Sister Golden Hair Delight Ch 30

Chapter 30

Babbling like an idiot schoolgirl

Morning, Sunday, September 2nd

Marisella....

The United 767 from New York landed at LAX after the five hour flight.

Delfina and Mimi looked and felt much better than the passengers in coach since they had flown first class the entire way from Italy. The two girls had been able to catch up with their sleep and looked excitedly out the windows as we approached Los Angeles from the east, dropping lower. There was a brown-gray haze over everything and I hoped that it didn't extend to where we were going to live.

Christine and I, on the other hand, were pretty tired and I knew that I had taken advantage of her friendship; I apologized profusely and told her I would find a way to make it up to her.

After pulling our carry-ons from storage, we put on our coats, left the plane and walked into the terminal.

The deep vibrations of moving aircraft could be felt through my shoes as we walked and walked and walked. The conveyor belt for passengers was broken.

Since we had cleared customs easily in New York, with just the four carry-on bags, we headed down the long concourse toward the exit.

I was sure a new life awaited us as we headed toward the street. What that life offered remained to be seen, but the trepidation that I had was tempered by the excitement of finally arriving in California.

There was no one waiting for us. Did we make a mistake and were in the wrong terminal? Did we arrive too early? I eagerly looked around for someone that looked like they were there for us and saw no one remotely like that.

Christine was more irritated than worried and she walked over to one of the few pay telephones still left in Los Angeles and after checking her notebook, made a telephone call.

Christine....

I couldn't believe it. There was no one here to pick us up. Paolo had assured us that everything was taken care of. I didn't like how this was all starting and wondered what was going on with Colonel Crowell's men.

I slid my card into the pay phone and after checking my notebook, punched in the number for what the general called the 'Corporation.'

It took three rings before someone answered.

"Good morning, Crowell Corporation. John speaking. How may I direct your call?"

"I am Christine Rosatti and work for General Vincenzi. He is a very good friend of Colonel Crowell's."

"Yes?"

I was confused. There was a hesitation in his voice and should known who I was. "The colonel has assured us that we would have a place to stay with him while we figure out what we're going to do here. He told the general that Marisella Vincenzi, his niece, would be able to find employment with him."

I heard the man breathe in sharply. I knew he was caught off-guard about something and was going to ask when he came back on the phone.

"I'm going to transfer you to Colonel Paras. One moment, please."

The 'please, hold' music was the Beach Boys. At least someone had a sense of humor over there.

"Hello, Colonel Paras' office. Please state the nature of your call."

I was starting to get angry but knew that I couldn't. I was a trained professional, a former Air Force intelligence officer, a trained bodyguard, a trained killer... besides, I had Marisella with me, that wasn't so bad, but the two girls... I didn't want to lose my temper in front of them.

"Colonel Crowell told General Vincenzi months ago that we would be able to stay with him and..."

"Please, wait."

More Beach Boys... what the hell's going on over there? The call transferred.

"Colonel Paras. To whom am I speaking, please?"

"Good morning, I am Christine Davis. I am the guardian for Marisella Vincenzi and the general's two young daughters. Colonel Crowell assured the general that we would be able to stay with him, I suppose at his house, and that he would arrange employment for Marisella."

There was a deep silence on the other end that frightened me as I heard the woman give a sad moan. "Hello? Hello? Colonel Paras, are you there?" I said.

"I'm... I'm sorry, Miss Davis. There has been a tremendous tragedy here and I can only surmise that General Crowell must have forgotten to tell his assistant about it. Where are you?"

I could tell from the sound of her voice that the woman was very uncomfortable about something. She said there had been a tragedy... no, a tremendous tragedy. What the hell did that mean? And, now the colonel was a general?

"We are at the United terminal at LAX... there are four of us."

"All right, now listen... are you calling from your own phone or what?"

"No, this is a pay phone."

"I was afraid of that. All right, here's what I'm going to do. I am sending two men to get you. They will be wearing navy blue windbreakers and there will be the Corporation logo on the front, you can't miss it, it will be a golden 'C'. They should be there about a half-hour from now. They'll have a sign with your name on it. Just stay tight and they'll get you."

