Cheap Trills, page 19
“Remember you engage the weights, push the start button for up or down—”
“And then disengage the brakes. I remember.” When you’ve had ten brousins teaching you how to drive, you pick things up quickly, just out of annoyance.
I started the machine. I remembered the timing of the brakes—there were tiny lights that marked the place you started to engage them on each level—and especially because of the chicks, I made sure we glided to a gentle stop. When I saw Scott’s face, I was glad we’d done it.
He saw me to my room. “I don’t know how late I’ll be, but if you don’t have dinner plans, I could come back when I’m done. I think there are a few chilis you haven’t tried.” There was definitely one chili I hadn’t tried. “Be sure to lock your door.”
He gave me a quick—too quick—kiss on the lips and left. I unlocked the room and thought about Roger—having a baby with his old girlfriend. Roger. Barry and Angela. Did every person in the world have to be having a baby right now? Cripes.
Once I was inside, I locked everything that would lock and pulled the wooden shutters closed. I put my carry-on and my Balenciaga up on the counter, for bedbug and demon protection, while I figured out what to do with the crickets and worms. I couldn’t put them outside, they’d just scatter into their natural environment. Refrigeration seemed like a bad idea.
It still grossed me out that the chicks ate live things. Did I eat anything alive? Was lettuce alive? Bean sprouts. Bean sprouts were alive. I hated them, so at least I hadn’t come anywhere near massacre status with those. I eased the cheesecloth off the worm basket. The pinkish mass was roiling like a deep-fat fryer. But so far, it was a contained roiling.
How high could crickets jump? How could I keep them from making a jail break? I found a small trash can, put the basket and egg cartons inside, then closed them behind the carved doors of a cabinet in the main room. It was a cut above a roach motel, at least.
I finally took the chicks out of my purse and opened their travel compartment.
Their wobbly heads wriggled against each other and the way they looked up at me almost broke my heart in two. I knew what it was like to grow up without a father, but not without both. I had to do right by them until they got the expert help they needed. Which I hoped was soon, for their sake. I put their polyethylene condo near the back of a shelf in the wet bar, far above the floor, when I heard the doorknob turning.
Chapter Forty-five
It might be Reggie, but given the day I was having, what were the odds?
I moved to the wooden shutters and peered through one of the slits. The Dutchman was trying to use lock picks on the door. How he could manage with such bulbous fingers, I didn’t know. There was a tall man behind him, facing the other way.
Who had betrayed me this time? I needed to get out, but didn’t want to run with the newborn chicks. They’d been through enough for one day. I gave myself twenty seconds to think, then banged hard, on the door, just by the knob, and heard the satisfying clink of lock picks hitting the tiled walkway.
I grabbed a candlestick holder, anchored my Balenciaga over my shoulder, and moved to the back entrance, hoping the psychos hadn’t covered both, and looked out. The coast was clear, for now.
I threw the candlestick—sorry, Reggie—down toward the level below, to make them think I’d gone that way so they wouldn’t come inside for the chicks. Thank God I’d hidden them behind the glasses. Unless they peeped, no one would look twice at Tupperware. That was the great thing about it. Everyone took it for granted—until they needed it and realized they’d left it at the bingo potluck.
Meanwhile, I moved to the most jungly part of the walkway. I hoped there was enough echo, with the tiled steps, that they might not know where the sound of heels was coming from. I couldn’t run without them.
By some miracle, the funicular was on my level, but unmanned. Where was Wayan? I didn’t have time to waste. I jumped in and started the machine, sending it up and away from the thugs, who’d followed the candlestick down two levels. I ducked down, thrilled it had worked. I’d forgotten how torturously slow the car was, especially ascending.
I heard yelling. I poked my head up for an instant to see where the men were. They were, against all rules of Balinese courtesy, pointing in my direction. Dammit.
They started running. How much time did I have? What could I do? While I was thinking, I grabbed my phone and shoved it in my bra, then took off my shoes and tied the sandal straps around my wrists, hoping they’d work as modified nunchucks. I hooked my Balenciaga on my shoulder and looked for the men. They might not be in great shape, but a lifelong couch potato could beat this railway.
