“Well, despite what you are thinking right at this moment, Alessandra, the fact that you are sitting in this car means that your luck is not just good, but so extraordinary that it took thousands of years for you to be right here, right now. Can you believe that?”
No!
“In fact,” he continued, “we don’t even know why you’re in this car or where you are supposed to be headed. We just had a car standing by in case. Frankly, until yesterday, we thought it was meant to be your buddy, Dona. You weren’t even on our radar. But it’s a wonderful, wonderful surprise, by the way,” and then he cackled. Cackled!
“Wonderful? Maniac,” I called out, hoping that somehow he could hear me. I was sure there was a camera somewhere and I was being watched.
And I was worried about the damned “German”? He’d probably sent the “German” just to scare me into this whole situation. Maybe even the Maureen Wright-Lewis call was part of the setup. What a schmuck.
“Wherever this car is taking you, we wish you Godspeed,” he went on in his best sermonizer voice. “Oh, and that phone I gave you? It’s a satellite phone with a secure line. There’s a charger in the glove box. Please take it out and put it in that red bag of yours. Remember to do that, will you?
“Anyway, my number’s programmed in, as well as others you may need on your journey. God! I hate saying things like that. I sound like the secret love child of Dr. Phil and Oprah.” Another giggle. A regular laugh riot, Father Lying Bastard!
Then: “If you need money, there’s an ATM card in the dash.” Why would I need your money?
Then the message went dead. I tried flicking on the “playlists” button, but I nearly hit a deer, so I figured I’d look for more when I got wherever I was going. I hit the dashboard phone icon and then “contacts,” and it lit up with about ten names and numbers. I hit “Eugene” and it immediately began to ring although a number didn’t show on the screen.
“Hello, Alessandra,” his voice mail chirped from the speaker. “I can’t imagine, frankly, that I’m not sitting here waiting for your call. But clearly I’m not. Maybe I’m serving mass; it could be the only reason I’m not answering the phone. I will call you back in a second if I’m not at the altar, and depending on the service, anywhere from a half hour to an hour, if I am. Got to keep up appearances, you know.” Beeeeeep.
“No. I don’t know!” I screamed. “You call me, and you call me immediately.”
Immediately must be different in the priest realm, I thought, when forty miles became ninety miles without a return call, and I soon saw the exit that would lead to Rhinebeck.
I turned off and found myself on one of those long stretches of road that must not have changed since the 1960s. Neither did the people at the roadside stands selling organic and hydroponic vegetables in their tie-dyed shirts.
I followed the signs to Rhinecliff, and at the next sign, made a sharp turn up a one-lane road, but that seemed to simply go back down again to loop around a sad little park. After two attempts, I stopped at the Rhinecliff Bar & Grill, an old wooden place that looked like it was about to collapse. Three guys who looked like they drank for a living were belly up to the rail, under signs reading 110% AMERICAN and WE DON’T SERVE FOREIGN BEER AND WE DON’T SERVE FOREIGNERS! Another guy, shooting pool by himself, eyed me like fresh meat.
“Can you tell me where Grinnell Street is?” I asked loudly.
“Nope,” said one guy, revealing a mouth that had fewer teeth than a newborn. The others looked at each other like I’d asked where one could buy a Democratic campaign button. “Never heard of it,” said another.
The bartender, a chubby woman who should have been jolly but wasn’t, said, “I know where that is.”
“Great,” I said, then realizing the directions weren’t free, continued: “And I’d sure love a cold beer. Got a Miller Lite draught?”
“Yup,” she answered without affect, pouring the beer and pointing up. “Just hook a right. You musta hooked a left. Then go straight up. Can’t miss it.”
“Thanks,” I said, gulping down the beer, which tasted better than any beer I’d ever had in my life. Either I didn’t realize how parched I was or they put something in the beer that made people never want to leave the bar, even when their teeth fell out.
I asked for another, finished it, left a generous tip, and walked out feeling like I’d just been on the set of Barfly minus Mickey Rourke.
Back in the Caddy, I “hooked a right,” or what I assumed was “hooking,” since it seemed more like bearing, and the road turned suddenly steep. I hope the formerly dead lady spy has a driver.