Chapter 13: Foreign Affairs

Los Angeles International Airport, California

September 18, 2003

United Airlines Flight 315 from Houston landed on time at 12:45 PM, Pacific Daylight Time. It took another fifty-two minutes before Roberto and Maria Valdez were able to collect their checked bags, clear customs, and come down the escalator to the waiting area of the international terminal, each with two rolling suitcases in tow and a carry-on tote bag. Jake and Celia, who had been waiting for more than an hour in the uncomfortable chairs, got up and rushed over to meet them at the bottom of the moving stairs. Warm greetings and affectionate hugs were exchanged and then they moved away from the thickest part of the crowd.

“Welcome back,” Jake told them. “You picked a nice day for arrival. Nice and sunny, though a little smoggy here in LA, but nice VFR conditions for the flight to SLO.”

“Will we be taking off in your plane from this airport?” Roberto asked. Unlike the last time they had visited, while Celia had been in the late stages of pregnancy and Jake had not wanted to leave her for the four hours it would have taken to pick them up in his own aircraft, there was no such concern this time. Cap was in good hands with Laura and there was a good supply of pumped breast milk in the refrigerator.

“Not from LAX,” Jake said. “I wouldn’t fly into this place unless I had an engine fire or something like that, and even then I would go absolutely anywhere else if possible. We’re going to drive in my truck to Whiteman Airport in the valley. That’s where I generally land when I have to come to LA. It’s where my truck is stored when I’m home.”

“How far is that?” Roberto asked.

“Let me put it this way,” Jake said. “It will take us longer to drive from here to Whiteman than it will take us to make the actual flight to SLO, and that includes the preflight checks and the filing of the flight plan.”

“That long?” Roberto asked, astonished.

“That long,” Jake confirmed. “This is LA.”

“And both airports are located in the city of Los Angeles?”

“Yep,” Jake said. “Caracas and LA—the city propers, not the actual metropolitan areas—have about the same population, but LA is much more spread out and has probably three or four times the traffic. That’s a big part of why I hate the place so much.”

Jake and Celia each took over one of the rolling bags from the parents. They made their way to the exit. Celia was recognized (Jake’s disguise was still holding, however, and no one recognized him even though he was with Celia) and she was mobbed by autograph seekers and the just plain curious. She signed some autographs, spoke a few polite, meaningless words, and then finally managed to extricate them from the crowd, pleading that they had to get home in time for an important function.

“Does that happen a lot?” Maria asked in Spanish. She seemed more than a little overwhelmed by the attention her daughter had just received.

“Si, Mama,” Celia replied. “A depressing amount of the time whenever I’m in public.”

The two parents and Celia found an empty bench in the arrival area amid the chaos of three recently landed international flights. Cars were lined up in three different loading lanes, with people rushing here and there, putting luggage into vehicles, giving hugs to family and friends, or, as the majority were doing, just waiting for those family and friends to show up and find a parking spot. Others were waiting in the rental car shuttle lines. Others still were waiting for a taxi to become available. Jake made the quarter mile hike back over to the short term parking lot and retrieved the Ford F-150 (which still needed new tires, new brakes, and an oil change). He drove back around the terminal and fought his way into an empty slot, just beating out a man driving a Corvette. The Corvette guy was pissed. He stopped his car right in the number two traffic lane and jumped out, coming over to confront Jake just as he stepped out of the truck. Corvette was a big guy, about six foot, but chubby, with a beer belly, maybe late thirties. His fists were clenched and his face was red with anger.

“That was my fuckin’ parking spot, asshole,” he told Jake angrily. “Get that piece of shit out of it right now.”

“Or what?” Jake asked mildly, preparing for battle if it became necessary.

“Or I’ll kick your fuckin’ ass and move it myself!” Corvette told him.

Jake nodded thoughtfully, as if pondering a scientific equation that someone had just laid on him. “You are going to kick my ass?” he asked. “Could it be your mouth is writing checks your body can’t cover?”

“No!” Corvette said arrogantly. “I’ll wipe up this fuckin’ parking lot with you.”