I was only one level ahead now. I was grateful they hadn’t started shooting yet, as I was currently the poster child for sitting ducks. At least the next stop was sheltered by a few frangipani trees.
I only had a few seconds if I was going to make this work. I needed something long and flexible. Was Stu’s saw still in my bag? It was.
I could hear the men smashing branches on their way up. I was grateful the lush plants hadn’t been horticultured to death the way they were at home. I set the brake, but put the car in gear to go up. Then I climbed up on the small bench seat, grabbed onto the top of the car and threw the saw up.
I started to pull myself onto the roof of the railway car, grateful that kickboxing had given me a working core. It didn’t guarantee a dignified ascent, though, as I made my second official thong flash of the day. Finally, I was on top. I had one more thing to do.
Losing my Balenciaga to a purse snatcher was one thing. Losing it to gravity was another. I took out one of my bungee cords and hooked it twice to the steel rings at the top of the car, bungee-ing Stu’s camouflage jacket around it so the red didn’t show. Then, I lowered myself, facing downward to keep track of my pursuers. I shook out the saw, used its tip to disengage the brake, and held on as the car started to move up. At a glacial pace. It got one level up before it came to a stop. Someone had summoned it. Wayan?
“Stromme kut? Where is the trut? Where’s the Godverdomme driver?”
Not Wayan. Of course, when I learned a language, I learned a few swear words. The Dutchman was going down next time I was in kitten heel proximity.
“He’s taking his fuckity time.”
I almost fell off the roof.
That was a voice I recognized. It was Henrik, one of Bunty’s henchmen from Tanzania. I guess he qualified as an international henchman, now. I’d shot him once.
This meant Bunty knew where I was. The fake name and different villa had been pointless. And, if he and the Dutch guy knew each other, and my burglary had been about the drugs, Bunty might also have something to do with Gerald’s murder. And my mother. None of this was good. I rammed myself flatter, glad the railway car didn’t have a moon roof.
“She can’t be far.”
I heard panting and another man arrived. Who?
“Any luck, Chim Chiminey?”
I smelled the Brut and heard the Dick Van Dyke-esque Cockney accent. Alistair Brush.
Where had he come from? Had he found the chicks?
I gripped tighter and lowered my head farther, my heels digging into my forearms.
They lowered their voices. It was the first time since I’d been in Bali when I wished the birds and monkeys would just shut the heck up. Were the ex-pat Three Stooges faking me out and about to shoot through the ceiling? I hoped they didn’t permanently damage it. Killing endangered birds would be hard enough to explain to St. Peter without desecrating pieces of art.
“Did you go through the new fuckity room?”
“Of course, mate. Same old shit. Too many sodding shoes. She must have given it to that pilot.”
Were they going to go after Scott, too?
The Dutchman chimed in. “I think she still has it.” Alistair made some incomprehensible comment that was clearly lewd, given the laughs afterward. If this were just about me, I would have sliced him senseless with Stu’s saw. I still might.
“Fuckity it. I’m not waiting.”
What did that mean?
I felt the three men climb into the railway car. It jerked. I grabbed back on just in time to hear grinding. The car started downward. Fast, then faster—and finally, free falling.
Chapter Forty-six
I really wished I were facing the other way, so I didn’t have to witness my impending death. My family flashed before me. And Roger. And the chicks. And strangely, Hazelnut.
And then, just as it looked like the whole contraption was headed right over the pools and into the ravine, there was a horrendous screech. The car stopped dead, and I flew off instead.
It’s hard to describe what it feels like to be thrown into deep water when you don’t know how to swim. Most people equate swimming pools with vacations. I equate them with death. Water is the enemy. It goes up your nose and into your eyes, but if you close them, you’re just sinking and it’s impossible to get your bearings. Flying off the top of the funicular was traumatic enough without landing in what was, for me, a tropical extinction cocktail.
