Operation Barracuda

Katia’s room. I expect her to be out so I’m pleasantly surprised when she picks up.

“Hello?” There’s a slight puzzlement in her voice. Who could be calling her in Los Angeles?

“Hi, Katia,” I say. “It’s Sam.”

“Oh, my God, Sam! What a surprise!”

“How are you?”

“I’m… I’m fine! My gosh, I’m flustered. What are you doing? Are you back in the States?”

“Yes, I am.”

“What’s it like in Baltimore? Still cold?”

“I don’t know, I’m not there.”

“Where are you?”

“Two floors below you.”

She’s not sure if she heard me right. “What?”

“I’m in the hotel. Two floors below you. In Los Angeles.”

“What are you doing here?” Now she’s laughing. “Oh, my God!”

“I got the message you left me at home. I was in L.A., so… here I am.”

“This is amazing. I was just thinking about you.”

“Yeah? Well, me, too, you.”

“Do you… do you want to get together?”

“Well, duh.”

“Are you hungry? I haven’t had lunch yet.”

“Neither have I. Let’s do it.”

We meet in the lobby twenty minutes later. Katia looks better than I remember. She is dressed in tight-fitting black capri pants that accentuate the shape of her long legs, a red cami, and a short black jacket. I ask her if garlic is okay for lunch and she tells me that as long as I’m having it, too, it would be great. I know a terrific place within walking distance of the hotel, just down La Cienega a couple of blocks, so we decide to hoof it. The weather in Los Angeles is slightly cool but certainly nothing like the winter temperatures back east. Neither of us needs a coat.

“How’s your family?” I ask as we stroll. She takes my hand and I welcome it.

“They’re good. It was a nice visit. My mom hasn’t been well. She had some kind of weird infection in her toenail and the doctor was afraid she might have to lose it. The toe, that is. But the nail was removed and… well, you don’t want to hear about that, do you?”

“I don’t mind. I think I can take the image of a missing toenail.”

“Anyway, I think she’s gonna be fine now. And my sister is fine, too. Nutty as ever. She’s getting her second divorce. I have a feeling she’ll never be happy being married. She’s too much of a free spirit.”

“Like you?”

“Well, I’m a free spirit, too, but not like her. If she’d been around in the sixties she’d have been a hippie. What about you? Where have you been?”

“Oh, overseas. Nothing to write home about. Just the usual business.”

“Yeah, right. International sales. Information gathering and troubleshooting. I remember, Mr. Mysterious.”

“It’s true!”

“Sure. So what are you doing in L.A.?”

“Had to make a stop. A business stop. But I’ve got twenty-four hours of free time.”

“Aww, and you chose to spend it with me?”

“If you’d like.”

“Of course I’d like.”

“I do have to get some rest, though. I’m pretty exhausted.”

She punches me on the upper arm. “Don’t give me that, buster. We might spend the next twenty-four hours in bed but we ain’t gonna be sleeping!”

We reach the restaurant, one of my favorites in L.A. — and San Francisco, too. It’s called the Stinking Rose and it specializes in garlic dishes. Katia’s never been there, so she’s in for a treat.

The place is nearly full, as usual, but we’re a little on the late side of the lunch hour. There’s no problem getting a table. The hostess must sense the romantic tension between Katia and me so she sits us in a dimly lit corner and lights a candle. Katia scans the menu and proclaims that it all sounds good. I assure her it is and suggest the appetizer of bagna calda. We order a bottle of the house red wine and settle in for an enjoyable hour or two.

“So where in the world were you, Mr. Salesman?” Katia asks. Her brown eyes sparkle in the candlelight and I’m tempted to open my soul to her. For once, the specter of Regan is nowhere around. Perhaps my late wife is looking down from the heavens and wishes me well. Regan would have wanted me to get on with my life, find someone to love. After all, Regan and I had separated and weren’t living together when she succumbed to her illness. We remained cordial mostly because of Sarah but I know Regan and I continued to have enormous affection for each other. I also believe Regan would have liked Katia.

“I was in the Far East,” I say. I really don’t want to give away too much about my job. Obviously, Katia has guessed quite a bit. It’s an ongoing debate with myself whether or not to tell her the complete truth. I suppose that if our relationship truly becomes something serious then I’ll have to.

“Let’s see, the Far East,” she says. “That must mean… Japan? Korea?”

“Nope.”

“The Philippines? China?”

“Nope.”

“Hong Kong? Indonesia?”

“Closer.”

“Look, Sam, one thing I ask is that you be honest with me.” She takes a sip of wine and then looks at me intently. “I realize you have a rather hardened heart when it comes to relationships and I don’t want to scare you off. I’m independent, too, and I assure you I’m not a needy person. But I’ve been thinking about our short time together and, well, I just think we’ll have a pretty good time if we keep at it. I’m not asking for a commitment or anything like that, but I am asking that you tell me the truth about yourself.”

Before I can say anything, the appetizer arrives. Bagna calda is an awesome concoction of soft garlic cloves oven-roasted in extra virgin olive oil and butter with a hint of anchovy. Served in a little hot tub, it’s spreadable on the freshly baked bread it comes with.

“My God, this is fabulous,” Katia says when she tries it. “I could just fill up on this.”

“It’s good, isn’t it? You can buy a book of recipes from the restaurant at the front desk if you’re inclined to try it at home.”

We order entrees and talk of other things, the question of my honesty temporarily placed on the back burner. Krav Maga is a big topic of conversation, along with our personal habits for keeping fit. She tells me a little about her life in Israel before coming to the United States. Her father was Israeli but her mother is American, hence the dual citizenship. After her parents’ divorce, her mother brought Katia and her sister to California. Her father died of heart failure six years later.

The food arrives and it’s overwhelming. She has the lemon-baked Atlantic salmon with garlic caper sauce served with acini di pepe pasta. I go for the garlic-roasted medium-cut prime rib, which comes with, naturally, garlic mashed potatoes. As I tell Katia, the Stinking Rose is a great place to take a date because you know you’ll both have bad breath afterward.

Halfway through the meal the conversation returns to what I do for a living. She mentions that she loves to travel but doesn’t get to do it very much. “You’re lucky. It must be nice being able to go places in your job,” she says.

“Sometimes it is. Depends.”

“On what?”