair of boots. Seemed the plant hadn’t hidden him well enough.

‘You like?’ They reminded Bronte of something the original sex kitten, Bridget Bardot would have worn at her age. Of course when Bridget was a star and made leopard skin look hot, Zhana - or Rita hadn’t even been thought of. She held them higher, ‘They are nice Bronte, yes?’

Very bloody Italian nice, thank you very much.
‘Yes, they are exquisite’. Bronte wanted to simply ask how much they were.

‘You will present for me these?’ She asked, looking like the Queen of Sheba when she was a very naughty girl. The shop keeper stared, Zhana stared and Bronte stared. In a Mexican standoff where the weapon was the unwanted bill, he wished for the nuclear alarm warning to sound, or anything of sufficient disaster or distraction to happen and happen quickly. He knew he was a long way from a beach and sounding the shark alarm.

‘Well, maybe…’

‘O thank you my darling Bronte, you are such a good man’.

Bet she’d say that to Stalin offering fifty bucks
.

Across town at the Intourist Hotel, three ladies sat perched around a small marble table in the foyer, drinking coffee. The place was built in the fifties, and was decadent in its lavish use of gold overlay, marble and granite. A chandelier the size of a small Pacific atoll hung suspended overhead like a UFO from
Independence Day
. The young women could have been waiting for the porter to deliver their luggage, or for a taxi to arrive, but instead, they were talking business. All well dressed, they looked the perfect subjects for a modern snapshot of young and affluent Russia against a backdrop of old world splendour and parquetry. But there was nothing at all modern about their line of work. It too was old world.

              ‘I had a really quiet night last night, and I only worked three days last week, what with my mum and sister here.’ The young lady discreetly passed Alessiya an envelope, and continued, ‘There’s 13,000 - it’s all been counted.’

              ‘Thanks Ksusha. How’re things with your mum and, does she know where you work?’ Sometimes the diplomat, Alessiya meant
does she know about your career?

              ‘Yea, she’s ok. She thinks I come here and work the night shift in reception.’ As she crossed her legs and adjusted her skirt she giggled, ‘She’d die if she saw that I work in the bar!’ Alessiya simply gave a smile and turning to the younger girl with the heavy handed dose of mascara to her right said,

              ‘And how was your second week on the job Vika? Did you enjoy yourself – and make money?’ Vika fiddled with her long hair and looking sheepishly at Alessiya began explaining,

              ‘Well last Saturday night I worked at Valya’s and that was good. I met a real hunk from America who was here for three days with Gazprom and, he paid my cab home later. The guy was Superman… a true stud, I’m telling you.’ Alessiya and Ksusha looked at each other and smiled, acknowledging that Vika was new to this line of employment. Flicking long straight hair from her face she continued,

‘But I couldn’t get to work on Monday night and last night I bought some smokes and a few drinks… I’m 500 short... Sorry.’ She passed over an envelope. Alessiya accepted it, though obviously not impressed. She said nothing and started putting things in her bag, ready to leave, then,

              ‘Listen my dear, consider this your first and last warning. If you can’t get the guy to pay you for a head-job, at least get him to pay for your vices. Okay? And if that’s too difficult…’ she tailed off after giving in to answer her mobile.

              ‘Hello? Oh hi… yes… I’m in the
Intourist
… How long? Okay, I’m leaving now… ten minutes… I’ll be home in ten minutes… see you then.’ Closing her phone, she stood, straightened her shoulders and with a million dollar smile of charm and pure innocence, said ‘…remember girls, life sucks - then he pays’. She turned and walked off, quickly passing through the large glass doors and onto the street.             

----------  * * --------------------- * * * ------------------------ * * -----------

In a taxi headed for his place, Bronte was still stewing from the railroaded purchase of the Bardot boots. He wanted to ask Zhana of their plans for the night but she wouldn’t get off her beloved phone. While she muttered away, the cabbie struck up a stupid conversation.

‘Where you from?’ the driver asked.

‘Australia… Av-stral-ia…’ Bronte answered.

‘Ah, Rex Hunt. You know Rex Hunt?’

Yes of course I know bloody Rex Hunt. Australia is a tiny place you idiot. He’s my neighbour. We drink beers together, go fishing, get drunk and fall overboard. Every weekend we kiss each others fish.
‘Yes… program about fishing’ Bronte said in slow, broken English. God, his blind date was on the rocks, his wallet in the gutter and this guy wanted to talk about fishing?