"Thank you, very much. We're dressed as United flight attendants. It's a long story. I'll take the girls over to one of these McDonald's they have here. They've never been to one."

"That'll work; I'll have them meet you at the McDonald's at the United terminal. Have a pleasant flight."

'Have a pleasant flight?' We just landed...

The click-click of our knee-high leather boots echoed along the long passageway to the terminal exit. For some reason, the concourse was almost empty which made it easier keeping watch on the girls but it also allowed them to walk away faster.

Walking slowly near us was a family who had just arrived from Australia; you could tell from the little 'Crocodile Dundee' hat the boy was wearing. After a fifteen-hour flight, the tourists looked tired beyond belief.

A man wearing a bright blue jacket approached them and held out his hand. At first, he looked like an airport employee giving directions, but then he seemed to be asking for a donation, something about money toward feeding hungry children.

The Australians gave him a few dollars and started to walk away.

"What, that's all?" he shouted as he followed the travelers.

One Australian then pulled out a few more dollars and gave them to the demanding man. "Please, leave us alone."

Then the man saw us and started to approach.

"Watch out, that guy's walking toward us." Mimi and Delfina instinctively ran back to us and hid behind Marisella.

I quietly but firmly told him to go away and leave us alone. He stepped in front of us, as he had done with the other people, scamming airline passengers to hand over money. But, a second later, he was face down, one arm behind his back, with my steel-toed leather boot on his dirty little neck.

"Move," I said, "and, so help me God, I'll break your damn neck."

Airport police were running in our direction and arrived a moment later, looking down on the man face down on the cold floor. A stiff push with my boot stopped the man from further squirming around and put a temporary end to his silly profanities.

The police soon had him tied up with the plastic ties that were replacing handcuffs. One look from them told the scam artist that he had finally bothered the wrong people.

I could feel the police looking at us uncomfortably, not sure what to do in a situation like this. Marisella, five foot seven with subdued southern Italian features, her dark hair still in the unassuming conservative hairstyle Paolo told us to have and me, a tall blond due to my northern Italian heritage, waited for them to say something.

"Marisella, take the girls to get a hamburger and some milkshakes or something." I handed her my card and watched them walk the short distance to the McDonald's.

Talking to the police took a good amount of time explaining who I was and why were in Los Angeles, time I would have rather spent having some good old American burgers, even if it were the overpriced junk that they were selling.

I saw the two men from Colonel Paras arrive. One man kept glancing at photographs in his hand while the other one scanned the faces of the exiting passengers, looking for us. They were probably told to look for young women dressed as flight attendants.

"Sometimes," one officer said, "they get really greedy and follow passengers who don't hand over enough money. We've been cracking down on them; no one should be harassed at the airport."

There was a muffled complaint from the man on the floor.

"Silencio, dizgraziato." I gave him another kick to his ribs, this time, with my boot.

"We're very sorry that this happens to people, but we can't be everywhere at once," apologized the police officer. "We'll take him off your hands now. Since we saw the whole thing and have it on surveillance video, there's no need for you to worry about it any further.

"Please tell the colonel that Private Jonathan Brolman says hello. I didn't serve with him; I was in a different unit... but we all know what happened in Kosovo."

"Of course, he'll appreciate it. Thank you." I had only a small idea of what he was talking about. I remember the general saying something about Crowell getting the Medal of Honor for whatever it was that he had done.

When the police took the upset man away, he was complaining about suing us, the police, the airport, and every passenger in the terminal.

Finished with the police, I walked over to my girls eating at a small table near the causeway. I snagged a couple of fries. "I believe that is our welcoming committee. Let's wait and see how long it takes for them to see us," I said as I took a couple of long sucks from the strawberry shake that Mimi had. The look on her disapproving face made me laugh. Time to learn how the world really works, little girl.

The men had stopped walking and waited away from the tall windows that looked out onto the huge parking structure in the center of the terminals. I wasn't sure whether they had seen us or not and decided to approach them.

Anthony....

"I told you the blonde would be a looker. I'd sure like to get a..."

