Not One Clue (10 page)

Damn, she was good, I thought. Rushing toward her, I caught her arm.

“Aalia,” I murmured.

The man who turned toward me wore a Fu Manchu beard and aviator glasses.

“Damn, girl!” he said. “You scared the shit out of me.” I stepped back a pace, stammered an apology, and turned toward the crowds again, but if Aalia was amongst them I didn’t see her. Where, then? I zipped my attention back toward the carousels and caught a glimpse of restroom doors.

My breath caught in my throat. She was in there. I knew it. Probably had a change of clothes in her backpack and would come out looking like Halle Berry at the Oscars.

I rushed into the ladies’ room. A woman stood at the sink. She was stout, blond, possibly albino. Glancing under the doors I saw that only two stalls were occupied.

“Aalia?” I called.

No one answered, but she would be wise to be cautious, and judging by her disguise, I assumed she was not only wise, but clever. I bent to look under the first stall door and was just straightening when a woman stepped out. She was six feet tall and missing one of her premolars. Her hair was going gray, but muscle rippled across her shoulders and her hands were the size of catchers’ mitts. She could have bench-pressed a trailer if she had put her mind to it. Still, I studied her a moment, making sure she wasn’t a five-foot Yemeni beauty.

She wasn’t. I was sure of it when she glared at me.

“Sorry,” I said, and moved on. Pretending I had to pee, I scampered into a stall, closed the door, and bent double to look under the partitions. Three stalls over, there were a pair of sneakers peeking out from under blue jeans. Straightening abruptly, I waited for the vertigo to pass, then hurried out to tap on her door.

“Aalia.”

“Who is there?” The voice was small and uncertain. “I’m here to help you,” I said. “We don’t have much time.”

“Who are you?”

A handsome woman in a yellow suit entered the restroom, eyeing me like I was some underworld oddity.

“My name’s Christina. Your sister sent me.”

There was a pause. I gave the suited woman a smile to indicate I wasn’t about to murder her if she turned her back on me. She didn’t look like she was buying it, but it didn’t matter because just then the stall door clicked open and the occupant stepped out.

Her hair was red, short, and spiked into little meringuelike peaks at the top of her head. Her blouse seemed to be made of aluminum foil and her skin was just a shade lighter than the albino’s. Not an easy feat.

“Damnit,” I said, wondering where Aalia had gone.

The woman scowled. I seem to have that effect on people. “Why did my sister send you?” she asked.

“Sorry.” I was already hurrying away.

“Is she still living with that jerk, Jerry?” she called, but I didn’t have time to waste on explanations that might make me look like an idiot.

Instead, I skedaddled out the door and glanced to the right. The first thing I saw was the two men in turbans. They were looking at each other as they approached, deep in conversation, possibly discussing what assholes Americans are.

I only had a fraction of a second before they turned toward me. In that harrowing instant I scurried into the men’s room.

There’s something about the sight of urinals that always gives me pause. I mean, it’s not like I see them every day and when I do I’m momentarily distracted. But I quickly got back on the job, scanning the stalls. Three of them were occupied. One showed blue jeans under the door.

“Aalia,” I whispered, but the door of the restroom was already opening. I yanked my attention in that direction as Middle Eastern accents floated toward me, then jumped into the stall next to the blue jeans.

The two men entered the room. Still talking, they seemed to split up. I heard their shoes squeak as they opened stall doors to the right and left. Biting my lip, I dropped to my knees and gazed at the jeans in the next stall. They seemed to be about the right shade. Tennis shoes peeked out the bottom of the pants legs. Another stall door opened and closed. I had no choice.

Dunking down, I pushed my head under the partition.

The woman inside jerked her gaze toward me. She still wore the battered cap extolling her affection for New York. Her eyes were wide, her lips parted in fear. She jerked back a few scant inches, but made no sound as she stared at me. I put my finger to my lips, then shimmied under the partition. It was tight inside. I was careful not to hit my head on the toilet stool as I straightened.