“Why don’t you take a really good look at me before you make an attempt at that, my friend?” Jake suggested. “Do you notice that, unlike you, I do not have an ounce of fat on me? Do you notice the muscles in my arms? I work out three times a week in my weight room. I run fifteen miles per week so my cardio is in top shape. I have been in more fights in my life than you’ve had pussy. And check this out.” Jake lifted up his shirt, baring his chest. “You see these scars? I have been shot in the chest before and yet I’m still here. So, if you think you can take me, you go ahead and give it a shot. I can guarantee, however, that you are going to be the one down on the pavement and bleeding profusely when the fight is over.”

Jake could see a huge amount of doubt in Corvette’s face now as he realized that he had perhaps bitten off a bit more than he could chew. But he also struck Jake as the kind of guy who would not back down. Jake prepared his body to rumble. One or two body punches and then a shot or two to the face would probably do it. Just then, however, two LAXPD cops came cutting through the crowd.

“What seems to be the problem here, gentlemen?” one of them asked.

“Just a minor dispute over who got to the parking area first,” Jake said mildly. “This is my truck here, so, as you can see, I was here first. A few angry words were exchanged, but we’ve worked it out and this gentlemen here will be getting back in his car and clearing the traffic lane.” Jake looked over at him. “Right?”

“Right,” the man said through gritted teeth. He turned and headed back to his Corvette. He turned one last time and looked at Jake. “You’re lucky they showed up,” he said, relief clearly visible in his face.

Jake smiled at him. “I feel lucky,” he told him. “Maybe I’ll fly to Vegas tonight and see if it still holds.”

The two cops watched while Corvette got back in his Corvette and pulled away to make another lap around the terminal. The cop that had spoken then took a good look at Jake. After a moment, his face showed recognition of who he was talking to. The man had cop eyes, after all. “You’re Jake Kingsley, aren’t you?”

“Guilty as charged,” Jake said.

“What are you doing here?”

“Just picking up my mother-in-law and father-in-law from the airport like a normal, everyday person.”

The cop nodded. “Well ... carry on. I’m glad your friend there developed a sudden attack of common sense. It would have been a hell of a mess if he hadn’t.”

“More so for him than me,” Jake said. “I assume this area has camera coverage.”

“It does,” the cop confirmed.

“I figured. I was fully prepared to let him throw the first punch. After that, my self defensive measures would have been quite effective.”

“I’m sure they would have been,” the cop said. “Have a nice day, Mr. Kingsley.”

“You two as well,” he said.

They wandered off to keep the peace elsewhere. Jake walked back through the stopped cars and through the crowd until he got to the bench where his group was sitting.

“What was all that about?” Celia asked. It was clear they had seen the incident from their position.

“Oh, Mr. Corvette thought I stole his parking spot and decided he wanted to kick my ass for doing so. Fortunately, the cops showed up before we got to that point.”

“Fortunate for him,” Celia said.

“Yeah ... I think I just might’ve been able to take him. Anyway, how about we get loaded—so to speak.”

They dragged all of the luggage over to the truck and put it in the back. They then all piled in, Roberto in the front with Jake, Celia in the back with Maria. Jake checked his driver’s side mirror and saw that the Corvette was once again stopped in the travel lane just behind them. He had obviously seen them all pile in as he approached and was waiting for them to pull out. Jake started the engine but did not put the truck in gear. He simply sat there. It took the better part of thirty seconds before several vehicles behind the Corvette began to honk at him. This went on for another thirty seconds. Jake looked over his shoulder and saw the Corvette man angrily waving at him to pull out. Jake just smiled at him and flipped him the middle finger. Finally, the man was forced to pull forward again and start another lap around the terminal. He was yelling angry things at Jake as he went by, things that Jake could not understand because of the background noise. He just kept his middle finger in view until the Corvette disappeared.

“Sometimes it is fun to be an asshole,” Jake said with a chuckle as he pulled out and headed for the exit lane that led out of the airport grounds.

“That is the way you deal with such a person,” Roberto said. “By being an even bigger one.”

“I did have to stretch a bit to be a bigger asshole than that guy,” Jake said, “but I pulled it off.”

