A Nice Place to Visit

By Peter Love

London art gallery proprietor Nigel Dearlove arrives in New York City with nothing more sinister in mind than sponsoring and promoting the EuroMerica exhibit, an exhibition of new-wave artistic talent from Europe. It's his first trip to the states, and he is thrilled by the prospect of an exciting and prosperous visit. Fate intervenes, however;

• Language: English
• Publisher: Book Vine Press
• Release date: Jun 7, 2022
• ISBN: 9781958128909

Peter Love

Peter’s love for the written word began as a college student with his first published article in the school newspaper. He became a student teacher overseas in Hong Kong in the summer of 1964 for an international service organization. Since then he has taught in the Philippines, Australia, Venezuela, Iran and the United States. As a history major, his predominant career over a period of 40 years has been as a social studies teacher. However, Peter’s love for writing never waned. His prolific travel experiences have provided him with a wealth of subjects for the many articles and stories he has produced for the general public since 1970. Capturing the imagination and heart of the reader had always been Trudy’s unique creative writing style. This was encouraged as early as elementary school when her teachers began submitting her papers to local newspapers. She studied bio-engineering in college and primarily supported herself by teaching piano to children and teenagers. While raising children she continued to keep a journal, wrote children’s stories and allegories as one of several creative outlets. Later, she worked as a technical writer before retiring. Peter and Trudy both share a love for travel, art and music, and most of all family. Presently, they have eleven grandchildren and are looking forward to many more. Their mutual love for the Lord has been the heart of all their most recent work. They reside in beautiful southern Oregon.

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Contents

Author’s Note

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

For my parents

Also, this book is for all the lives that were lost on that fateful and horribly tragic morning of September 11, 2001.

Author’s Note

Dear Reader,

The following story is a prequel to the Nigel Dearlove saga. What’s contained inside is an adventure prior to Nigel’s downfall in his native London, a story told in Ambidexterity, also by the author.

Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.

Hebrews 13:2

One

Costa Rica

The small house, set back about twelve feet from the road, was blanketed in late evening darkness. Warm but dry air encircled the overlapping wooden clapboards that formed the walls of the plain-looking domain, colored with dull white paint. Each of the windows was louvered, thus preventing anyone from being able to peek inside. A very important, history-making, life-threatening decision was being made within those walls.

From the northwest could be heard the distant sound of music; a trumpet-heavy mariachi band played a lively, charging rumba from a likely 250 feet away. At the same time, from somewhere to the south, a wolf could be heard howling disconsolately. Crickets could also be heard, but only if one’s ears listened closely no more than fifteen feet away.

Every six or seven minutes, an automobile—either a car or maybe a pickup truck—dashed by on the narrow, single-lane road (possibly a main road) that stretched for many miles, winding out so long and far throughout the Central American isthmus that the sparsely populated town of Cañus, approximately forty-five miles southwest of San José (the nation’s capital) and twenty-five miles directly south of the Nicaraguan border, could have been seen to be just a lonely village containing only a cluster of houses, signs, gas stations, and fast-food restaurants through which sightseers and travelers could pass, regardless of which direction they happened to be going. The house in which that very life-threatening decision was being made was just nine feet away from the single-laned road.

The house was sparsely decorated inside. There was nothing at all spectacular about the interior furnishings, either in the larger main room or the smaller room, which occupied perhaps a third of the dwelling. The smaller room contained a single bed, beside which stood a small wooden table with a small lamp—perhaps for reading at night—setting on it. The bathroom was a tiny compartment built into the smaller room, with toilet, small sink opposite it, plus a corner shower stall. The tiled floor upon which one stood to wash himself was a mere forty-five or so inches in both length and width (square). Above the sink was a medicine cabinet with mirrored door. Towels hung on a small ring next to the sink. One actually had to walk only two and a half feet to reach the sink from the toilet. Quite modest accommodations they were.

The larger room was equally as meager in furnishings as was the smaller room. In one corner of the room stood a very dirty porcelain sink with tarnished hot and cold taps flanking an equally tarnished faucet. On the floor, complementing the sink, was a small refrigerator a little over two feet in height, a compact accessory typically used by cottage and small-apartment inhabitants for keeping liquor and drinks cold. On the other side of the sink was a small, almost portable cheap wooden cabinet, with a two-burner gas stove on top of it. Away from the kitchen area, a wicker lounge chair featuring a dirty-looking dark green cushion sat all by itself underneath a window. A seventy-five-watt lightbulb glared brightly inside of a socket in the ceiling.