‘Yes, yes!’ The driver laughed and made a face as if he was about to kiss a fish, ‘Rex Hunt, good fishing man.’

‘That was my mother and she is ill again with bad headache. I must go to home. I’m sorry.’ Zhana might get away with murder, but she wasn’t going to get out of leaving him alone again another night.

‘You can’t be serious. What do I do tonight?’ He asked, spinning.

‘I am sorry. I come to you tomorrow more early at, say 11 o’clock, okay?’

‘11 o’clock? That’s early? God, what do you have to do? You can’t be serious?’

As the cab pulled up in front of his apartment she said firmly, ‘11 okay?’ She gave him a peck as he got out of the cab. She
was
serious.

              Upstairs in his apartment, Bronte wanted to scream and blow a fuse. He had been beating himself up over the boot purchase. And he had no reasonable alternative up his sleeve that might salvage his evening. He felt so alone he wished he could be home in Australia. At least at his place he had ‘home alone’ down to a familiar, comfortable formula. Pay TV, animals, guitars and piano, internet and email… bloody email!
That’s what put him that hole. He made himself a coffee and smoked and all the while the buyer’s remorse kept beating away. How could he be so susceptible to a haughty young con-girl? He had just spent $375 on a pair of Italian boots and he despised himself for doing it. He had never spent that on shoes for his step daughter or wife and certainly not for himself. Rita had simply ridden off into the sunset with those boots under her arm and not so much as a parting thank you. Some men were fools and right now, Bronte was one of them.

Remembering that self pity is best sodden in alcohol he looked for a beer, but felt more depressed when he found there was only one in the fridge. And turning on the TV was no formula for a great evening indoors either. There were a mere five channels, and all blabbered away in Russian. Even the news was from another planet. He laughed contemplating the reader could have just announced World War Three - and he wouldn’t have a clue. He spent the next hour putting his own comical interpretation to the words from the television before deciding to freshen up and go out. The first and only beer merely whet his palate for a second and third.

----------  * * --------------------- * * * ------------------------ * * -----------

Not far away, Rita rang the bell to the agency. After some seconds, the locks turned and Alessiya swung the door open. Before Rita could even get through it, her mentor was pointing and clutching at the shopping bag with the shoe box in it.

‘Oooh, you got the boots!’ Oly exclaimed. ‘Come in, come in, I want to hear about your day!’ Rita closed the door and stopped to slip out of her stiletto shoes, all the while grinning like a Cheshire cat. Before she could do anything, Alessiya had the boots out of the box and was admiring them while swaying, rocking and then hopping about the room as she struggled to pull one on. The boots were a pastel coloured leopard print on soft Italian suede. With a pointed toe, the entire platform curved elegantly to a finely tapered four inch stiletto heel of the same print. The boot itself rose just above the ankles and onto the shins.

‘Oly please!’ Rita objected as Alessiya fell against her, using her shoulder to stop herself falling.

‘Elegant with jeans or dress,’ Alessiya was sparkling.

‘You like them? They fit?’

‘Beautiful, absolutely beautiful, divine…’

‘Yes… they’re gorgeous….’ Rita replied faithfully though not without a hint of jealousy.

Alessiya had pre-planned the purchase with Rita who only had to deliver them. Seeing the boots a week or two before, she had asked Rita to lure Bronte into buying them for her. The two were partners in a sense - partners in crime with Alessiya the ring leader and Rita her helper. All Bronte’s mail had been written by Alessiya, so it was payback time for Rita. After all, she had become $1500 richer since carrying out the alleged nose job scam devised by Alessiya.

Secretly, Alessiya had always considered Zhana beautiful. Publicly however, she would never admit to such a thing, preferring only to comment that Zhana had a big nose. That had been the basis of ingenuity behind the $1500 rhinoplasty story.

‘Anyway where’s Bronte now, and what are your plans for tonight? You going out someplace?’ Rita looked hesitant then said,

‘I don’t want to go out tonight… not with him… I’ve been with him all afternoon…’
Never confront today what you can still avoid tomorrow
, this was Rita’s philosophy, put to good use that evening. She was terrified at the prospect of physical or sexual encounters, or more correctly, of her obvious lack of experience appearing plainly evident to the man.