Traffic was heavy and it took them fifty-eight minutes to fight their way to the pass, over it, and into the San Fernando Valley where Whiteman Airport was located. During the trip, the Valdez elders talked of the rigors of their journey so far. They had left their house for the last time at 8:30 PM the previous night and were driven to Jacinto Lara airport by Eduardo so they could catch their 9:30 PM flight to Simon Bolivar International in Caracas. Once there, they then endured a lengthy layover until 1:00 AM, when they were able to board their flight to Houston Intercontinental. Once on the ground in Houston, they had another two hour layover until they could board their flight to Los Angeles International. Neither of them got any sleep on the planes, though they did manage to catch some uneasy, stage 1 sleep in the terminal chairs during the layovers. They were now tired, out of sorts, and very hungry.

“We figured you would be,” Celia told them. “Westin will have dinner ready for us at six o’clock. He’s using some of the frozen rock fish in the freezer—the fish you and Jake caught on your last trip here, Papa.”

“Westin is the new cook you told me about on the phone?” Mama asked.

“Yes, Mama,” Celia replied in Spanish. “He is amazing at what he does.”

“And Sean is excellent at keeping the house clean,” Jake added, also in Spanish. He had been practicing it more and was getting much better at it, though his accent was pure American and no one would ever mistake him for a native speaker.

“The two of them are ... uh ... a couple, you say?” Mama asked. Again, there was no polite word in Venezuelan Spanish for gay, only derogatory words.

“They are,” Celia confirmed, “but you would never know that by seeing them at work. They are completely professional at all times.”

“That is good to know,” Maria said with relief. She did not approve of homosexuality (not even her daughter’s, though she had at least accepted that) and would have been quite offended by any public displays of affection by two maricos.

Jake parked the truck next to the tied down Avanti and they unloaded the luggage and piled it near the front left side of the aircraft. He then opened up the small storage compartment, pulling out the scale, a paper pad, and a pen. He left the compartment door open for now. He opened up the plane’s door and turned on the batteries, checking his fuel weight—he was currently at 1424 pounds, more than twice what he needed to get them home even with generous safety margins thrown in—and wrote that number down. He then stepped back out and weighed all the luggage and all the passengers, writing the weights down on the pad. Once they were in, he used the calculator on his cell phone to add it all up. He then double checked his addition, going from bottom to top this time, to make sure he came up with the same answer twice. He did.

“All right,” he told everyone. “Let me pop into the office for a few to do my calculations and file the flight plan. We should be able to board in about ten minutes or so.” He headed off to the office.

“Mama, Papa, I know you’re both tired and hungry, so do you want to go directly to our house or do you want to take a little detour to Avila Beach and look at your new home? I brought the keys and the security gate remote with me if you want to.”

“I thought the home was still in escrow,” Maria said.

“It is for another fifteen days,” she said, “but no one is living there currently and we have access to it.” This was not standard operating procedure in the real estate world, but an exception had been made by the high end real estate firm the Kingsleys did business with. They were special clients and special clients got special privileges—like getting the keys before the actual escrow was closed.

Maria did not hesitate. “Since we need to stay up until at least nine o’clock local time to get rid of the jet lag, I would like to go see the house.”

“I agree,” said Roberto. “So far we’ve only seen pictures of it.”

“We’ll do it then,” Celia said with a smile. “Let me just call Laura to let her know.”

She pulled out her cell phone and pushed the speed dial for the house phone. Laura answered on the third ring.

“Hey, Teach,” she said. “How’s Cap doing?”

“I just fed him a bottle and he drank it all down,” she said. “He then spit up on my shoulder while I was burping him. He’s down for his nap at the moment, sleeping peacefully.”

“Sorry about your blouse,” Celia said.

“It ain’t the first time and it won’t be the last. Where are you now? Everything go okay?”

“Jake had a little excitement with some disgruntled cabron at LAX, but it ended peacefully. Right now, we’re at Whiteman. Should be in the air in about twenty minutes or so.”

“What kind of excitement?” Laura asked.

