Chapter 3
Indian Summer, Before the Fall
The Continental flight from Newark to Delhi was a non-stop, 14-hour and 32-minute journey—more or less. That was a long time for a heavy smoker to survive such a torturous ordeal, especially considering the more or less. I flew business class as proper and customary under the circumstances. By the way, all DS agents had business class since it was a prerequisite for hiring. However, diplomatic acumen and surefootedness were more difficult to come by for those of us cursed with flat feet.
I checked into the Radisson Hotel near the airport, but I’d find more permanent accommodations in the morning, closer to the embassy. The desk clerk must have remembered me from my earlier visit when I had transited Delhi for Afghanistan. The clerk immediately turned his back on me.
I didn’t know what I might’ve said or done to offend him during my previous visit. I was pretty well-behaved before. After all, I didn’t steal the linens. There were no suggestions of paternity suits being filed against me. I wasn’t overly aggressive or obnoxious and/or drunk during my stay; but most importantly, I hadn’t been publicly incontinent on the subcontinent. So what could it be, I wondered?
I had asked the hotel doorman where I could find a good deli; either in the old or new city. Maybe he didn’t fully appreciate my quick-witted pun or nitwitted attitude, but so what. We all recognized that the funny bone was in the eye of the beholder. No matter, I paid my bill and headed to the embassy with my battered suitcase and feelings.
Bob Gelati was the embassy’s senior Regional Security Officer, or RSO, who came from a long line of DS agents. His great grandfather was the first Chief Special Agent of the Office of Security, the precursor to the Diplomatic Security Service. His father had also retired some years earlier from the security biz and passed the family banner to Bob. He carried it proudly as the Big Bird, his DS nom de plume. Under strict government naming rules, a nom de guerre was only assigned to those people working for the Pentagon with the State Department typically getting the discarded tail feathers.
Bob, the birdman, physically resembled a bowling pin with a huge, hooked schnozzle in the middle of his face. It looked as though it had been broken at some point and poorly set. It was a pronounced, bent proboscis. Of course, there was a story behind his misaligned nose. For several years, Bob was the organization’s preeminent prankster. His favorite gag involved surreptitiously slipping condoms into the jacket pockets of his office colleagues.
On occasion, Bob’s Coney Island Whitefish would be discovered by the agent’s spouse, a girlfriend, a mother, or child. One of his coworker’s wives was thoroughly embarrassed and outraged when the drycleaner returned a Trojan in a clear plastic bag attached to the family’s freshly cleaned clothes. The woman’s husband finally put an end to Bob’s fun over that incident. The irate agent confronted him and demanded an apology, one to be conveyed directly to his spouse. Bob mistakenly declined to do so and laughed at the notion of apologizing. Moreover, he told the husband that he was damn lucky it wasn't a used one. It was then wham, bam, and thank you ma’am for Bob and his nose. The punch not only broke Bob’s nose, but also his penchant for pulling pranks—for good.
Sometimes those who served and protected were too damn nosy and nervy for their own good.
There were other quirks to deal with in the outfit as well. Handles, monikers and nicknames were big deals in DS. Good, bad or indifferent, the tags tended to stick with you throughout your career. They even followed you into retirement as I could attest. Mine was an obvious choice given my name. I didn’t need to give you a heads-up to figure it out.
The Big Bird introduced his staff and, not surprisingly, most of the agents and administrative assistants were male. However, Constance McAlister was one of four assistant RSOs; the exception to the rule. She had been at post for about eighteen months, just about midpoint in her tour. Constance became Connie to her friends, but to her embassy colleagues, both admirers and detractors, her tag name was Kali, the Hindu goddess of destruction and dissolution.
Part of her nickname derived from the fact that she was a tough lady who was born and raised on the near South side of Chicago. Constance, Connie, or Kali brooked no nonsense from her male counterparts in the office. She was professional, competent and could tear your balls off and feed them to you if you deserved it and within arms’ reach at the time. She was very attractive physically, but considered by her male coworkers to be a bit butch in her dress and demeanor. That was simply DS code-talk meaning she refused to put out for any of them.