The men were approaching from opposite ends of the room. A stall door squeaked open to my left. We jerked our gazes toward the noise in unison, both breathless as I grabbed her arms. She dragged her attention back to me and we waited. Three stalls to the right, another door opened. Her eyes were steady on mine, sharp with focus, bright with terror and intellect and hope. I pointed toward the floor. She stared a moment longer, then, without a word, dropped to her knees, where she remained, gazing up at me. I held up one hand, heart pounding. The door next to us was pushed open. The man’s footsteps came toward us. I pointed. Aalia rolled silently into the stall he’d just checked. At the same moment I stepped out, adjusting my skirt.

“I don’t like to use those nasty urinals,” I said, and sashayed to the row of sinks. An old man with a goatee hobbled in, looked at me, and backed out. It took all of my restraint to keep from searching for Aalia. Instead, I made a great show of lathering my hands.

The second Middle Eastern man reached the first. In the mirror, I watched them confer. My fingers were beginning to chaff, but finally, after glancing once more in my direction, they left.

I dried my hands with a paper towel, then tossed it in the nearly empty basket, just as Aalia slipped from hiding. Ramla was right. She was gorgeous. All smooth mocha skin and soft eyes.

Her wide gaze skittered to the door. “They will return,” she whispered.

My mind was bouncing like an overinflated balloon. What would a cocky man do to keep a woman like this? “You know them?”

She shook her head. “But my husband, he has many friends.”

“Do you think they recognized you?”

“I am not certain.”

I contemplated that for a moment, then, “Get undressed,” I said.

She stared at me. “I do not think it proper—” she began, but I interrupted.

“Your husband has many friends,” I said. “You have me.”

She stared at me a moment, then nodded curtly and disappeared into the nearest stall.

Yanking the plastic bag from the garbage can, I emptied the few contents, then tore a hole in the bottom.

In a moment Aalia opened the door, wearing nothing but her underwear. The bra, white and lacy, did good things to her modest boobs. The panties were a floral pattern and the size of a midget’s handkerchief.

“Victoria’s Secret?” I guessed.

“Orchid V-string.”

“Nice,” I said, but just then a noise sounded from outside. I crowded her back into the stall and closed the door behind us.

She took the garbage bag from me and popped it over her head without a question asked. It just reached the middle of her perfect thighs. Whipping off my belt, I handed it over.

The restroom door opened. We both froze but in a moment a stall door creaked open and shut.

We exhaled in tandem, then she cinched the belt around her waist.

I glanced at her. She looked like a high-fashion model with poor taste. Perfect.

We traded shoes in a matter of moments. She teetered a little in mine, but managed the altitude. It was the
attitude
that was problematic.

“You’ve seen Gisele Bündchen?” I whispered.

“The model super?”

I nodded. “Be her.”

It took her a moment to assimilate my meaning, but then she transformed, pulling her shoulders back, letting her eyes go mean. By the time we stepped back into the bustle of LAX, she looked angry enough to be anorexic and we’d been inside the restroom less than five minutes. I glanced in both directions but the turbaned men were nowhere to be seen. Aalia was walking straight and true on my three-inch heels as we made our way toward the parking lot. All seemed well. But as we stepped past the nearest carousel, three men caught my attention. Their nationality was uncertain, but they wore Italian suits like they had been born to them. Their black hair was peppered with salt, and their dark eyes were narrow and cautious as they glanced at us.

We kept walking, and though I didn’t turn toward Aalia, I could feel her falter.

“Aalia.”

“Yes?” Her shoulders were still pulled back and somehow she had learned to lead with her hips, but her pace had slowed the slightest degree, and her voice sounded vague.

“Do you know what a lesbian is?”

“In my country they are put to the death.”

“In mine, they get their own talk shows.”

She shook her head, but her attention was on the suits. “It is a mortal sin.”

“We kind of frown on wife-beating here,” I said.