Okay. I’d survived falling off a cruise ship. Granted, I’d had a life jacket that time, but this was a pool, not the Tasman Sea. It must have a shallow end. I peered through the water in vain for the silvery ladders that abounded in every American motel pool, however humble. Nothing. I was blowing bubbles out, but needed a non-water substance coming in as soon as possible.
I assumed Henrik knew I was in here—I had ejected right past him on the way down. Would there be a gun trained on me when I came up?
Just as I started to flail my arms toward the surface, someone grabbed my arm. I whipped around and whacked my attacker with my sandals, then heard a blubbery “Hey!”
I opened my eyes to aim better and saw a soft belly above a rubber duck–themed speedo. I stopped hitting the stranger and hung on to him instead, as he hauled me to the surface and I gulped in mouthfuls of hot, humid, precious air. We were at the very far end of the first infinity pool. I reached for the slippery edge and tried to hold on, without looking at the thirty-foot drop to the one below.
The man appeared to be standing. Was this the shallow end? He rubbed his forearm. “What the hell?”
“I’m so sorry. I thought you were trying to kill me.”
“It’s okay, I guess. You didn’t break the skin. Wow, you came off that car like something out of a James Bond movie. I’m going to put a warning about that on Tripadvisor, for sure.”
Then I spotted my assailants, running down the pool steps. Henrik was pointing again, which was especially culturally insensitive when you did it with a gun.
“Duck!” I pushed my cranky Samaritan under and tried to pull the gunfire away from him by scrambling up on the edge of the pool.
Then the Dutchman yelled and executed the most unattractive cannonball in history, sending out a shuddering wave that swept me right over. I windmilled my arms for what seemed like an hour, then hit the water in a Coyote vs. Acme splash and waited to die.
I didn’t. It just felt like it. I reached with my feet for the bottom. This pool didn’t have a shallow end, which was good, but also bad.
Just when I was trying to figure out where I was, a current swept me forward toward a large grate at the jungle end of the infinity pool, then smashed me up against it. This must be how they kept the water circulating instead of going over the edge all the time. Maybe I could use it to crawl up to the surface. I got about halfway there when I felt a vibration and found Henrik treading water beside me, in his suit. I guess Bunty paid him well.
I aimed my Stuart Weitzman heels at the arm I knew I’d shot before, hoping they would break the skin this time. He shoved me up against the edge of the pool, the edge that poured out into the ravine. I tried to hold on to the grate, but that meant I could only fight back with my unarmed legs, which was exhausting and ineffective. I imagined this was why water aerobics promised to burn so many calories.
I made one core-splitting kick, and slipped off the grate. Henrik took that opportunity to grab me around the knees, jerk me up, and toss me over the edge.
Chapter Forty-seven
I screamed, which seemed pretty standard in the circumstances, since the ravine looked about twenty-five stories deep with rocks and shallow water at the bottom. At least this time, there were trees to break my fall. I reached for anything I could and managed to get a one-hand hold onto a substantial branch.
But my hands were wet, so when I tried to get my other hand on the tree, the first one slipped and I kept bouncing, holding on to something for two or three seconds, then falling farther, like a Tarzan intern on his first day.
I grabbed on to a frangipani tree for just long enough to notice the bridge I’d spotted from my room, the one I could now see was just three bamboo poles tied together. Before I could formulate a plan, the branch broke. I threw out my “sandal grapples” and, by some miracle, one shoe/wrist caught long enough for me to grab on to the bamboo pole crossing with the other.
The bridge had the fortitude of al dente spaghetti. There was no way to climb up. It was short, though. If I could get into the jungle underbrush across the way, it would be awhile before the thugs could get to me.
I put a vision of those three little birds at the forefront of my brain and started, hand over hand, across the bridge. I didn’t look back. I didn’t look down. I didn’t think about how wet and slippery my hands were. I would have given anything for a dry towel, a shot of Jack Daniel’s, and Indiana Jones at this moment, but all I had were my Stuart Weitzmans and my kickboxing muscles. They were going to have to do. As long as I could hook one heel in between the bamboo poles for a bit of security, I could keep going.