Regardless, the Big Bird had something very nice to say about Connie; she was being assigned to assist me. As the Bird made his announcement, my mind wandered. I pondered the essence of the duality of the Hindu deities. I found the concept fascinating since it was also a well-entrenched department trait, along with the concept of duplicity. Unlike other religions, Hindu devotees were getting their money’s worth out of their gods. Most seemed to be two-fers—good and evil, sun and moon, male and female, yin and yang, black and white, day and night, Heckle and Jeckle; each persona representing opposites existing in one supreme being. Talk about tense, internal relationships.
In Kali’s case, she was the goddess of destruction and, by implication, death. With four arms, a coal-black face, and a protruding red tongue, she possessed an imposing and fearsome visage indeed. In her bipolar mode, she was a strong feminine force who was looked upon as a divine mother and protector. She represented the hope of salvation for all human beings.
She whets our spiritual appetites in this respect. I didn’t care if she salivated while saving souls, I explosively spoke while the very words drooled down my chin. Salivation was always nigh the faces of those who served and protected if they were worth their own spit.
Connie had never been married, but my bet was she had been pursued over the years by many a guy. She earned her law degree at the University of Chicago and went on to become a street cop for the city for several years before joining DS as a special agent. Lastly, she was African American. Connie’s countenance was as black as the deepest, darkest hole in old Calcutta and her skin tone perfectly matched that of her namesake, Kali. Thank God she didn’t have four arms, although that actually might be interesting, I mentally noted as an embracing thought. Regardless, I instantly liked her and looked forward to working with her. I naturally gravitated toward the black sheep of the organizational flock. I was a kindred spirit regardless of my wrinkled, lily-white skin. I couldn’t even get a decent tan when I tried and I was always white with envy.
When I had a chance, I pulled Connie aside to talk privately. I broke the ice by telling her that some of my best friends back home were of Negro, colored persuasion. I didn’t use the term African American out of respect for her Chicago heritage. The two were continents apart and geographically separable. She’d always be a Chicago-American woman in my book. I was glad that I cleared the air with her before we got off on the wrong foot.
“I’m of one hundred percent, pure African blood,” she laughingly said at my stupid comments. “Apparently, no light-skinned bwanas got into my ancestors loincloths. For the record, I’m also one hundred percent Chicagoan at heart,” she quickly added. Kali had a clever sense of humor and wit; rare traits among her coworkers who were witless most of the time. Being clueless was another of their strong points.
“I’m a one hundred percent, male-chauvinist WASP,” I replied. “In any case, I’m glad we are working together on the case. I need someone who can point me in the right direction and keep me more-or-less on track. By the way, your DS corridor rep is first-rate and I’ve heard nothing but good things about you. Do you mind if I call you Kali? That seems to be your tag for better or worse.”
“Kali’s okay. I don’t mind, in fact, since I’ve gotten used to it. On the other hand, Avery, your corridor rep is less than inspiring. Word on the street has it that you’re a loner who’s unconventional, to put it politely,” she added. “Quirky is the kindest reference I’ve heard anyone say about you,” she continued. “You seem to be a risk-taker and a legend in your own mind. However, you do have a certain knack for getting the job done in your own bumbling, unconventional style. I guess that’s why DS brought you out of retirement. That coupled with the fact no other agent would willingly take the assignment. By the way, your name is your tag. Do you mind if I call you Avery rather than Dick or something worse?”
I really enjoyed the freewheeling give-and-take of our verbal exchange and her earthy sense of humor. Kali wasn’t the slightest bit defensive regarding her skin color or the fact she was from the Midwest or that she was a woman. Being a DS agent didn’t seem to be an issue with her either. These were good indicators that her self-esteem was high; an important attribute in our highly esteemed biz. We’d get along fine.