22 February 2011

Twelve, Part 3

Our contact at the airport was named Berto, and he held his “Renee and John” sign like it stunk of bad eggs and old banana peels. Within a few minutes of disembarking we were winding through the night-blackened streets of Palermo. Berto didn’t like talking, even though Tiberon kept on trying to joke with him. I kept wishing I knew any form of Italian or Sicilian; after Tiberon joked a little Berto said something under his breath, and I really wanted to know if it was insulting or not.

I kept nodding off. The road wasn’t exactly the smoothest in the world, though, so my head lolled back and forth, first towards the tinted window, then towards Tiberon’s shoulder. I don’t even know how long it took us to get to our destination or how we got inside. I vaguely remember hearing someone welcome us, and my voice thanking him for his hospitality, but the next thing I knew I was hearing birds and waking up in a less-than-comfortable twin bed in a room painted pink.

“You’re up,” Tiberon grunted from the other bed. He was leaning over, lacing his boots. The bed protested his weight as he sat up straight. “Figured I’d let you sleep. You talk a lot.”

I ducked my head and felt my face flush. Sometimes I talk in my sleep, especially when I am really exhausted. The thought of what I may have said made me incredibly uncomfortable. Tiberon grinned at me.

“Don’t look so nervous; I put the pillow ‘round my head. Better get dressed, though. Our host wants to have breakfast in ten minutes.”

I slipped on a pair of skinny jeans and tucked them into my boots, then stared at my bed for a minute, trying to decide what kind of weapon I was going to bring in with me. I had my gun and a couple of knives. I picked up a little switchblade that fit in my pocket and bounced it in my hand a couple of times. Really I wanted my gun, a sweet little 9mm. But I’d have to wear a jacket to cover it up, and it was pretty hot outside. The breeze coming in the window smelled of the ocean, but it also smelled like baked sunscreen.

And then it occurred to me that we weren’t here to do anything nasty. We were just picking up a package. So, logically, it might be considered rude to carry weapons in the house. Dropping the blade back into the bottom of my bag, I zipped it shut and shoved it under the bed. Adjusting my white tank top, I tossed my hair and left everything in the room.

A group of men was waiting for me in the dining room. I was barely a minute early, and Tiberon looked pointedly at his watch before grinning at me and tossing his head towards a guy sitting at the head of the table at the other end of the room.

He was older, maybe in his 40s or 50s, with slick black hair and a pristine pinstripe suit. I instantly felt underdressed, especially as I realized that even Tiberon was wearing a suit jacket stretched over his enormous shoulders. I didn’t even know they made things like that in his size.

But there wasn’t much I could do about it. I just lifted my chin and stood next to my partner, looking everybody in the eye. The men were whispering to one another, and they looked back at me with faces that looked not a little uncertain.

I looked up at Tiberon, nudging him with my elbow. “They’re looking at us all funny,” I whispered. He nodded.

“Afraid,” he said. I raised my eyebrows. The Mafia was afraid of us? What? Why? Before I could whisper anything else, however, the boss spoke.

“My American friends,” he said, standing. He was taller than I thought, though still shorter than me. “I hope you have slept well.” Tiberon looked at me, raising his eyebrows in surprise. The boss’s accent was very nearly perfectly British, with just a touch of the soft Italian vowels. “Please be seated. Eat with me.” He extended his arm over the table, and as if on cue a slender woman with perfectly coiffed hair came out of the corner and led Tiberon and me to places at the left and right of the boss.

“Thank you for seeing us,” Tiberon said with an unfamiliar tone of respect. I stared at him from across the table, feeling like something either really terrible or really fun was about to happen. Adrenaline was dancing in my veins, making my hands shake. I busied them putting a napkin in my lap, trying to cover up the nerves.

Several women appeared carrying covered dishes which, I was surprised to see, were filled with scrambled eggs, toast, carved ham, and many kinds of bread and jams. Coffee was poured into mugs all over, and I was offered hot chocolate, too. Tiberon caught my eye. They were serving us American food, and it was weird.

We ate in silence for about fifteen minutes before the boss spoke again, wiping his mouth with a napkin before leaning back into his chair.

“The girl is in her room,” he said. “We do not interact with her.” Several of the men nodded and began murmuring to one another. The women in the room stayed silent, but they were all watching me, like I was supposed to say something. So I did.

“Why not?” I asked. The men stared at me. “What? Do you all leave your children locked in their rooms?” It was a very bold thing to say, but as the only seated woman, I figured it was a now or never sort of deal for proving I could handle myself. The boss shifted uncomfortably in his chair, and I felt no small ego boost that it was because of me.

