Steven Hunley
02-25-2013, 06:33 PM
Pamela's Close Call
by
Steven Hunley
A week later Pam was looking for strudel and Eddie was counting money, subtracting what they’d spent on the investment. They were even .Everything from now on was pure profit. One pair alone paid the hotel for a week and the staff was friendly and sweet. Their mother would make them tea, and when the door knocked, Pam said,
“I’ve got it. Eddie, it’s just Madam Kropotnik, with our tea.”
“What could be more relaxing than tea?” replied Eddie.
But when Pamela opened the door, there wasn’t a short pudgy grey-haired woman standing in front of her, daintily holding a teapot, but a tall man in a trench coat jabbing an identification card in her face. His hair was dark and slicked down and his eyes were beady and nervous. Eddie stashed the pile of bills in a drawer.
“I’m inspector Gregarin” - he stated, “and, please, may I come in?”
Without waiting for a response he stepped inside. His eyes darted back and forth.
Eddie picked up his fork. “Why certainly, yes, come in.”
“You’re entry card says you’re tourists? Is that correct?”
“Yes,” answered Pam and closed the door, leaving another man, almost a twin but smaller, standing near the head of the stairs. Gregarin saw a piece of lint on his coat and picked it off.
“Our office was established to ensure the safety of tourists and alert them to crime in the area. Have you encountered any problems with pick pockets?”
“No,” said Eddie, “at least not yet.”
Gregarin snugged the fingers of his glove and admired the shine on the leather, looked up and scanned the room quickly.
“Has anyone offered to exchange Kunas offering rates better than the exchange houses?”
'Only the grocer, the man in the bus station, the baker down the street,' thought Pam.
'Only the elevator operator at the Metropol, the bellboy and the laundry woman,' thunk Eddie.
“It’s never happened to me,” said Pam.
“Me neither,” voiced Eddie.
Inspector Gregarin scratched his neck, ‘Hmmmmm.”
He looked at the picture on the wall with great interest. It was a photo of Khrushchev standing by a tractor. Then he gave his attention to the windows and doors.
“You understand, it’s my job to safe guard foreigners, I take it seriously.”
“I’m sure you do, but we’ve had no trouble,” Pam said.
“No trouble at all,” echoed Eddie.
“Then, I am content,” he replied, offered his card, and finally gave Pam the once over.
Eddie had the distinct impression he noted every seam, every curve, each and every shiny button on the fly of her jeans. Her top was scanned, just a peak, just a squint. But her blue-jeaned bottom was examined, measured, considered, and reflected upon, in the way Michelangelo inspected a piece of Carrera marble for possible fractures, before putting his hands on it.
Eddie’s and Pam’s eyes met. No doubt about it. Gregarin’s twin ratty beads had dilated the moment they alighted on virgin indigo denim.
“I’ve seen all I need to see,” he announced curtly, and brought his heals together to mark an end that was more feint than finish.
“Just give me a call if you have any problems. We hope you’ll enjoy your visit.”
He turned on his heal and left.
Pam closed the door and latched it. She turned, put her back against the door and bending her knees in submission, slumped down slowly against it, face blank, mind numb, inch by inch, thought by depressing thought, slipping down slowly like snot on a wet shower door.
“They know,” said Eddie, deflated.
“I don’t think they know for sure.”
“I guess not, otherwise we’d already be in jail.”
“That’s a hell of a thing to say.”
The room was as quiet, Eddie put it, “as a tomb.” Only the bottom of the curtain swayed, prompted by the grey and gathering clouds. Besides that small aberration, the air had gone quite still. It was too early in the day to be dark. It didn’t make sense. Pam went out to the balcony and peered down the street towards the ocean. Masses of dark clouds threatened the harbor entrance. In the shadow of the shop across the street from their hotel a flame flashed up for a second and went out. It turned out to be a man lighting a cigarette, that’s all.
‘But wait. He looks like the man in the hallway while the inspector was here.’
Pam ran to the dresser and put on her red glasses.
“It’s him.”
“What?”
“Eddie, the cop from the hallway is across from our hotel and he’s not going anywhere, at least not now.”
Eddie joined her. “Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“Maybe he’s just waiting for a friend,” he sang nervously.
