Revolting Youth: The Further Journals of Nick Twisp (9 page)

“I think everyone should get married in Mississippi,” added Carlotta, glancing at Sheeni. “I only wish they’d lower the age limit even more.”

My Love rolled her eyes.

“What I can’t understand,” said Vijay, “is how that ruffian Nick Twisp heard about it?”

“I’m sure I wouldn’t know,” replied Carlotta. “Perhaps you should ask your sister.”

“I’m not certain I’ll be permitted to speak to her,” said Vijay.

“Vijay’s father is threatening to banish Apurva from the family,” explained Sheeni.

“That is so unfair,” said Carlotta. “Doesn’t he want to see his grandchild?”

Vijay dropped his potato-and-peas samosa.

“Of course, I may be speaking prematurely here,” I hastened to add.

3:05 p.m. Within 20 minutes it was all over the school that the next generation of Trent Prestons was on its way. My volatile friend Sonya did not take the news well. In gym she “accidentally” dropped a large barbell that dented the maple floor and came within an inch of pulverizing Carlotta’s left foot. I can’t let my guard down for a second in that class. Not even when Lana Baldwin bends over to draw her pink lace panties up her still-damp thighs.

5:30 p.m. Feeling a trifle overstimulated, Carlotta had planned to retreat to her humble bathroom to attend to a private matter, but I arrived home to find my living room occupied by Trent,
Apurva, and one-and-a-half sets of overwrought in-laws. I had never seen my former employer (Mr. Preston) so red-faced. The two mothers-in-law were sharing my box of tissues. Apurva had a box of her own. Trent was clutching her hand and seething inwardly (I recognized the signs from my father). I could sense that many ugly and hurtful things already had been said. But then that’s what parents are for.

Mrs. Ferguson shuffled out from the kitchen. “They didn’t want … no snacks … Miz Carlotta … I done … made the offer.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Ferguson.”

“They stayin’ … for supper? … I’m makin’ … Hawaiian ham loaf.”

“Uhmm, I’ll let you know.” Carlotta turned to the somber gathering. “Well, don’t let me interrupt. If you need anything, I’ll be in the bedroom studying.”

“Just a minute, young lady,” boomed Mr. Preston. “This discussion concerns you as well.”

Damn, trapped like a rat. Sullen Trent made the mumbled introductions; no one offered to shake hands. Carlotta reluctantly took a seat in the only unoccupied chair.

Mr. Preston proceeded in his prosecutorial manner. “I understand you have extended offers of employment to my son and his wif—I mean, Apurva.”

“Oh … Did I?”

“And how much do you intend to pay?” he demanded.

Put on the spot. Now I remembered why I disliked parents so much. They do get in your face. I thought back to Rev. Glompiphel’s recent wage proposal to Carlotta for a position as rectory domestic slave. “Uhmm, how about $100 a month—each?”

Mr. Preston frowned. “Miss Ulansky, are you aware of this state’s minimum wage laws? And what do you intend to offer in terms of health benefits, dental coverage, workman’s compensation, and pension plan?”

Pension plan! Good grief, they’re teenagers! We’re concerned about living, not retiring. And how many of those costly perks had he extended to his erstwhile employee Nick Twisp? Exactly none, as I recall.

“Uh, I, I hadn’t thought of that,” mumbled Carlotta.

I excused myself to answer the telephone in the bedroom. It was my sister Joanie calling from Los Angeles with cataclysmic news.

“Nickie, you and Dad have been all over the TV down here!”

“I know, Joanie. It was just a big misunderstanding. They let Dad go.”

“Nick, Kimberly saw one of the reports!”

I collapsed on the bed.

“Damn! Did she tell Mario?”

“Yes, and I think they’re going to the FBI.”

My mind reeled. Well, that’s one way for my business partners to welsh on future Wart Watch royalties—fink on me to the feds.

“Nickie, why don’t you turn yourself in?”

“I can’t, Joanie. Thanks for the warning. I’ll keep in touch.”

Trying to keep my panic under control, I immediately called Sheeni.

“Meet me at the lunch counter in Flampert’s Variety Store in 15 minutes.”

“But, Carlotta, we’re about to sit down to dinner.”

“Fifteen minutes!” I insisted. “It’s vitally urgent.”

Grabbing my bank books and laptop computer, I ducked out through the kitchen.

“I’m stepping out for a moment, Mrs. Ferguson,” I informed my maid. “Can you wipe down everything in the house I might have touched?”

She paused in mashing the potatoes. “Everything?”

“Yes, if you will. Your son can help. Please do your best.”