“She is dangerous,” he said.

Tiberon put his fork carefully on his plate. “What do you mean, ‘dangerous’?” Just by looking at him I knew we were both thinking about those twelve little pills in my jeans pocket. They were still there. Again, the man shifted, but this time he tossed his napkin on his plate, stood, and motioned for us to follow him.

He walked slowly through a door that led to a long corridor. We turned several times and walked up a staircase before he stopped at the end of a wide hall and stood aside for us. There was a key in the door, and as I reached for it, the boss’s face became terrified. He crossed himself and backed away down the hallway, his staccato steps swiftly vanishing around the corner.

“Got your gun?” Tiberon asked me as I began to turn the key in the lock. I shook my head.

“You?” He held out his empty hands.

“If we die I’m gonna kill you,” he said. I laughed humorlessly. The key clicked. I pulled it out and stuffed it in my pocket. Our breathing was loud even though we had only walked there. There was no sound coming out of the room. Nothing. When I swallowed I glanced up because I was sure Tiberon had heard me gulp. Clearing my throat, I placed my hand on the knob.

It turned easily, and the door opened without a touch from either of us. I gaped. Tiberon gaped. We exchanged looks and gaped some more.

We were on the seashore. Quickly I thought back to where in the house we were. We had to be at least three stories up. A beach does not belong in a bedroom.

“Oh, hello,” said a little girl. She had black hair and black eyes and she appeared out of nowhere. “Can I help you with something?”

“I…We came to take you with us,” I said. She spoke like such an adult it threw me off big time. I instinctively reached for my gun, which wasn’t there, and in that moment I realized that I was wearing a bikini. “Uh, Tiberon?” He looked at me, tried to say something, and started choking. He was dressed in a pair of blue swim trunks, and there was a pair of goggles around his neck.

“Are you alright?” the girl asked. “Don’t you like the beach?” I blinked, unable to respond, and when my eyes opened a millisecond later, we were standing on top of a grassy knoll in the mountains. I was wearing a red dress, and Tiberon had a picnic basket on his arm.

“Stop it,” I said. My voice sounded pleading and pathetic, but I couldn’t help it. The girl grinned impishly.

“I’m afraid not,” she said. “I’m having fun.” The scene changed again, and we were in Time Square.

“Stop!” I yelled. I jumped for her, but she leaped out of my reach, floating just above the ground. I mean, literally. She was floating, and her black eyes reflected the lights of the neon signs, and I have to say, I don’t think I’ve ever been more terrified.

Tiberon was standing, frozen and mute, just inside the threshold of the door. The little girl looked at him and started laughing.

“Your friend is silly,” she said, pointing at him. “He doesn’t know what to do.”

“Please stop,” I said. “We’re not here to hurt you. We’re just taking you to America.”

She dropped to the floor, surprised. “America?”

“New York, then west,” I said. “I don’t know why.” She shrugged.

“My mother named me Tristessa. You may call me Tessa,” she said.

“Tristessa?” I asked. It sounded vaguely French, but in her young voice it sounded strange.

“’Sadness’," she said, giving me the definition. The illusion around us melted away, and our feet were soon on the solid wood of a small bedroom with floral wallpaper.

17 February 2011

Fill 'Er Up!

An article I recently wrote for an online audience. Just trying to keep my researching skills well-honed. Enjoy. -m


Fill ‘Er Up! : Developing an Eco-Friendly Bar

With people all over the world becoming environmentally conscious, it is getting easier to find restaurants that have earned eco-friendly certifications. Equipment like refrigerators and cocktail workstations are often designated as being green or eco-friendly (just look for Energy Star, EcoLogo, and Green Seal), but smaller, disposable things often escape notice, especially in a bar. Bar owners can consider changing just a couple of the following things to save money, energy, and even time.

Ice: Unless you have the physics know-how and time to make a solar icemaker, chances are that, like everyone else, your bar uses an ice machine of some sort. Clean water, whether it is distilled, purified, or filtered, produces the best ice. Water that freezes while full of impurities will make ice that could potentially taste strange to customers.

Cutting boards: There are several different types of cutting boards on the market; plastic and wood are the most popular materials. Bamboo is arguably the more eco-friendly cutting board material, and it’s strong enough that it won’t fall apart while your bartender is slicing dozens of lemons and limes during Happy Hour.