“Eddie, that was the title of an old Rolling Stones song, and it was a joke then, a throwaway. Get real. This is no joke.”
They took turns watching. An hour later he was still there, and it was beginning to sprinkle.
“Just a light summer shower,” said Eddie, “come inside before you get wet. We need to figure this out.”
They sat at opposite sides of the table.
“Is there anything you may have said or done to raise their suspicions? Think back, Honey.”
“I’ve been trying to think, Eddie, but all I come up with is nothing. And you? What about you?”
“All I draw is a blank.”
“We need to talk to Molly. We’re missing one third of the equation.”
“We’re not going anywhere, Babycakes, as long as that goon is there. He’d follow us straight to the bacon,” said Eddie.
“That’s right. Maybe she knows something. She’ll be at work in an hour or so, but we can’t leave with him on our tail.”
The rain increased and the wind picked up at the same time, driving mist under the shelter of the roof onto a small wooden table they’d placed on the balcony hours before while playing cards. The cards were still on the table and getting wet. Eddie quickly picked them up. He held them a second in front of his face.
Lightning cracked in the distance. Eddie smelled ozone, a thought provoking gas.
“Honey, ever play Cherchez la Femme?”
“Eddie, this is no time for games! Get a grip.”
“It won’t be so much a game as a trick. It’s a gamble too, but favors the dealer. You see, honey, it’s consists of three cards, but the mark only has one set of eyes to follow them with. Get me?”
“Eddie, don’t look now, but you just lost another marble.”
“Let me explain. You’ll be the red queen. Mister Mark down there is going to have to wait for a while so I can show you the routine.”
“Damn it Eddie, I always knew you was a grifter.”
The two sat close and put their heads together like two Indians having a pow-wow in hushed tones, planning a proper, as Eddie called it, ‘red herring.’ It was The Mohicans of Paris Dubvovnik-style and would have made Dumas envious.
Down on the corner, opposite the Miro, an agent stood waiting and smoking his third Ronhill. His feet were cold. He was getting impatient.
‘They don’t pay me enough Kunas to stand out in the rain’ he considered ‘I wish the Americans would make a move.’
Wishes are granted by capitalist fairies, even to Communist agents, as long as it’s profitable. Within seconds a figure appeared from the door of the Miro. It was the owner’s mother, opening her umbrella. She turned to the left and went up the street.
He puffed his cigarette and attempted to blow a smoke ring.
Then miracles of miracles, the American man appeared and the woman beside him. The man gave a brown paper bundle to the woman and opened an umbrella. He gave her a kiss on the cheek, then the umbrella, turned up his collar, and walked away with his hands in his pockets. The woman turned right and set off down the street, hopping puddles as best she could.
A block later Pamela crossed the street and stood in front of a business selling women’s dresses, not to window-shop, but to watch a particular reflection. Seeing the agent was on her trail, she proceeded another block to a busy street where people were waiting for a late-night tram. She made a great show of looking in all directions, and placed the brown paper bundle in a trashcan under a streetlight, and replaced the lid with care. Then she looked both ways again, and tripped off down the street like she was thirteen.
To the young agent, who had aspirations of becoming a member of the K.G.B., she was obviously making a drop.
‘What matters now is not where she goes, but who comes next.’
The agent found a coffee house within sight of the streetlight, and sat down at a table near the window, ordered coffee and strudel, and lit up a Ronhill and steeled himself for what might be an all-night vigil.
‘They’ll give me a Karl Marx award for this one, and I’ll display it on my dresser. My mother will be so proud.’
Hours later, and on his second pack of Ronhills, the street was nearly deserted. Finally he threw ‘caution to the wind’ as Eddie might have phrased it, and decided to investigate.
The brown paper bundle was still there, and he lifted it free of the mess. It seemed very light for even one pair of jeans. It was yesterday’s edition of The Dubrovnik Times, an English language newspaper. Wrapped up inside was a small object, and our intrepid agent noticed a stench.
‘Perhaps it’s a clue.’ he decided, and opened it up.
But it was only someone’s discarded lunch, a red herring with onions.
In the meantime, Pamela met Eddie at the Babylon.