My partner gave me a dig in the ribs. "Shut up... what if they hear us? Can you guess how pissed off the colonel would be? Besides, the blonde was an anti-terrorist officer. She'd probably tear you up!"

We laughed at each other as we were approached by the tall leggy blonde.

"Benvenuti, giovani donne, a California {Welcome, young ladies, to California}."

After introductions, which included us showing our credentials, my friend, built like an American football player, took the women's luggage.

We politely led them out of the United terminal into the grey morning coastal haze. I supposed the mix of car exhaust and jet fuel was already oppressive to them after years in the clear Italian country air.

On the roof of the next terminal, there waited our Bell 222 helicopter, outfitted as a business aircraft. Alfredo unlocked the helicopter's side door. "You know, every time we fly in this thing, I keep remembering that old TV show, Airwolf. This is so cool."

"Ah, shut up. I told you she would probably be able to kick your ass."

I put the bags into the luggage compartment, while Alfredo helped the four into the 'copter. I could see him zeroing in on the dark-haired beauty.

"Signorina Marisella, have you ever been to California before?"

"No, but I have always wanted to... Hollywood, the ocean, the freedom of America... I have dreamed of coming here all my life. Living in a small village in southern Italy... was, umm, too quiet for me."

Marisella....

I hope he doesn't know about me... I can't live with more humiliation. And, here I am, babbling like an idiot schoolgirl. I love LA!

As soon as everyone was seated and belted in, one of the men closed the helicopter up; the blades began to sound the familiar swoosh, swoosh, rapidly whump, whump. Christine motioned to us to put on the earphones and the sounds of the aircraft disappeared.

The pilot, I guess, had been waiting for clearance from the LAX tower, lifted the helicopter off from the terminal and my stomach seemed to drop down to my feet. Looking at Christine, I noticed she had just the hint of a smile on her face. The girls seemed to have no trouble at all and were busy looking out the windows.

We first flew west past the beach and then headed north a few miles offshore toward the company headquarters in the foothills north of Malibu.

While I eventually looked out the right window at the passing coastline, I noticed that the view did not entice any interest from Christine. Instead, she sat quietly, with the ease of well trained, coiled to strike predators that I had seen her have in the past.

The pilot kept up a running commentary, describing the sites along the coast as they continued north from the Santa Monica pier along the Southern California coastline. The hills looked dry and brown, not what I expected from my dreams of Los Angeles.

"Make sure that you stay seated until the blades have completely stopped," Christine told us. "We don't need any accidents at this point and you're not used to getting out of helicopters."

The aircraft, having circled the building, landed on the east side, protected from the onshore breezes by the huge mass of the building.

By the time the helicopter blades were silent, the engine still ticking away the heat, several electric trams had arrived to take us to the center. Following the coolness of the air-conditioned helicopter, the unseasonable warmth of this September day in Southern California was enough to elicit several uncomfortable comments from the girls.

Approaching from the eastern hill side of the buildings, I noticed six men at various points of the property, walking guard as though still in military service. I discovered later that when possible, the Corporation made a point of offering employment to former or retired military and that security was extremely tight.

After circling the building in the little carts, we approached the west entrance. Alfredo swiped a key card and we entered the reception area to be greeted by John, sitting behind a large desk with a dozen or so computer screens. After coming close enough, I noticed that the man, in his late forties, was in a wheelchair.

In the paperwork Zio Paolo had given us, it stated that the Colonel funded a rehabilitation clinic for military personnel that had been injured in service and located employment for them.

"Gulf War," he said, "just thought I'd break the ice with that. I am John Hubver, Marine staff sergeant until... well, you know.

"You are Christine Rosatti, yes? Here is your key card and identification. My records indicate that you were a first lieutenant, is that correct? The Colonel Paras said you would be working personal security for Marisella Vincenzi. Make sure that your identification badge is visible at all times, OK?

"...and you must be Maricella Vincenzi. Here are your credentials, also. Just a moment, we'll take a photo of the girls and set them up, also.

The Colonel's been apprised of your arrival. Alfredo will take you up. Nice to have met you. Sorry about the phone call and all."