“OK, Miz Carlotta … but where …”

I didn’t stop. On my way out the back door I reached behind the washing machine and pulled out my emergency backpack, loaded with essentials and ready to go. (A precaution all teens would be wise to take.)

8:42 p.m. I’m writing this in the front seat of Fuzzy’s Falcon inside my garage. I’ve plugged my laptop’s 12-volt adapter into the cigarette lighter socket. I hope my pal won’t object to this modest battery drain. The car still smells faintly of controlled substances, but so far I have observed no consciousness-altering effects.

The plan is to hide out here for the night (assuming I don’t freeze to death; My Love declined to let Carlotta spend one last night at her house). Thankfully, I have my sleeping bag and heat-conserving Mylar space blanket in my emergency pack.

I figure if the cops descend on my house, I can slink away up the alley before anyone notices. I got a scare about an hour ago when a car squealed into the driveway. I sneaked a peek out the grimy garage door windows and was relieved to see it was only Mr. Joshi in his rad Plymouth Reliant. He slammed his car door and strode toward the house. A moment later the noise level inside went way up. I hope the neighbors don’t call the cops.

Sheeni was most upset when I told her the news at Flampert’s. We had an urgent, whispered conversation over grilled cheese sandwiches and bad (even for Flampert’s) raisin chiffon pie.

“Carlotta, this is disastrous! Who will take care of darling Albert?”

“I’m facing ten years’ imprisonment by the California Youth Authority and you’re worried about a dog?”

My Love looked stricken.

“OK, Sheeni, he’s a very nice dog. Trent and Apurva can take care of him. Darling, you have to help me get my money out of the bank tomorrow.”

“I told you to move your funds offshore. Mine are totally untouchable.”

Like Latin America’s smarter drug lords, My Love stashes her money (a 15 percent rake-off of my Wart Watch royalties) in an extremely circumspect bank on the Cayman Islands.

“Sheeni, can you go to my bank first thing tomorrow and withdraw all of my funds? You’re a signatory on all the accounts.”

“I can’t, Carlotta. No way. It’s too dangerous. Just call them up and tell them to wire the money into my account. I’ll give you the number.”

“But, Sheeni, I need money now!”

“Sorry, Carlotta. I’m in enough trouble as it is. My parents will kill me when they find out who you really are. They’ll positively murder me.”

“Sheeni, let’s run away together. Let’s be wild and rebellious like your hero Jean-Paul Belmondo.”

“Sorry, Carlotta. Life as a runaway homeless teen is just not in my plans.”

“Sheeni, if you love me, you’ll go away with me. You hate it in this town! And we’ve got money.”

My Love shook her head. “I can’t make any decisions now. I’m too upset.”

And so we parted (for how long?) outside of Flampert’s. I longed to take her in my arms and never let her go. But all we could do was shake hands, say “good night” like two casual acquaintances, and walk away.

9:35 p.m. Apurva’s parents peeled out about ten minutes ago. As far as I know, all Prestons remain inside. Perhaps Trent’s parents are planning on bunking on the sofa. I trust everyone isn’t waiting for tardy Carlotta to return. It looks like dinner was served quite a while ago (I could see Dwayne washing the dishes through the kitchen window). I hope Apurva’s mother was not too appalled by Mrs. Ferguson’s animal-laden Hawaiian ham
loaf. I could use a nice slab of it myself right now. Fortunately, I’m keeping hunger at bay with handfuls of high-protein trail mix from my backpack.

I wish Carlotta were in there to help the newlyweds stand up to parental browbeating. Apurva has a will of iron, but Trent is such a milquetoast. Who would ever guess it to look at the guy?

Life is so unpredictable. It’s hard to believe that a few hours ago my biggest problem was trying to figure out how much to pay my chauffeur. Now I’m living out of one bag and have a relentless FBI hot on my trail.

Oh well, at least Trent is married. That’s one good reason to postpone further contemplation of desperate suicidal acts.

WEDNESDAY, March 10 — If I were one foot shorter (or Fuzzy’s Falcon one foot wider), I might have passed a halfway comfortable night. No cars in the driveway except Trent’s Acura. Looks like the senior Prestons finally bailed.

As Carlotta was hitting the road with her getaway burdens, a gate opened across the alley and out bounced a large garbage can gripped in the strong but uncoordinated arms of you-know-who.

“’Lo, Carly,” leered Bruno. “Big party at your place last night, huh?”

“Bruno, can you do me a favor?”

“Sure, babe. You want it on the lips or down lower this time?”

By now I had learned simply to ignore his lascivious queries.

“Bruno, do you know Trent Preston?”

“Yeah, but I ain’t gonna wear no yellow ribbons for the guy.”

“Can you give him this message when you see him: Make yourselves at home; the rent is paid until July?”