Finally, the bank was only about five feet away. Of course, there was a monkey sitting there. He started bouncing up and down. Just what I needed.
Surely he was afraid of humans. I just had to keep going and he would move. He didn’t.
I stared him down from about a foot and a half away and reached into my PBS Nature brain files. What repelled monkeys? They were afraid of snakes, but, for once, I didn’t have one handy. And hot peppers, but I was fresh out of Tabasco. Loud noises might work, but then Henrik might know I was still alive.
I looked the monkey right in the eye. He wasn’t budging. And I needed to. Then, there was a gunshot. The monkey shrieked and ran and I almost lost hold of the bridge. I gripped harder and threw myself onto the edge of the ravine.
I could only imagine the gunshot had been for me, so I lay there until all I could hear were birds. I knew there was a temple up the hill just across the way and, if it was anything like the temples I’d seen, there would be plenty of places to hide. I donned my heroic sandals and went to tighten my Balenciaga on my shoulder. It wasn’t there.
This was only the second time in my adult life I’d not had my purse. The first time, it was confiscated by Interpol and I had to live without it for a day and a half. Then, and now, it felt like I’d lost an arm. I should have learned that time to carry more things in my bra. Oh, my bra. My phone was in my bra. I pulled it out, but it had been underwater too long. At least if there was a chance of reviving it, I was in the rice capital of the world.
I hadn’t heard any more shots and I could see the temple above me so I started up. The sun was getting lower in the sky, casting wavy shadows all around. What day was it? Had I just been in the West Bali National Park this morning? Talk about jam karat.
Still, the magical thing about Bali was, whatever you were doing and no matter how much trouble you were in, the place still overtook you. When I got to the temple, even though henchmen were after me, I still stopped for a moment, amazed at how beautiful it was.
Lu had told me before how most of the carvings were in sandstone, which deteriorated quickly. So even if they were covered in lichens and looked ancient, they were probably only a few years old. Local artists recarved or replaced them on a regular basis. Can you imagine anyone doing that with the Sistine Chapel?
Today, the gods had kept me alive. I looked for a frangipani tree and picked a few flowers, then laid them on top of a palm leaf I found on the ground and placed the offering on a shrine at the entrance. Then I looked for a hiding place that might be the least sacred. Did they have bathrooms in temples?
I finally found a small building at the back that looked like snake central. I’d just turned around to keep looking when I heard a moan, then something that sounded like “Help!”
I tried to follow the sound, keeping behind columns as much as I could. I stumbled into a small alcove with a large column overgrown on the front with lichens and vines. Tied to the other side, was my mother.
Chapter Forty-eight
Her long reddish hair was matted and her best sundress was covered in mud. She’d managed to partially wriggle off her handkerchief gag. When she saw me, she smiled, then fainted.
Of course, my emergency water, smelling salts, and sanitary wipes—i.e., Jack Daniel’s—were in my purse. I was just going to have to untie her and rub her hands until she came to. Had Alistair Brush done this? If he hadn’t been in my homicidal sights before, he was now.
Finally, she started to come to. “Cyd? Cyd! You found me!”
“Yeah,” I said, deciding, since I had crossed the three-inch bridge hand over hand, to take the credit. “Are you hurt?”
She shook her arms and her head. “Just scared, mainly.”
I grabbed her hand and helped her up. Nothing seemed broken or sprained.
“Thank you. I’m okay. It’s mostly my pride that took a hit, I think.”
She did have a cut on her arm that looked nasty, though. “That must hurt.”
“It’s nothing. Forget about me. What happened to you? Have you put on Bactine?”
She looked around. “Where is your Balenciaga?”
“It’s part of a long story. And it’s almost sunset, which is not good. I don’t know whether it’s better to stay here where there’s shelter, or try to get back to the hotel. Damn, I wish my phone wasn’t wet.”