“The cabron was upset because he thought Jake took his parking spot, even though Jake was clearly there first. The guy wanted to fight him. He would have lost quite badly—the guy, not Jake. Fortunately, the boys in blue showed up before it got to that point.”

“A good thing,” Laura said. “That kind of hassle we don’t really need right now, not with the pap stalking us, trying to get pictures of you and Cap or Jake and Cap. They would’ve made a spectacle out of it and it all would have been reported that Jake assaulted some poor innocent man at the airport over a parking spot.”

“All true,” Celia agreed with a sigh. “Anyway, I just wanted to let you know that we’re going to take Mama and Papa by their new house before we come home. They’re tired and cranky and hungry, but they want to see it,”

“Just be home before six,” she said. “Westin is already working on the sauce for the fish and it smells incredible.”

“We’ll be home before dinner,” Celia promised.

“Okay,” Laura said. “Love you.”

“Love you too,” Celia returned. She then disconnected the call.

Mama pretended she had not heard that last part.

Jake returned and then removed the tie downs from the plane and stowed them in the storage compartment. The pitot covers followed them inside. After visually checking the fuel in the tanks, Jake put the flashlight in there as well and then closed and secured the compartment. He loaded in the luggage next and then secured that compartment. After finishing the external preflight check, he had everyone board. Celia did not have to call shotgun for the flight. It was hers by royal decree whenever she flew with Jake.

Once he got the engines started and the air began to flow from the vents, everyone was more comfortable, Jake included. He activated his flight plan and less than five minutes later, they were airborne and heading for SLO. He touched down neatly twenty-seven minutes later (there had been a slight headwind slowing them down) and taxied over to the hangar. He shut down the engines and everyone piled out. He unloaded the luggage and placed it near the nose of the plane once again. He then hiked over to the GA parking lot to pick up the Navigator.

He drove it back to the hangar and they loaded all the luggage into the back. Jake then used the electric tug to park the plane in the hangar, nose facing outward. He replaced the pitot covers, making sure each was secure and then plugged in the shoreline to keep the batteries charged. He did not know when the next time he would be able to fly might be. He shut and locked the hangar door and they all piled into the Navigator, the males in front, the females in the back.

“Let’s go see your new pad,” Jake said as he headed for the airport exit.

“Pad?” asked Robert.

“American slang for your house,” Jake explained. “You can also say our crib, our flat, our loft, our hovel, or our cave.”

“We can’t just call it our house or our home?” Robert asked.

“You could,” Jake allowed, “but that would make you sound kind of square.”

“Square?” Robert asked. “What’s that?”

Jake chuckled. “Never mind. I will have to make sure that Bigg G comes over a few times to visit while you’re staying with us though. He’ll teach you some good old American ghetto slang.”

Traffic was light on the 101 so it only took them fifteen minutes to make it to the new house. It was in the very southern part of the unincorporated township know as Avila Beach in an exclusive neighborhood known as Sunset Ridge, less than half a mile from the Pismo Beach city limits, less than half of a mile from Steph Zool’s rental house. The houses here were built into the ridge, so each north-south residential street further to the east was higher than the street to the west, thus giving every house a view of the Pacific Ocean (and the sunsets that took place out there, thus the name of the neighborhood). The crib Celia had bought for Roberto and Maria was in the second street to the east of the edge of the ridge (Steph lived on the ridge edge itself, with nothing between her and the ocean) and the ocean some three hundred feet below it. It was one of the smaller and older homes in the neighborhood, thus the price of under one million dollars. The community was gated, though there was no actual guard to man the gate. One used a remote control unit to open the gate or one could open the gate from inside their house if contacted by someone on a phone system outside the gate. Garbage collectors, propane delivery people, postal delivery people, and other employees who required regular access to the neighborhood carried access cards that could be put into a slot in the control panel to open the gate. If one of the access cards came up missing (they were signed out and in every shift) then all had to be deactivated and replaced and the agency that had lost it would be hit with a rather hefty fine.

