Death on Tour - Janice Hamrick [31]
At last, Anni, Alan, and Kyla rejoined us, and Anni began counting to make sure we were all there.
“What happened?” I asked Kyla.
“They thought my curling iron was a pipe bomb or something,” she said through clenched teeth. “I didn’t think they were going to give it back. Luckily Alan stopped to help. They seemed to pay more attention to him.” She gave him a flattering glance from under her long lashes, and he looked a little embarrassed.
Why anyone would bring a curling iron to Egypt was beyond me anyway, but I wisely didn’t say anything.
Anni said, “Go and make sure your bag is on the cart.” She hurried away to give the same instruction to the others.
Alan obeyed, giving me a quick glance that I couldn’t read.
“He’s a nice guy,” I said.
She pursed her lips, not entirely happy. “Yeah, he is.”
“You don’t like nice guys?”
“I don’t like them too nice.” She grinned. “But at least he stuck around and protected me from the guards.”
Alan turned, noticed us staring at him, and gave an uneasy grin. Probably wishful thinking that made it seem directed at me. He joined us, and Kyla immediately began thanking him for coming to her rescue. She shifted on one foot so that I was subtly on the outside of their intimate little circle. I had a sudden strong urge to pinch her, then felt a little shocked at myself.
“Where are they?” I heard Anni asking. She raised her voice. “Does anyone see Fiona and Flora?”
And sure enough, the ditz duo were missing again. Ben took Hello Kitty and began waving it rather wildly. DJ saw the motion, wrapped up his deal, and hurried back. Fiona and Flora did not appear.
Anni began handing out boarding passes, more concerned with the seat numbers than with the actual names printed on the passes.
“Hey, this isn’t mine.” Jerry Morrison looked down at his boarding pass, sounding irate.
“It doesn’t matter,” said Anni. “This way you can sit with your daughter.”
He looked ready to argue, but Anni determinedly turned her back on him and continued handing out the passes.
I took the two passes she handed to me and gave one to Kyla. I looked at the card I was holding. “Apparently I am Mrs. Kim today,” I said.
“I’m Mr. Gavaskar,” said Kyla with a grin.
DJ loomed over her and laughed. “Take good care of my reputation,” he boomed.
“Hey, what did you buy?” she asked him.
He held up a black statuette of Anubis, the jackal-headed god of the afterlife. “Ten pounds,” he said enthusiastically. “We started at fifty.”
We looked at him admiringly. Ten Egyptian pounds translated to roughly two dollars. I couldn’t believe you could buy anything for that amount in any airport in the world, and the triumph of having bargained the price down from fifty was stunning.
He held out the little statue, and I took it eagerly. It was surprisingly heavy for its size, and I turned it over, looking at it from every angle. Real, authentic Egyptian crap. Probably made in China. A little chip on the bottom revealed white plaster under the black paint. Maybe two dollars was a fair price after all, but it didn’t matter. I wanted one. I handed the statue back and reached in my purse to check the small wad of bills I carried in my wallet.
Kyla immediately held out her hand. “Gimme a one. Think I’ll make a pit stop.”
Reluctantly, I handed her the most tattered bill I had. “Don’t spend it all in one place. And you owe me.”
She took it gingerly between thumb and forefinger and headed in the direction of the ladies’ room.
Foreign money never seems quite real anyway, and Egyptian currency was particularly difficult because apparently most of the bills had been printed during the reign of Ramses II. They were universally tattered, grimy, and faded. En masse they had a distinctive odor not unlike sweaty socks. Available in tiny denominations, they ranged from fifty piastres, which were worth about ten cents, up to fifty pounds, which were worth about ten dollars. The smaller the bill, the harder it was to obtain, too. Egyptians loved their one-pound notes, which were useful as baksheesh in places like the public restrooms.