Priced to Move

As I let myself out, I hear Tiffany’s little-girl voice, but I don’t catch her words. I’m glad. I’m not crazy about Roger’s trophy wife and her extravagances. Yes, I do like designer duds, but I shop discount—something Tiff would never dream of doing. She’s all about that price tag and the “because she can” factor.

I hurry down the back alley to the sidewalk, make my way down to the corner, and check my cell phone. As a proud procrastinator, I haven’t deleted New York numbers yet, and right there, on my contact list, is the one for my favorite cab company—the one with English-speaking drivers, since I’m not multilingual—that doesn’t have speed issues.

When the company promises a cab in six minutes, I shut my phone and get ready for my short wait. And that’s when I get a hinky feeling.

I turn around but see no one. Well, no one but the messenger guy on his bike, the suited exec fixated on his blackberry, the young woman in a tailored tan suit—you get the New York picture. Still, the short, downy hairs at the back of my neck are all lined up like good little soldiers. I know that I know that someone’s watching me.

That’s all I need.

Lord? More trouble? It’s been coming at me for ages now, and I think a dead ruby vendor, gun-happy Burmese goons, a nutty aunt, and a shrieking parrot are enough. Oh yeah. And about the cohost? You know I really don’t need him, on any of many levels, so you can send him back to Podunk, Missouri, or wherever he came from. Don’t you think I’ve earned a vacation?

When I realize what a self-serving excuse for a prayer that is, I try again. I’m sorry. That reeks of pride, doesn’t it? Let me put it a different way. I know you know everything, especially what really matters. You also know what’s coming down in the future, and while I’d rather think about new designer shoes, I don’t think it’s looking like that’s going to be my top concern anytime soon. So . . . if you could, please keep an eye on me. I wind up in more trouble than anyone else I know. Help me listen to you better—I know, I know. You don’t bellow, but sometimes I’m kinda thickheaded and don’t catch your warning. I can use some help there too. Especially with that pride thing. It’s not pretty. I’m sorry. And thanks.

The cab squeals to a stop, bringing the traffic to a standstill in the already nasty snarl on the street. The guy in the car behind the cab honks his horn, rolls down his window, and yells an obscenity. The one in the red Chevy behind him is another story. He stares at me, then at the loudmouth, at the cab, and at me again.

Goose bumps pop out all over. It’s splitsville for me, especially since I’ve begun to see a bad guy behind every cab, hot dog stand, and trash can or two.

I collapse on the backseat. The guy behind the wheel isn’t sporting a turban, but he doesn’t look like the all- American guy next door either.

“JFK, please, and I have to be there yesterday.”

“Excuse, please? Yesterday? I no understand.”

“Are you new with RideSafe?”

“Yes. I come from Greece three months back.”

“Who owns the company now?”

“Own? Company?”

“Sure. Your boss.”

“Oh. Cousin Spiros new boss. He good man. Give me work.”

I fight to squelch the urge and touch of hysteria that zip right through me. It’s all Greek to me won’t exactly win the driver’s cooperation.

Instead I say, “I’m flying US Airways.”

“Okay.”

While it isn’t a white-knuckle ride, it isn’t a Sunday drive in the country either. I pay, jump out, and then I see it again. The same red Chevy whose driver stared at me back at the street corner near Roger’s store. When I’m about to call 9-1-1, a tall brunette in a designer black suit walks up to the car, opens the rear door, puts in her overnight case, and then sits in the front passenger seat. They pull out, slowly, too slowly for my comfort.

Still, they’re gone.

Who says there’s no such thing as coincidence?

While my flight home is uneventful, I know that I know that I know something out there made me feel weird. Paranoia isn’t usually a problem for me. I didn’t imagine what I felt. I also know what I saw the driver of that red Chevy do. On the one hand, he stared. On the other, he drove away when his companion hopped into the car.

So I must have imagined that someone’s-looking-at-me feeling before he drove up.

Right?

Wrong?

If someone was staring at me, who could it have been? And why?

Well, I’m pretty sure I know the why. Mr. Pak. And his rubies. But that doesn’t get me any closer to the who. More to the point, was it tied to the Burmese shooting spree on the dirt road to Mandalay?

Probably. Mr. Pak dealt with Mogok Valley rubies. And he’s the only connection I have to Myanmar.

Why? Why? Why?

Why would he come to see me? Why did he bring me an invitation to Myanmar? Why did someone kill him? Why did they stick him in our vault—or kill him there? Why did someone shoot at us? And to top it all off, why did Mr. Pak