Celia used one of the two remotes she had been given with the keys to open the gate for them. Jake pulled through and followed Celia’s directions through the winding, steep streets to the house (he had never actually been there yet and was quite eager for the tour). He parked in the driveway. The place did not look all that impressive from the street. It was very close to the neighboring homes, though not as close as the homes in Malibu were to each other. It was painted a pale blue, though the paint was fresh, and the garage was only big enough for two vehicles, though they really would not need to park any more than that (getting them California driver’s licenses and new cars was high on the to-do list).

Maria and Roberto were instantly impressed, however. “Es tan grande!” Maria proclaimed.

“Si, “Roberto agreed. “Muy grande!”

Jake did not think it was very big at all, at least from the outside view, but then he remembered that the house they had just moved from had been maybe seventeen hundred square feet and this house was more than double that.

They climbed out of the Navigator. The front lawn was not grass, but rock, sand, large seashells, and a small fountain, landscaping that did not require irrigation of any kind. The fountain was currently off. There was a curved path that led from the driveway, past the fountain, to the front porch. They could smell the sea air and feel the sea breeze blowing on them. The sound of the waves was a little bit on the faint side, but clearly audible.

“Let’s go see the inside,” Celia suggested, pulling out one of the two sets of keys she had been given at close of escrow. She also had a piece of paper with the alarm code written on it (as well as simple directions on how to change the code). They followed the path from the driveway, and up to the front door. Celia put the key in the lock and turned it. She then opened the door. Immediately, a beeping noise began to sound. Just inside the small foyer, to the right of the doorway, was the alarm box. She punched in the four digit code and the beeping stopped.

“Once you come in the house,” she told her parents in Spanish, “you have forty-five seconds to punch in the code and deactivate the burglar alarm. If you fail to do that, it will start to sound so the whole street can hear it and it will send a notification of alarm to the San Luis Obispo sheriff’s department’s dispatch center and they will send a couple of deputies out to check on things.”

“What is the code?” Mama asked, clearly uncomfortable with the idea of policia coming to her home. Though Celia had assured her that American law enforcement officers were not corrupt—at least not anywhere near the level that Venezuelan police were—she had a very hard time believing this.

“It’s written on this paper, Mama,” she said. “It is 3146 currently, but we will change it to whatever four digit code you wish. That will keep the previous owners, any of their friends or family who knew the code, or anyone related to the real estate agency from being able to just stroll on in here. We’ll program the new code before we leave here today. Make it something you won’t have to write down, that you’ll both just remember. And not the date of birth of yourselves, your children, or your anniversary. That is the first thing a hacker with access to public information would try.”

“Do we have to use the alarm?” Roberto asked. “We never needed one in Barquisimeto, and this neighborhood has a security gate.”

“You’re not in Barquisimeto anymore, Papa,” Celia told him. “You’re in a very nice neighborhood of America in a very nice house that any thief would love to break into and steal from. As for the gate, do not rely too much on that. Since there is no guard on duty, all a thief would have to do to get inside the neighborhood is wait until a resident opens the gate either coming or going and then simply drive in before it closes. You turn the alarm on when you leave the house and when you go to bed at night. There is a setting you can use that will allow you to open your bedroom window to hear the ocean without triggering the alarm. Always make sure that setting is turned off when you leave the house. A thief who would target a place like this would know about the window bypasses.”

“I see,” Papa said doubtfully. “This is starting to sound very complicated.”

“Welcome to America, Papa,” Jake told him. “We’re a complicated country.”

“Let’s check the place out,” Celia suggested. “I think you’re going to like it.”

The foyer, which was only about six feet long, had racks for hanging coats and a mat for putting wet or muddy shoes. The flooring was rich, dark brown hardwood. At the end of the foyer was a cross hallway that led to the two guest rooms and two of the bathrooms. They did not turn in either direction here. Celia led them forward, into the kitchen. It was not a huge kitchen but it was not small either and it was nicely laid out. There was a kitchen island with a granite top and lots of storage cabinets below. There were no appliances currently but it was easy to see where a large refrigerator and separate freezer could be set up, as well as another space for a propane fired oven and range top. There was plenty of counterspace, including a cutout for a large microwave oven to be installed. Above and below the counters were plenty of cabinets for storage of pots, pans, dishes, glasses, and everything else. There were five pull out drawers for silverware and other cooking implements (one of the drawers would undoubtedly turn into a good old American junk drawer). There was a walk-in pantry that had enough shelving to store a year’s supply of canned food and dry goods. There was also a breakfast nook with a table that could fit four comfortably.