A degree of color seeped from her face. Then, reaching out, she took my fingers in hers. They felt as cold as Popsicles. Our gazes met and stuck. I swung our hands between us and forced a smile. It took her a moment to reciprocate, but when she did the world lit up like a carnival. Just when we were even with the suits, she leaned over and kissed me.

I stared, agog, and she laughed. Slipping her arm through mine, she toted me outside.

“Give me the keys.”

I jerked toward the speaker. Rivera was right beside me, face hard, body language unspeakable. I hadn’t even heard him approach, but he was matching my stride.

“The keys,” he said again.

“I can drive,” I said.

“She needs you.”

“She’s fine … and amazing,” I said, but he was already slipping my purse from my shoulder.

“Hurry up,” he ordered, and it wasn’t until that moment that I realized Aalia was crying.

11

It is better to be a coward for a moment than to be dead for the rest of your life.

—
Irish proverb

E
ven though the traffic was atypically light, it was still a long ride home from LAX to Sunland. I sat in the backseat with Aalia. For the first few miles I just stared out the back window, but if anyone was following us, I couldn’t see them.

I was able to coax almost nothing out of Aaila. In the end, she fell asleep, head resting against the cushion behind her. I tried to call her sister, but my message went instantly to voice mail.

By the time we reached the 101 I had given up, but Ramla was out her door before Rivera had pulled the Saturn to a complete halt. Instead of rushing toward us, however, she stood absolutely still, waiting on her stoop, hands clasped in front of her mouth, brows drawn painfully together in the sweep of her porch light.

Rivera turned off the car and glanced back at me. Aalia came awake slowly and blinked, then started slightly as she saw us staring at her.

“It’s okay,” Rivera said.

“We’re here,” I intoned, and nodded toward the Al-Sadrs’. “Your sister’s waiting.”

Aalia lifted her beautiful face toward my neighbor’s house. “Ramla?” She said the word strangely, almost like a prayer, and then she was fumbling for the door handle. Ramla was running toward us. I sat perfectly still, watching as the two women met and clasped, cried and hugged and cried some more. Sitting in the backseat, I felt my eyes well up as Ramla and Aalia turned, still hugging, toward the house. One hot, fat tear slipped down my cheek.

The night went silent. Even Rivera seemed beyond complaints.

“I’d join you back there,” he said, “but I’m probably in enough trouble for harassing strangers without being found in the backseat with a weeping woman.”

“I’m not weeping,” I said, and inconspicuously wiped away the tear.

It was very dark, but I could still make out his cut-granite features in the dimness. “Is that an invitation?”

“No,” I said, but truth to tell, I did kind of need a hug … or something.

“You okay?”

“Sure,” I said. “It was easy peasy.”

He raised one brow. “You dressed a Muslim woman in a garbage bag.”

I sniffed a little. “There were Muslim men nearby.”

He nodded.

“I’m getting a kink in my neck,” he said, twisted around in the seat. “We should get you inside.”

I didn’t say anything. The memory of Ramla wrapping her sister in her arms still made my throat feel tight.

“Or I could join you back there.”

“Geez,” I said, and shedding the melancholy mood, clambered out of the car. He followed me to the door, where I put my key in the lock.

“I’ll call you in the morning,” he said.

I turned toward him. “You’re not coming in?”

“I’ve got some things to take care of,” he said.

I winced despite myself, remembering the part about Aalia’s missing passport, my
lies
regarding Aalia’s nonexistent passport, and the fact that Rivera probably knew all along I was lying. “Any of those things going to get me incarcerated?”

He glanced at me. “Would it matter?”

“What are you talking about?”

“You might enjoy the company in Sing Sing.”

I gave him a look that may have suggested I thought he’d lost his last vestige of good sense.

“But maybe they don’t kiss as well as Aalia.”

I felt myself blush. “That wasn’t my idea,” I said, and he laughed as he stepped up on the stoop and slipped an arm around my waist.

“So you think you’d prefer the companionship in Lompoc?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

His mouth was still slanted up at a cocky angle. “Looks like
nobody
can resist you,” he said.