Although I had flown half-way around the world and had agreed to the insane arrangement with my uncle, I suddenly felt like a sacrificial offering to the gods and so my hands began to shake. What kind of man would Colonel Crowell be? And, more importantly, would he even be remotely interested in pursuing a relationship with someone like me?

My hands shook and I gripped my thighs with them to hold still.

The elevator ride up to the ninth floor was thankfully a short one and as the doors opened, we were taken aback at the scene... our view was halfway up a Northern California coastal rain forest, complete with a stream and redwood trees fifty to one hundred feet high.

"Nice, isn't it? There are five more areas here, so later, you might want to take some time and check them out. All the plants have identification markers. They were the General's pride and joy, and he said he did his best thinking there."

Why was he speaking that way? Was the colonel not here anymore... oh, my God, it must be the tremendous tragedy Christine said the colonel alluded to. General?

The ninth floor gallery was actually ten stories high and, through the trees, overlooked the Pacific through what, Alfredo said, were huge thick Lexan bullet-proof windows. He escorted us to an area with cushioned park benches and picnic tables, surrounded by smaller pines in planters.

"We like to keep the redwood park theme on this side of the building. Your rooms are down this hallway."

We walked down the gently lit hallway until we came upon two doors, which he unlocked with our key cards. Upon entering, we soon realized that 'rooms' meant something quite different from 'rooms'.

The first area was a small den, with a sofa, a coffee table, a television, and along the wall, a kitchenette with microwave and small refrigerator. The room and its highlights were peach and white in color, with large exotic seashells as accent pieces. Several tropical theme paintings hung from the wall behind the sofa. Small potted palms completed the furnishings. He said something about someone named Alessa doing the decorating.

Beyond, there was the bedroom and bath, more in a pinkish tone, with a king-size bed, an easy chair, dresser and nightstand all in white. Continuing the tropical theme, four large French doors overlooked a different landscape, this one a tropical rainforest.

"I trust these rooms will be satisfactory for you. On the coffee table, you will find a book with a map of the building, floor by floor. In each wing, the dining room is on the second floor, on the central right side. The kitchenette here is for your convenience, in case you bring back a late night snack or something like that.

"Both rooms are identical. Ms. Marisella, these are your rooms. Ms. Christine, yours are next door. I suppose you'll figure out what to do with the girls. You will both find everything you need to freshen up in your bathrooms, as well as clothes more suitable for Los Angeles.

"You will be meeting with Colonel Paras at 10 AM, which is about an hour and a half from now. She will meet with you in the large room we first came to after leaving the elevator.

You may address the colonel as 'Colonel Paras,' Miss Lane, as 'Miss Alessa.'

Is there anything else you might need?"

There was a slight pause and then I said, softly, "Oh... no, thank you very much... we'll be ready."

After he left, Christine turned to me and said, "The girls can stay here, you and I will stay next door."

Fiscelli turned on the nightstand light, sat up with his legs hanging off the side of the bed, stretched and gave a huge yawn. After a few minutes, he moved to the bathroom and shaved. Steam enveloped him as he tried to wash his troubles down the shower drain.

A half-hour later, he was standing in his office chewing on an egg sandwich. In his other hand, he held a glass of milk. He was staring at the cookies on the tray, trying to decide whether to eat them or not... Looking at the relief map of the Hawaiian Islands, he made a few changes, and then satisfied and ready for the day, went out onto the deck waiting for the sunrise brightening the east.

**********

Maria....

I walked down the hallway to Alessa's office overlooking the Pacific and found her having a quiet breakfast by herself.

As I walked in, her face brightened and she greeted me with a tired but passionate smile.

"Maria." She rushed to me, arms opening in welcome.

"Alessa, darling... I see that those Italians are finally here... Somehow, Jim made a promise to General Vincenzi to take them in. He must have not got around to telling us before... I called Vincenzi in Italy. He asked that we allow them to stay. His wife, Angelina, just died and he didn't want the girls to know, yet. He sounded more angry than sad... strange... after you've met them, we can get the day started. We have that new proposal for four 'weather' satellites from the CIA to go over.