***
©Steven Hunley 2012
by
Steven Hunley
A week later Pam was looking for strudel and Eddie was counting money, subtracting what they’d spent on the investment. They were even .Everything from now on was pure profit. One pair alone paid the hotel for a week and the staff was friendly and sweet. Their mother would make them tea, and when the door knocked, Pam said,
“I’ve got it. Eddie, it’s just Madam Kropotnik, with our tea.”
“What could be more relaxing than tea?” replied Eddie.
But when Pamela opened the door, there wasn’t a short pudgy grey-haired woman standing in front of her, daintily holding a teapot, but a tall man in a trench coat jabbing an identification card in her face. His hair was dark and slicked down and his eyes were beady and nervous. Eddie stashed the pile of bills in a drawer.
“I’m inspector Gregarin” - he stated, “and, please, may I come in?”
Without waiting for a response he stepped inside. His eyes darted back and forth.
Eddie picked up his fork. “Why certainly, yes, come in.”
“You’re entry card says you’re tourists? Is that correct?”
“Yes,” answered Pam and closed the door, leaving another man, almost a twin but smaller, standing near the head of the stairs. Gregarin saw a piece of lint on his coat and picked it off.
“Our office was established to ensure the safety of tourists and alert them to crime in the area. Have you encountered any problems with pick pockets?”
“No,” said Eddie, “at least not yet.”
Gregarin snugged the fingers of his glove and admired the shine on the leather, looked up and scanned the room quickly.
“Has anyone offered to exchange Kunas offering rates better than the exchange houses?”
'Only the grocer, the man in the bus station, the baker down the street,' thought Pam.
'Only the elevator operator at the Metropol, the bellboy and the laundry woman,' thunk Eddie.
“It’s never happened to me,” said Pam.
“Me neither,” voiced Eddie.
Inspector Gregarin scratched his neck, ‘Hmmmmm.”
He looked at the picture on the wall with great interest. It was a photo of Khrushchev standing by a tractor. Then he gave his attention to the windows and doors.
“You understand, it’s my job to safe guard foreigners, I take it seriously.”
“I’m sure you do, but we’ve had no trouble,” Pam said.
“No trouble at all,” echoed Eddie.
“Then, I am content,” he replied, offered his card, and finally gave Pam the once over.
Eddie had the distinct impression he noted every seam, every curve, each and every shiny button on the fly of her jeans. Her top was scanned, just a peak, just a squint. But her blue-jeaned bottom was examined, measured, considered, and reflected upon, in the way Michelangelo inspected a piece of Carrera marble for possible fractures, before putting his hands on it.
Eddie’s and Pam’s eyes met. No doubt about it. Gregarin’s twin ratty beads had dilated the moment they alighted on virgin indigo denim.
“I’ve seen all I need to see,” he announced curtly, and brought his heals together to mark an end that was more feint than finish.
“Just give me a call if you have any problems. We hope you’ll enjoy your visit.”
He turned on his heal and left.
Pam closed the door and latched it. She turned, put her back against the door and bending her knees in submission, slumped down slowly against it, face blank, mind numb, inch by inch, thought by depressing thought, slipping down slowly like snot on a wet shower door.
“They know,” said Eddie, deflated.
“I don’t think they know for sure.”
“I guess not, otherwise we’d already be in jail.”
“That’s a hell of a thing to say.”
The room was as quiet, Eddie put it, “as a tomb.” Only the bottom of the curtain swayed, prompted by the grey and gathering clouds. Besides that small aberration, the air had gone quite still. It was too early in the day to be dark. It didn’t make sense. Pam went out to the balcony and peered down the street towards the ocean. Masses of dark clouds threatened the harbor entrance. In the shadow of the shop across the street from their hotel a flame flashed up for a second and went out. It turned out to be a man lighting a cigarette, that’s all.
‘But wait. He looks like the man in the hallway while the inspector was here.’
Pam ran to the dresser and put on her red glasses.
“It’s him.”
“What?”
“Eddie, the cop from the hallway is across from our hotel and he’s not going anywhere, at least not now.”
Eddie joined her. “Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
“Maybe he’s just waiting for a friend,” he sang nervously.