‘I thought you’d be more interested in making money… or at least having a good time without paying for it?’ Alessiya had gold-digging down to a fine art - with no need of a sieve or metal detector.

‘God Oly, I thought scoring the boots was pretty decent for only the first day?’

‘Yea, well… I’ll call Anton and have him keep an eye on Bronte’s apartment.’

‘Why would you do that? What can that do?’

‘I don’t imagine he will sit in twiddling his thumbs… might see if I can get Anton to steer him to
The Intourist
or Valya’s place…’ she seemed to be thinking out loud. ‘Maybe I can get him laid and cash in, that’s why!’ Alessiya laughed loudly as she began to dial a number. Rita wasn’t quite sure what she meant by that, but she was equally unsure she wanted to ask.

----------  * * --------------------- * * * ------------------------ * * -----------

When he finally emerged from his apartment, the resident black dog he met earlier ran barking alongside a Volga with tinted glass that had pulled into the complex. Seeing Bronte, the hound wandered over to inform him that someone in the car was interested in him. But on a mission to drink beer and annoyed with himself, the footwear world and Rita, he merely brushed the dog on the head and walked on, ignoring the barking voice of the furry God spelled backwards.

It was a warm evening. Bronte wore a tee shirt with a light jacket, cotton slacks and leather loafers. He may have been strolling for ten or fifteen minutes when he came upon a large, open and breezy canteen with big sails overhead. From all appearances it seemed like a good place to drink and grab some food. The place wasn’t crowded so he took up a table not too far from a group of young women in their mid twenties.

Looking them over quickly, he wasn’t sure what fashion catalogue they had come from, but it certainly featured attractive young models. And, he was even more delighted to notice they were in the habit of looking his way frequently. Of course he still hadn’t given thought to the fact he was obviously of foreign appearance. Not that he resembled a Kalahari Bushman, just that people here saw Germans and other Europeans but not suntanned Australians, not at this time of year. Some guy in an overcoat with up-turned collar and beanie wandered in and after looking around aimlessly, walked out. Bronte hoped it wasn’t a signal the beer would be warm or flat.

He ordered a half litre and after hand signals and baby talk full of ahs, ums and goo-gaas, managed to tell the waitress he wanted pistachio nuts.
It was so easy a three year old could have explained it,
he thought
.
When she returned with the beer and some pretzels, Bronte thought next time he would find a three year old.

----------  * * --------------------- * * * ------------------------ * * -----------

Rita sat at Alessiya’s desk doing her nails. Returning from the kitchen with more wine Alessiya said unexpectedly,

‘Anyway, kind of dangerous leaving him to his own devices…’

‘Dangerous…? Why dangerous?’

‘Because experience tells me we haven’t had a client quite like him… I even suspect I haven’t.’ Alessiya leaned across Rita and taking her wine glass added ‘he doesn’t strike me as your average internet desperado, that’s why.’

‘Yeah okay… but so what? He hasn’t twigged to anything yet, I’m sure of it…’

‘You can’t be so sure of that. Your man’s different… I sensed it at the airport. He’s had a lot more experience, I can tell. He’s a player… more confident… he’s smart… God, most men write to girls because they couldn’t find a girl where they live, even if she was delivered in a gift wrapped ice-cream cake. I suspect he’s had a lot of experience with women, not girls - like you.’ Alessiya laughed. Rita gave a look like her pride got hurt. Alessiya ignored her,

‘So while he’s alone, not under your control, how do you know he can’t call Zhana and arrange to meet her? The game’s over then my dear.’ 

‘It can’t happen!’ Rita jumped up and grabbed her handbag from the sofa, rummaged through it then, ‘Oly look!’ She held Bronte’s mobile. He had forgotten she had it when he jumped from the cab, and until now she’d forgotten she had it in her bag. Snatching it from Rita, Alessiya looked it over prompting Rita to add, ‘And I’ve already checked it for her number. He doesn’t have it.’

Alessiya laughed. ‘Clever girl, you learn quickly. You’ll do well at this I can see. So how did you manage to snag the phone?’

Rita fluttered her eyelids and replied cutely, ‘Easy, like taking candy from a baby’.