a traditional bride. I’ll wear my best sari and all my gold jewelry.”
Gold jewelry! Hey, why haven’t those undisclosed assets been made available for pawning?
THURSDAY, March 4 — Wedding day at last. Or is it? The ringing telephone blasted me awake in the middle of the night.
“My marriage!” wailed Apurva. “It’s off!”
Rats and damnation. I rolled over and sat up.
“What’s the matter, Apurva?” demanded Carlotta.
“That Trent Preston! He’s a monster!”
Why me, God? I looked at the clock. 5:37 a.m.
“OK, Apurva, calm down. Give me some facts here. What’s going on?”
“It happened at breakfast. Trent was looking at me peculiarly. I thought perhaps I had some grits on my face. Then he said he couldn’t marry me.”
“But why?”
“I don’t know,” she wept. “He, he said he doesn’t know me.”
Damn. Leave it to Trent to start his wedding day with an existential crisis.
“OK, Apurva. Let me speak to Trent.”
“He’s not here.”
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know. He’s, he’s walking somewhere. I can’t marry him anyway. He doesn’t love me!”
“OK, now don’t make any rash decisions. Stay where you are. When Trent comes back, make him stay there too. I’m on my way.”
“You’re, you’re coming here?”
“As fast as I can. Everything will be OK.”
“Everything is horrible! I wish I were dead!”
“Just sit tight, Apurva. Leave everything to me.”
Imagining it was Trent Preston’s head, I pummeled Granny DeFalco’s old goose-down pillow. I should never have let that wishy-washy poet out of my sight!
8:45 a.m. On the road to San Francisco airport. I’m booked on a 9:20 flight to Memphis if Bruno Modjaleski can whip his father’s big Chrysler through backed-up rush-hour traffic with sufficient terrifying recklessness to get me to the airport on time.
“I told you we should have taken my chopper,” said Bruno, powering up the freeway shoulder at 80 miles per hour and dodging concrete abutments with just inches to spare.
“I am not riding 150 miles on your motorcycle in the middle of winter,” replied Carlotta, her short but eventful life passing repeatedly before her eyes as she braced again and again for impact.
Giant truck dead ahead!
“I can’t look!” I screamed, covering my eyes.
Violent lurch as Bruno swerved. “Relax, babe. God, you’re worse than Candy.”
In case you’re out of the Redwood High gossip loop, Bruno recently dumped parakeet-loving Mertice Palmquist to get back together with head cheerleader (and former love) Candy Pringle. He accepted Carlotta’s offer of $100 in cash for a fast trip to S.F. because gorgeous and popular Candy is not what anyone could term a cheap date.
10:32 a.m. Carlotta risked life and limb to reach the airport on time, only to discover that all flights had been postponed because of unsettled weather back east. Even worse, Bruno insisted on extracting another slobberingly intimate kiss as a bonus for getting Carlotta there in one piece. I really don’t see how Candy stands it.
While chewing through an overpriced airport breakfast, I noticed that a wall-mounted TV in a bar across the corridor was carrying another news report on my father. Then they showed that same unflattering photo of me. Such high-profile media exposure is not helpful to a fugitive from the law. Realizing I had no choice, I abandoned my eggs, found a pay phone, and dialed Ukiah.
“Good morning, Mr. Joshi. This is Nick Twisp.”
“Nick Twisp! You dare to call me, you young scoundrel? I shall alert the FBI!”
“Mr. Joshi, you know my father had nothing to do with that virus.”
“It was traced to his computer.”
“My father has zero computer knowledge. You know that.”
“I shall testify otherwise. He deserves to go to prison. And you as well!”
“Mr. Joshi, I know where your daughter is.”
“Where? If you have any decency at all, you must tell me!”
“OK, I’ll tell you where she is—as soon as
Gold jewelry! Hey, why haven’t those undisclosed assets been made available for pawning?
THURSDAY, March 4 — Wedding day at last. Or is it? The ringing telephone blasted me awake in the middle of the night.
“My marriage!” wailed Apurva. “It’s off!”
Rats and damnation. I rolled over and sat up.
“What’s the matter, Apurva?” demanded Carlotta.
“That Trent Preston! He’s a monster!”
Why me, God? I looked at the clock. 5:37 a.m.
“OK, Apurva, calm down. Give me some facts here. What’s going on?”
“It happened at breakfast. Trent was looking at me peculiarly. I thought perhaps I had some grits on my face. Then he said he couldn’t marry me.”
“But why?”
“I don’t know,” she wept. “He, he said he doesn’t know me.”
Damn. Leave it to Trent to start his wedding day with an existential crisis.
“OK, Apurva. Let me speak to Trent.”
“He’s not here.”
“Where is he?”
“I don’t know. He’s, he’s walking somewhere. I can’t marry him anyway. He doesn’t love me!”
“OK, now don’t make any rash decisions. Stay where you are. When Trent comes back, make him stay there too. I’m on my way.”
“You’re, you’re coming here?”
“As fast as I can. Everything will be OK.”
“Everything is horrible! I wish I were dead!”
“Just sit tight, Apurva. Leave everything to me.”
Imagining it was Trent Preston’s head, I pummeled Granny DeFalco’s old goose-down pillow. I should never have let that wishy-washy poet out of my sight!
8:45 a.m. On the road to San Francisco airport. I’m booked on a 9:20 flight to Memphis if Bruno Modjaleski can whip his father’s big Chrysler through backed-up rush-hour traffic with sufficient terrifying recklessness to get me to the airport on time.
“I told you we should have taken my chopper,” said Bruno, powering up the freeway shoulder at 80 miles per hour and dodging concrete abutments with just inches to spare.
“I am not riding 150 miles on your motorcycle in the middle of winter,” replied Carlotta, her short but eventful life passing repeatedly before her eyes as she braced again and again for impact.
Giant truck dead ahead!
“I can’t look!” I screamed, covering my eyes.
Violent lurch as Bruno swerved. “Relax, babe. God, you’re worse than Candy.”
In case you’re out of the Redwood High gossip loop, Bruno recently dumped parakeet-loving Mertice Palmquist to get back together with head cheerleader (and former love) Candy Pringle. He accepted Carlotta’s offer of $100 in cash for a fast trip to S.F. because gorgeous and popular Candy is not what anyone could term a cheap date.
10:32 a.m. Carlotta risked life and limb to reach the airport on time, only to discover that all flights had been postponed because of unsettled weather back east. Even worse, Bruno insisted on extracting another slobberingly intimate kiss as a bonus for getting Carlotta there in one piece. I really don’t see how Candy stands it.
While chewing through an overpriced airport breakfast, I noticed that a wall-mounted TV in a bar across the corridor was carrying another news report on my father. Then they showed that same unflattering photo of me. Such high-profile media exposure is not helpful to a fugitive from the law. Realizing I had no choice, I abandoned my eggs, found a pay phone, and dialed Ukiah.
“Good morning, Mr. Joshi. This is Nick Twisp.”
“Nick Twisp! You dare to call me, you young scoundrel? I shall alert the FBI!”
“Mr. Joshi, you know my father had nothing to do with that virus.”
“It was traced to his computer.”
“My father has zero computer knowledge. You know that.”
“I shall testify otherwise. He deserves to go to prison. And you as well!”
“Mr. Joshi, I know where your daughter is.”
“Where? If you have any decency at all, you must tell me!”
“OK, I’ll tell you where she is—as soon as
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