In the center of the larger room (really the living room, should there have been a definite designated layout of the house’s inside design) stood a man. He was Costa Rican but appeared very much to be of Caucasian stock, tall, blond, with light-blue eyes and a moustache. Looking to be fairly well-built, he wore a clean, fresh-looking beige cotton sport jacket over a short-sleeved jersey with buttoned collar. His long legs were concealed in darker (almost brown) seersucker slacks. Sharp-looking white suede bucks enclosed his feet.

Standing up straight yet in a very relaxed way, with his weight mostly on his right leg, the other foot a bit more out in front, and casually hiding one hand in a trouser pocket with the other resting along a lapel of his beige jacket, the tall, light-haired man presented an air of suavity and elegance, even of high self-assurance.

This was evident to the fellow he was talking to, agent seated approximately nine feet from him, (still in the living room) next to the small wooden table with a lighted lamp upon it in an old, gaudy kitchen chair with aluminum tubing and red vinyl padding. The seated man, shorter in actual height, with dark hair and eyes, was asking the other man questions in regard to his upcoming departure from the country, an event that was to happen no later than in the next two hours.

The seated man was asking the elegant-appearing, better-dressed one questions about his going to, of all places, New York City. By the tone of his voice, the seated man sounded concerned, even worried about his friend’s traveling northward. But as the discussion progressed, it turned out that the troubled seated man’s interrogatives were more centered around the notions of how and when he was going to get there.

In answer to how, the standing man calmly said, I’ll slip into Manhattan by helicopter. (This was said in Spanish, as was the entire conversation between the two men.)

Helicopter? asked the astonished man in the red-backed chair.

Si. It’s all been arranged for me to be driven up by car as far as southern New Jersey. Then I’ll fly by helicopter from there to a heliport, or landing spot, on the west side.

The other man sat quietly for a moment, looking at him. Then he said, West side?

Yes. West side. The west side of the city, big as it is. He smiled confidently.

Will there be anyone to meet you? Who will meet you?

The mayor is going to be meeting me, plus the head of…Yes, the head of the New York Office of the U.S. Immigration Service will be there, too. Perhaps one or two other people, I believe.

Oh, Señor, I’m not feeling good about this—so far. There was palpable anxiety in the other man’s voice here.

Pablo, I am going! It is my duty to go, understand?

Señor, I am aware of what is going on. They will be after you. They already are after you. They—"

I have protection. I have city protection, yes. More calm assurance from the standing, better-dressed man.

But—

Lots of protection by the city of New York, yes.

Señor Ortiz! the seated man cried with worry, I beg of you! If you go up there, living and breathing as you do now, you will not return in one whole piece! The other man listened to him very relaxed, with hardly any show of concern. The gang, they are not accepting any immigrants or Latin-type people up there, the dangerous Mafia-like gang. Besides—they have never forgiven you and never will forgive you for finding refuge for so many of our people from down here up there! The way that you used your powers of diplomatic immunity and all! I remember them swearing revenge—murderous revenge—on you if you should show yourself up there, up north!

Pablo, I have just said—and will gladly say again—that that has all been taken care of. I have been promised city and police protection. They have invited me up there, considering it a rare privilege to have me as a guest diplomat. And I’m honored to be received by them. I have also been invited to appear and lecture at the United Nations. Things just do not get any more special than that!

But Señor! The Mafia—

Pablo, my friend! The fine-looking, well-dressed man was now visibly annoyed. Bending slightly forward, he was at this point shouting with anger at Pablo, using vocal force to keep up his side of this argument. He would be going up north, and that would be that. The next argument he made would perhaps win him some points and jump up his side of the debate.

The seated, worried man dropped his eyes to the floor, shook his head, and muttered, Ay Caramba! ¹

Everybody up there is expecting to see me arrive. They are expecting to actually watch and see me appear, like Santa Claus appearing in his sleigh every Christmastime! But my plan is to make a secret—unheralded, if you will—casual and unannounced entry into the city. That, my friend, is strategy. And…[he pointed a rather large index finger upward into the air to emphasize his point] it has been arranged for the media people, radio and television, to be hush-hush about my visit up there, so nobody will know for certain until after I’ve secretly entered New York City, no? So the bad men—or ‘gang’ as they are called—will miss me. By the time I’m safely there, I’ll have protection. Lots of protection! He added jokingly, Why, a mouse trying to sneak in a large and tasty piece of cheese past a group of dangerous cats could not have better protection! This interesting statement was followed by a loud and boisterous laugh from the standing man.

The other man, seated as he was, went quiet. Several seconds passed in silence between the two. The seated man was gravely concerned about the other man’s entry into the United States, but his warnings were continually being taken lightly. He felt strongly that something very bad was going to befall the other man during his trip up north.