“I love this kitchen,” Mama said as she explored it, as she opened cabinets and drawers, as she looked into the pantry. “It is so much bigger than what I’m used to.”

“It should meet all of your culinary needs, Mama,” Celia told her with a smile. “Shall we move on with the tour?”

“Si,” Mama said.

At the opposite end of the kitchen was a large, arched opening. They walked through it and found themselves in the formal dining room and formal living room combo. This too was floored in dark hardwood and had a crystal chandelier hanging over where the dining room table would go. At the far end was a large window that looked out to the west. A balcony could be seen out there, as well as the rooftop of the house on the next street to the west. Beyond that was the broad, blue Pacific Ocean, stretching to the horizon. There was a cargo ship far offshore and a few sailboats closer in. The dining room area was set up so the future table could be placed in such a manner that guests on three sides would be able to see out the window.

“What is a formal living room?” Mama asked.

“It’s a part of a house like this where you’re expected to put fancy furniture that no one is allowed to sit on.”

“No one is allowed to sit on it?” Mama asked, confused.

“That’s the tradition,” Celia said. “You hang nice art in here to go with the furniture, usually in a theme of some sort.”

“What is the point of that?” Roberto asked.

“To be pretentious,” Celia said. “To show visitors how much class you have.”

“But you’re wasting all of that space!” Mama protested.

“You don’t have to do that with the space,” Celia said. “It’s not a law or anything. It’s just what most people do with it. I completely agree with you. You can use that space for anything you want. You could put a billiards table in here. You could make it a second television room in case the two of you want to watch separate things on TV. You could make it a sewing room or an office. We can get you some desks and some computers to put in here so you can join the modern age and start emailing and surfing the web.”

“Hmmm,” Maria said thoughtfully. “We will consider these ideas.”

“We were thinking of getting Sean to help out with the interior decorating,” Celia said.

“Sean?” Mama asked. “The housekeeper?”

“That’s right,” Celia said. “He has a Bachelor of Arts degree in interior design from the University of California at San Diego. He’s also gay. That means he’s probably pretty good at it.”

Even Mama could not disagree with this supposition.

“Come on,” Celia said. “Let’s go see the rest.”

The formal living room and dining room had hallways that led off in both directions from the back of the room. They went to the one on the right first. It led into a large entertainment/family room that was floored in the same hardwood. There was a small mahogany wet bar in here and a metal mounting bracket on one wall that could hold the largest television commercially available. There was plenty of floor space for furniture, including an audio cabinet, wine racks, coffee tables, and enough couches, chairs, and loveseats to comfortably seat fourteen or so. A huge picture window with a sliding glass door that led out to the balcony took up the entire western wall of the room. The view of the ocean was more spectacular in here, much wider in scope than the formal living room view.

“This room is muy grande,” Roberto said, obviously impressed.

“Si,” Mama said. “There is no way we can afford to furnish such a large area.”

“Hush, Mama,” Celia admonished. “I already told you I’m paying for everything you need to live here. That includes furnishing your family room. Once again, hopefully Sean will agree to help us out in here.”

“You said you would get us basic furniture and vehicles,” Mama protested. “You said nothing about furnishing such a large room.”

“That’s part of basic furniture, Mama. For perhaps the hundredth time now, I can afford it. I’m filthy, stinking rich.”

Mama nodded, her face full of mixed emotions. On the one hand, she was ashamed that her daughter had to pay for her to live in America, something they would not have been able to do on their own. Their Venezuelan pensions combined came out to 590 American dollars per month. They would not even be able to rent a shithole studio apartment in Watts or South Central LA for that. On the other hand, she loved the house so far and was very excited that she would soon be living the good life, courtesy of her daughter.