Aprons: From cotton blends to polyester and hemp, fabrics come in all colors and textures. Something to keep in mind while choosing an apron material is where it came from. Fabric is eco-friendly when it is made from natural fibers (like cotton, instead of polyester) that haven’t come in contact with pesticides.

Towels: The simplest way to ensure that towels behind the bar aren’t wasted is to reuse cloth towels instead of using up paper towels, which end up in the wastebasket after a single use.

Coasters and Napkins: Instead of using paper napkins, consider using reusable coasters. Coasters come in all shapes and sizes of recycled materials, including bamboo. Think about adding the creative touch of woven cloth coasters or unique pieces of glass instead of white paper napkins.

Straws: Depending on your restaurant branding style, you could use compostable straws made from corn-derived plastic. Their manufacture causes less pollution and they work just as well as traditional plastics. Straws can also be made out of stainless steel, which can be chilled for use in cold drinks. The alloy is hygienic, easy to clean, and with proper care, could last 100 years.

Produce: Lemons and limes are some of the more popular food items to have behind the bar. A great way to stay green is to buy produce from farmer’s markets, and you can save electricity by skipping the machine-made juices and doing it by hand.

“Green” alcohol: If you’d like to do more than conserve energy and prevent waste, consider buying liquor that is certified organic. Serving environmentally friendly alcohol could be an easy way to help make your entire bar eco-friendly.

Training: In the busy environment of a restaurant bar, it’s essential you train your bartenders in the new practices. They need to know what to use when, and that it’s OK to tell you if something new isn’t working.

03 February 2011

Twelve, Part 2

This is Part 2, obviously. If you need to read Part 1, the link is just to the left. Enjoy! -m.

The airport terminal was packed with people. I mean, wow. Tiberon and I pounded through the automatic doors at near-full speed, our bags bouncing over the threshold and landing awkwardly on single wheels. Our acquired driver hadn’t dropped us off in front of our airline, but no matter. It was only a few steps away. We jostled over, cut in line in front of a family of 8 with a pair of harried-looking parents trying to count everybody, and waited.

Tiberon flung his arm around my shoulders and pulled me tight. When I looked up at him, confused, he grinned at me. Ah, yes. The surnames on our passports were the same. Avel wanted us to be man and wife for the time being. I looked down and twirled the simple fake diamond around my left ring finger. It had felt strangely exhilarating when Avel had pulled me aside and put the tiny jewelry box in my hand. I’m pretty sure he got it at Kohl’s or something. I shook the thought out of my mind and focused on the moment; I leaned into Tiberon’s side and wrapped my arm around his waist. We were directly behind a group of sorority chicks in mini skirts and five-inch heels, and in front of them was an insufferably long line of airline patrons.

“Where’re we going?” I whispered. Avel hadn’t wanted me to know until we’d gotten to the airport. I don’t know why. It’s not like I was going to tell anyone.

“Check it out,” Tiberon said, handing me a stapled pair of papers.

I glanced at the first page. It was a printout of a friendly email saying our tickets were booked and all we needed to do was check in with our passports. “Palermo? Why the heck are we going to Palermo?” Tiberon shrugged as we stepped around the corner created by the queue bars, his eyes on the legs of the college girls in front of us.

Palermo is the capital of Sicily, in the middle of the Mediterranean Sea. It’s also home base to the Italian Mafia. I’d been there a couple of times before, nabbing art and some other things. I thought of the twelve little pills in my front jeans pocket. Avel had always been completely against drug running, but I couldn’t think of what else the pills were.

My mind was exploding; I wanted to ask Tiberon so badly about what he knew we were doing, but there was no way I could do that in the middle of the airport. I would have to wait until we were seated. Standing there was agony, especially since it seemed that the line was hardly moving. I glanced at my watch. We'd only been inside for 10 minutes, but it felt like hours.

Finally, the lady at the desk efficiently took our papers without smiling, printed our passes, and growled at us to put our baggage on the scale. We were dismissed a minute or so later, and Tiberon and I walked quickly around the corner, down the escalator, and into the security zone. I held my breath when I accidentally made eye contact with one of the guards. Years of smuggling things and I still got nervous. Ridiculous. With a tight smile, I looked away and then down at my boarding pass. My passport said that my name was Renee Diebin, Tiberon’s was John Diebin. Avel must have thought it was really funny to give us a last name that, in German, was closely related to the word for “thief”.