Pablo, everything will be fine. Trust me! the man named Señor Ortiz implored. Heavy politics, I know! But I’ve been guaranteed a seat in the United Nations, and I will do my utmost best to keep relations, political and what-have-you, between us and them running smoothly. I promise not to let our humble nation of Costa Rica down! Our citizens have suffered enough already!

More silence now. But the sudden quiet filling the room was induced partially by that grand promise of devoted service and safekeeping to the population of that small Latin-American state and the patriotic emphasis with which it was delivered.

Pablo knew Señor Ortiz was determined to travel northward. He also realized that nothing he could say would convince the other to remain where he was. Well, he thought to himself, if that’s what this great man of our nation wants, then so be it. Letting out a sigh of defeat, he said, Yes, Señor. Okay. Emerging from his red-vinyl throne, he appended, I’ll go outside and get the car started. Why don’t you get your things packed?

The attractive, nattily dressed man who was dead set on traveling, however secretly, to New York City replied, They’re already packed, thank you, and waiting in the backseat of the car. Let’s go.

And with that, the two men exited through the door of the small house and into the night, the tall, well-dressed man following behind the smaller man named Pablo.

Two

NEW YORK CITY

How’m I doin’? —Ed Koch

A most curious experience it was.

It was an experience that didn’t necessarily begin with the eight-and-a-half-hour flight, although there are many who would almost politely suggest or even insist that the trip through the air would act as a starting component, a prelude even, to what Nigel Dearlove would go through during his two-week-plus-three-day visit to New York. The truth of it all was, it wasn’t until he was firmly planted on American soil that strange things happened to him.

The flight was long but tolerable, so-so food and all. But as he made his way down the long, wide corridor, which was indicated as Gate No. 7 and channeled passengers to and from the main terminal, Nigel was so awash with excitement, he was hardly aware of his feet touching the floor upon which he trod as he passed through the channel. His head was clear and very much abuzz with thrilled agitation. It seemed like every cell inside of his body was alive with invigorated stimulation.

It was an anticipatory emotion; Nigel had never been to the United States before. This was his first time across the staggeringly wide Atlantic Ocean. Here he was, in America for the first time, way far away from Europe. He was heart-palpitatingly overjoyed just to be walking out through the gate, the actual gate seven. of John F. Kennedy International Airport, where he had landed.

Carrying an overshoulder bag strapped around him, he went obligingly through customs, got his money changed, and then received his luggage. His insides felt light and tingly as he heard all those strange Yankee accents coming from the mouths of the other flyers who had just debarked with him and were collecting their baggage as well. Quite soon he was all together with his gear again. A baggageman was wheeling it all around for him on a trolley.

There was the escalatored descent down into the main terminal of the airport. Nigel looked all around, smiling and wide-eyed and much charged up. Everywhere he turned, people were milling around. In no time at all after he’d begun to meander across the linoleum-tiled floor, the realization that he’d instantly found himself entering a civilization, a culture so modern and so uniquely diverse class-and character-wise, so adroitly cosmopolitan, and yet not so unlike his own, had indeed a quite rapid and strong impact on him.

Stepping onto a moving walkway that glided passengers to the outside, he became aware of the incandescently lit timetable board, which glared its lettered heralds of the various flights that were arriving from and departing to wherever. He could see it just a few feet away from him, high up in the air, the trolley-pushing porter right behind him. It thrilled him to near-dizziness to hear all those frequently blared announcements of incoming and outgoing planes booming loud and clear from PA-system speakers throughout the entire building, again causing him to harken to that strange yet still-English intonation. The walkway took him past a myriad of travel agent booths, indoor restaurants, and vending machines just before depositing him out into big-city air and daylight.

As the electrical doors swung open sideways to let him sail on through to the outside, he was awed to see a massive batch of yellow and black checkered taxis clustered around the outer departure terminal. They were flat, low-slung things to him. Odd and curious looking to him. They were certainly different from the big, black, bulky things that transported people around back home.

He stood still for several minutes, looking all about him while swarms of various travelers and homecomers tramped back and forth past him, either on their way to catch a flight or returning from one. It felt good to be moving around again after being in a cramped seat for so long. Rather strange but good.

He was watching the big wide circus of cars, taxis, buses, and people when he heard his name called a slight distance away from behind him.

Nigel?

He turned and found a short man, balding and pudgy, surging toward him through the crowd and beaming welcomingly at him. Ah, Abe! Hello! Good to meet you at last! the Englishman responded with extreme warmth and courtesy.

Abraham Kirbel, Nigel’s host during this monthlong EuroMerica art package tour, held out a plump, friendly hand and took Nigel’s own into it. He said he hoped the flight wasn’t too bad. After Nigel said it was positively splendid, Abe told him to grab a suitcase or two from the trolley while he wheeled the thing itself down into