Bruno’s lips moved as he tried to squeeze Carlotta’s message
into his 12-megabyte brain, probably in the process erasing something vital like Joe Montana’s lifetime passing stats.

“Will do, babe. Want another installment on the fifty?”

“No thanks,” I replied, hurrying away. “Don’t forget my message.”

“OK, babe,” he called, mentally undressing me one last time. “Keep it shakin’, girl!”

Carlotta breakfasted on a selection of farewell donuts at my favorite spot downtown. I sat in the shop’s least conspicuous corner and read the newspaper 47 times while waiting for the bank to open. No news of Nick Twisp manhunt breakthroughs, though a brief article on page three noted that former Geezer suspect George W. Twisp was considering filing a multimillion dollar wrongful-arrest lawsuit. Such a monetary award, I reasoned, could only balloon his child-support responsibilities. Go get ’em, Dad!

Her resolve fortified by five cups of strong coffee, Carlotta thoroughly cased the entire downtown area before cautiously entering her bank. No obvious police-types in sight. I walked purposefully up to a teller window, stated my business, and was bounced immediately to the branch manager, Mr. Mince, who asked me to take a seat beside his desk. Carlotta did so, though my heavily loaded backpack required her to hunch uncomfortably forward. If worse came to worst, I was hoping it might stop a bullet.

The banker examined my records. “So, Miss Ulansky, you wish to withdraw all $709,000?”

“Yes, sir. In cash.”

He smiled. “You have an armored truck parked outside?”

“No, sir. I’ll just stuff it in my pack.”

Mr. Mince’s sparse eyebrows zoomed up into his forehead’s stratosphere. “Miss Ulansky, it would take at least a week for us to procure your funds in currency. And I cannot recommend
withdrawing such an amount in that manner. Have you spoken to your financial advisors about this?”

“Certainly,” I lied. “OK, how much can you give me in cash right now?”

He considered my request. “We might be able to manage $20,000.”

“Fine, I’ll take it,” I replied, handing him a slip of paper. “The rest you can wire to this account.”

He frowned his severest banker frown. “Miss Ulansky, I trust you realize this Caribbean institution is not federally insured.”

“I know. Can I please have my money?”

Mr. Mince sighed, excused himself, and walked over behind the counter to confer with the head teller. Much talk, much head-scratching, many nervous-making glances in my direction. I could feel my panic rising with each passing second. Eventually the banker returned—empty-handed—to his desk.

“I’d like the $20,000 now,” I insisted.

“We’ll have it in a second,” he smiled. “They’re counting it out now. You know, Miss Ulansky, we’d hate to lose you as a customer. I trust you’re not dissatisfied in any way with our service.”

“Uh, no.”

“Good. Then I hope you’ll reconsider closing your accounts. We have some very attractive rates on our CDs at the moment.”

The guy was stalling. I could sense it now. I tried to stay calm and think what Sheeni would do if she were here.

“Mr. Mince, I have directed you to transfer my funds to an institution of my choosing. If this is not done immediately, I shall be facing dire financial consequences for which you and your bank will be held responsible. Do I make myself clear?”

“Perfectly. I’ll see to it at once.”

Another drawn-out conference with the head teller. Damn. The vibes were bad, very bad. What price $20,000? Ten years in jail?
A shoot-out with the cops? Now Mince was on the phone! Total panic. Time to bail. I eased myself out of the chair and walked as nonchalantly as I could toward the door. Tellers and customers turned and stared. I could no longer feel my legs. My heart was thumping wildly. I pulled on the door handle. It wouldn’t budge. Locked! Mince must have pushed the silent alarm. Wait, maybe not. I pushed on the door. It opened. I was outside on the street. Sunshine. Traffic noise. Sirens! No, it was just the pounding in my ears. I was 10 feet along. Now 20 feet. Someone called my name. I turned. Mince! On the sidewalk pursuing me! I tried to run.

“Miss Ulansky!” he called again. “We have your money now. It’s ready.”

I stopped. “Oh, uh … OK … Can you, uh, bring it to me out here?”

“I hardly think so, Miss Ulansky,” he replied, offended. “We don’t conduct business on the street.”

10:12 a.m. The bus is supposed to arrive in 18 minutes. Still no cops in sight. Maybe the feds are waiting until I get out of town, so there won’t be any heavy police action around large civilian populations. Taking no chances, I stuffed the $20,000 (in crisp new $100 bills) into a vinyl and leather money belt I purchased at a surplus store. François wanted to check out their impressive handgun display, but I figured he’d be stymied by the damn waiting-period requirements. Boy, the NRA really dropped the ball on that one.