Despite being chock full of hundreds of slow-moving travelers, the line wound pretty quickly through the rails, and in almost no time at all I was handing over my boarding pass and photo ID. The woman looked at me shrewdly and I smiled at her. My heart was beating so fast, I thought I was going to pass out. And then someone pinched my butt. I turned halfway to see Tiberon grinning like an idiot behind me. I blushed and smiled back, swatting his next pass away from my backside. I faced the security guard again; she was looking at me with a raised eyebrow.

“My husband,” I said, smiling apologetically. The woman nodded once, handed me back my papers, and ushered me through the scanner.

Nothing beeped on me or Tiberon, and we were seated on the plane just before the pilot addressed the whole plane. “Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking...”

While the attendants were doing their routine, I pulled a long envelope out of my pocket. Inside was a piece of paper folded in thirds. It was typed on a piece of graphing paper and was remarkably clean, despite the fact that some of the letters had been typed repeatedly, making them darker. Leaning towards the window, I unfolded Avel’s instructions and read them quickly.

I looked up at Tiberon, who was reading over my shoulder. His eyes were easily as wide as mine. He jabbed his finger at the last line on the page.

“Outbursts?” He rumbled in my ear. I raised my shoulders and held them there in an extended shrug.

"Hair dye?" I asked him. This time he shrugged.

"Must be in my bags," he said, adding, "I ain't doin' no babysittin'."

The way he said it made me think that he'd had no idea what Avel had planned. I refolded the paper carefully, reining in the urge to smell it, to see if any traces remained...but no. I slipped it back in the envelope, folded it, and stuffed it in my pocket, trying my best to seem like I didn't care whether I messed up the message or not.

Engines whirred and I heard the flight attendants quietly asking passengers to turn off their cell phones and to buckle their seat belts. Click, click, click! resounded all around the cabin. My stomach dropped as the plane took off. I stared out the window for a few minutes before leaning back and closing my eyes. If I was going to have to drag a little girl halfway across the world, I was going to get as much real sleep as I could, while I could.


01 February 2011

Twelve, Part 1

Twelve little pills. They didn’t budge in their tiny plastic bag as the town car went over a speed bump. I pushed them around, organizing their round brown bodies into four neat rows. They were big enough that the rows stayed put, and I smiled to myself. Another speed bump. We were hitting them pretty fast, definitely too fast for them to be any use. I guess when we got in and my colleague put his gun to the driver’s head, he believed us when we told him to leave as quickly as possible.

This would usually be the part where I revealed what we were doing, or what the little pills were. But the thing is, I had no idea. None of us did. It was one of those jobs that had you playing so far out of your normal playing field that it didn’t seem shocking when someone showed up with a bazooka made out of candy mints. That was just part of the job. The weirder thing was when that stuff worked. One of our group members was still in the hospital thanks to that bazooka. I’ll tell you this: getting a hole blown in your stomach is not more pleasant when it’s done with red-and-white striped sugary bits.

Tiberon, my colleague with the gun, turned and grinned at me as we hit yet another speed bump at 53 miles an hour. I glanced up and saw the driver’s face reflected in the rearview mirror. He wasn’t enjoying this as much as we were; yet again, who would? It’s not every day that you and your boss’s car get jacked in the middle of downtown and you have to drive your guests to the airport. I imagine I wouldn’t have been too ecstatic, either. It’s why I refuse to drive town cars.

I grinned at Tiberon and turned my attention back to the twelve little inanimate bodies in my hands. I assumed they were meant to be swallowed. I mean, what else would you do with capsules like this? Throw them? They couldn’t possibly manage to be airborne for longer than a couple of seconds, more if you threw them out a window. My instructions were to get them through security, then onto the plane. Easy cheesy. No one could see these things in their rectangular plastic bag and think, “Those are worth $6 billion. I’m going to confiscate them.” Nah. They were more of a “You’re one of those vegan thingies, aren’t you?” sort of pill. Thank goodness for that.

We hit the last bump at nearly 60 an hour and I narrowly missed getting my skull slammed into the ceiling. Glaring, I yelled, “Watch it! You don’t have to kill us!” Tiberon laughed and patted the driver on the top of his head.

I hated not knowing what I was doing, or why. But I wasn’t the brains this time. Maybe that was what really bothered me. I was supposed to be the brains. I always did the planning, the team gathering. Tiberon I knew ‘cause we’d worked together before. The other guys, who were following us in the Camry, they were complete strangers. But I trusted them because I trusted Avel. And Avel was the brains.

Debatedly, I thought to myself, smiling as Tiberon and I got out of the car, yanked our fake weighted baggage out of the trunk, and sprinted inside.

If Avel said that these twelve little pills would mean no more cons, and no more annoying police chases, then OK. I could do that.