“Eddie, that was the title of an old Rolling Stones song, and it was a joke then, a throwaway. Get real. This is no joke.”
They took turns watching. An hour later he was still there, and it was beginning to sprinkle.
“Just a light summer shower,” said Eddie, “come inside before you get wet. We need to figure this out.”
They sat at opposite sides of the table.
“Is there anything you may have said or done to raise their suspicions? Think back, Honey.”
“I’ve been trying to think, Eddie, but all I come up with is nothing. And you? What about you?”
“All I draw is a blank.”
“We need to talk to Molly. We’re missing one third of the equation.”
“We’re not going anywhere, Babycakes, as long as that goon is there. He’d follow us straight to the bacon,” said Eddie.
“That’s right. Maybe she knows something. She’ll be at work in an hour or so, but we can’t leave with him on our tail.”
The rain increased and the wind picked up at the same time, driving mist under the shelter of the roof onto a small wooden table they’d placed on the balcony hours before while playing cards. The cards were still on the table and getting wet. Eddie quickly picked them up. He held them a second in front of his face.
Lightning cracked in the distance. Eddie smelled ozone, a thought provoking gas.
“Honey, ever play Cherchez la Femme?”
“Eddie, this is no time for games! Get a grip.”
“It won’t be so much a game as a trick. It’s a gamble too, but favors the dealer. You see, honey, it’s consists of three cards, but the mark only has one set of eyes to follow them with. Get me?”
“Eddie, don’t look now, but you just lost another marble.”
“Let me explain. You’ll be the red queen. Mister Mark down there is going to have to wait for a while so I can show you the routine.”
“Damn it Eddie, I always knew you was a grifter.”
The two sat close and put their heads together like two Indians having a pow-wow in hushed tones, planning a proper, as Eddie called it, ‘red herring.’ It was The Mohicans of Paris Dubvovnik-style and would have made Dumas envious.
Down on the corner, opposite the Miro, an agent stood waiting and smoking his third Ronhill. His feet were cold. He was getting impatient.
‘They don’t pay me enough Kunas to stand out in the rain’ he considered ‘I wish the Americans would make a move.’
Wishes are granted by capitalist fairies, even to Communist agents, as long as it’s profitable. Within seconds a figure appeared from the door of the Miro. It was the owner’s mother, opening her umbrella. She turned to the left and went up the street.
He puffed his cigarette and attempted to blow a smoke ring.
Then miracles of miracles, the American man appeared and the woman beside him. The man gave a brown paper bundle to the woman and opened an umbrella. He gave her a kiss on the cheek, then the umbrella, turned up his collar, and walked away with his hands in his pockets. The woman turned right and set off down the street, hopping puddles as best she could.
A block later Pamela crossed the street and stood in front of a business selling women’s dresses, not to window-shop, but to watch a particular reflection. Seeing the agent was on her trail, she proceeded another block to a busy street where people were waiting for a late-night tram. She made a great show of looking in all directions, and placed the brown paper bundle in a trashcan under a streetlight, and replaced the lid with care. Then she looked both ways again, and tripped off down the street like she was thirteen.
To the young agent, who had aspirations of becoming a member of the K.G.B., she was obviously making a drop.
‘What matters now is not where she goes, but who comes next.’
The agent found a coffee house within sight of the streetlight, and sat down at a table near the window, ordered coffee and strudel, and lit up a Ronhill and steeled himself for what might be an all-night vigil.
‘They’ll give me a Karl Marx award for this one, and I’ll display it on my dresser. My mother will be so proud.’
Hours later, and on his second pack of Ronhills, the street was nearly deserted. Finally he threw ‘caution to the wind’ as Eddie might have phrased it, and decided to investigate.
The brown paper bundle was still there, and he lifted it free of the mess. It seemed very light for even one pair of jeans. It was yesterday’s edition of The Dubrovnik Times, an English language newspaper. Wrapped up inside was a small object, and our intrepid agent noticed a stench.
‘Perhaps it’s a clue.’ he decided, and opened it up.
But it was only someone’s discarded lunch, a red herring with onions.
In the meantime, Pamela met Eddie at the Babylon.
***
©Steven Hunley 2012