“Next…” The attendant turned his attention to the man in line, ignoring me.
“Wait, wait. Wait.” I fumbled for my passport and extended it to the man.
He leaned forward to look, his face not pleased to face me.
“That’s my name. Can you please check again.” I pleaded with him silently while he looked between the passport and me.
“Ehem.” He looked down his nose. A line was building. “Sorry, ma’am. We don’t have your bags. My guess is, your luggage never made it off the ground.
“That’s impossible. Checked it.”
“It is possible. You flew from… Chicago? The number for O’Hare International is here.”
He slid a wrinkled flier across the counter and pointed to the number. “Dial a Zero after they pick up.”
He took the phone from his desk and thrust it into my hand. The chord stretched over the service desk.
“Any questions?”
“Sure. Have you looked at the moon lately?”
He glared at me.
I shrugged, pulled the cord as far as it would reach, and dialed.
Listening to the dial tone, I checked my watch. Twisting the watchface, I brought it close to my face and read the time.
“O’Hare—”
I dialed zero. It rang twice. “Service desk.”
“Chicago, right?” I folded the flyer and put it on the counter.
“Yessir.”
“I’m Eliza Bailey. Just landed in LA. My goddamn luggage never made it on the plane.”
“Who’s this?”
“Eliza Bailey,” I said.
“Luggage for Eliza Bailey?”
“That is what I said. Ma’am.”
“First class I’m guessing…”
“Economy.”
“From your tone of voice. One… Two carry-ons, right?”
“Those are mine.”
“Well, good news, Miss Bailey—”
“I highly doubt that.”
“They’re in LA.”
“What?”
“Should be all set, ma’am. They should be in LA by now.”
“But they’re not—” I looked around. The line at the service desk were taking turns glaring at me.
“Are you in LA Miss Bailey?”
“Yes I am. You seem to have grasped the problem.”
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“We loaded them on the plane.”
“Miss Bailey?” A man in a cowboy hat leaned over the divider.
He was huge, with broad shoulders and a barrel chest. He took the hat off, and held it in one hand. His hair was thick and black, and slicked back with sweat.
I raised a finger to say wait.
He nodded and stepped back, hat in hand.
I lifted the phone again, eying the cowboy. “My luggage is definitely here in LA?”
“Unless it fell out of the plane, Miss. If you just go to the service desk—”
“I’m at the service desk. Ugh. Nevermind.”
I let the phone down and it hung by its chord. The man behind the counter curled his lip.
I turned back to the man with the cowboy hat.
“Yes?” I smiled politely.
“Miss Bailey. I work for the Adams family.”
“The Adams Family? Oh.”
“Couldn’t help but overhear…”
“Yeah.”
“Certainly the airport will sort it out. Gunther, by the way.”
His hand engulfed mine.
“Nice to meet you. I wanted to change before the interview.”
He clicked his tongue. “Wouldn''t worry. Pretty sure this interview’s a formality, no more. Let’s go.”
Leisurely, he strode into the crowd. I swiped the pamphlet off the counter and jogged after him. The crowd parted in front of him, and he didn’t seem to notice, but neither did the crowd.
After a dozen paces, he looked over his shoulder. “Whatcha smiling about, Miss Bailey?”
I shrugged. “Nothing. Just—Must be hard to lose you in a crowd.”
He faced forward again. “You’d be surprised.”
The cowboy hat sailed a foot above the crowd. It was big as a sombrero, but it looked like a cowboy hat on his head, which it was.
“You aren’t from LA, then?” I caught up with him.
“No, ma’am. I live here now, but I’m a long way from home.“
“Which is where?”
He led me to the parking lot. A blue work truck sat straddled two parking spaces. It simmered in the heat. All the windows were rolled down. Gunther opened the back door and made room for me.
“Maine.”
“Maine? The me state.”
“What?”
“ME.”
I paused next to him. Looking up I said, “What’s a guy like you do for Pamela Adams?”
“Personal security.”
“Are you her bodyguard?”
“Something like that, yes.” He looked down.
“Shouldn’t you be with her, then?”
His eyes lingered on my face. “Probably. But then, I cannot always be.”
Was that bitterness? I sat down, and Gunther shut the door.
On his way to the driver’s seat, Gunther swept a few parking tickets off the windshield and pocketed them.
It took awhile to crawl out of the airport, cars moving like dusty turtles. Eventually we took the expressway. Then we cut through the suburbs and watched the fenced-in yards.
“Not much of a talker, are you?”
“I was thinking how I’m going to get my luggage back.”
We had turned into a rocky coastal road that wove between clusters of brown rock. Ahead lay an old bridge over shallow water that struck out over the pacific shallows to an island.
Gunther drove me down a wide island boulevard, lined with old houses. Each house hid behind a screen of unkempt bushes, palm trees, and island oaks with fat leaves for shade.
Behind the row of houses loomed white cliffs, wind howling over them.
On the other side lay black rocky beaches.
Gunther shut the radio off. After a while I noticed. “You don’t like that stuff?” I gestured to the radio.
Gunther glanced at me in the rear-view mirror. “I want to focus on the road. You have to pay attention these days.”
I nodded and rubbed the jetlag out of my eyes.
“So, what’s a girl like Pamela Adams doing, asking for my help. I mean. Be honest. She could afford a lot better.”
“You aren’t a journalist.”
“Excuse me?”
“You’re unemployed.”
“I am?”
“You don’t work for a newspaper anyway.”
“You got me. Maybe I should start my own some day.”
“My point is, you are not, officially, an agent of the press.”
“Thanks for rubbing it in.”
“You don’t have to announce that you’re an agent of the press, or ever admit to being one. Could be useful.”
“No, people can sniff us out a mile away. They’ll know I’m a reporter.”
“I wouldn’t have.”