The Flying Turk - Part 4
Venice Beach lies just south of Los Angeles, a long strip of chaos wave white sands and gay muscle boys and bikini roller girls and stall after stall of henna tattoo and velvet art and cheap jewelry vendors along a cement boardwalk. It was considered the "Coney Island of the Pacific" during the first half of the 20th Century, with its beachside veneer and inland town resembling Venice, Italy with a network of canals and a business district built in Venetian architectural style. Ulak delivered coffee to many of the restaurants bordering the beach, walked the boardwalk dragging a personalized dolly towering with boxes of roasted beans and specialty herb teas and Turkish spices.
"I saw her many times at one of those street tables, Birdie. One of those tables by the Mexican restaurant next to the used bookstore. The one by the public bathrooms. She's there every time I make my delivery." Ulak paused and tipped his cup to finish his coffee.
"What? What? She's selling my Avon at Venice Beach? I don't get it! How can she make money doing that? She's buying it full price from me." I tried to picture the vendors by the bookstore, but I couldn't remember them. So many vendors, cheap clothes and plastic bangles and California t-shirts, a blur of a tourist beach.
"No, you have to wait. Let me finish telling you. You're so impatient." Ulak smiled and closed his eyes. He carved a tableau of the switch - a beautiful sea maiden with a golden sequined mini-skirt and bright red sneakers with no socks handing cash for hand cream, no questions about why the coffee man stood in my place, no surprise in her dark blue eyes, all sparkle business, a quick handshake, a dive back into the train. Ulak waited a moment, counted the money, and climbed the ridged metal steps one car behind, choosing a seat near the front door, an isle seat.
The train thundered along the coast, past the Army men playing Cowboys and Indians with ripblade helicopters and olive tents, past the brown sad border patrol, through small ocean cities like raw pearls strung like lights. It rolled to a stop at the Santa Ana rail station, the biggest baddest piece of rail construction in the country in the 1950s, an adobe palace with red tile and blue marble flooring, a good station to stop if you wanted a side trip to Venice Beach or Hollywood or Beverly Hills. Ms. Mystery stepped off the train, Ulak mimicking her from one car behind, onto the cool blue marble floor. She ran to a waiting car, a Buick, said Ulak, a dusty red Buick with dark glass windows and a vanity plate he didn't understand. She slid into the shotgun seat, slammed the door shut, and the car lurched into the ant colony of Los Angeles traffic.
Ulak paused here, eyes still closed, and for a moment I thought he fell asleep. I watched the rise and fall of his barrel chest, thought about poking him in the side with my sharp index finger. He opened one eye, the eye facing me, and raised one bushy eyebrow.
"So what do you think I did next Birdie? I sat and thought What Would Birdie Do." Ulak laughed, a harsh drum beat yowl, as if what I would do would be the most insane ridiculous thing in the world. "And I thought, Miss Birdie would follow that car to Venice Beach and confront the girl. She would make a scene, that Miss Birdie. Yes, you would," he continued, seeing my scowl, "You would try to be stealthy but everyone would see you, and then you would make a big scene when you saw what I saw."
What? What did he see? What would make me yell or point or flail around in agony? I wanted to ask, to demand an answer, but I was more embarrassed that Ulak was right. I would sneak around like a two bit marital problem detective, then snap a photo and point and cry or whatever the scene warranted, yes I would. Crap. Am I that transparent?
"So Miss Birdie. I grabbed a cab to Venice Beach and walked slowly - slowly, Birdie, slowly, not fast like you - to the bookstore and waited. I just waited, and talked to my friends at the restaurant, and looked at the vendors, and I looked out at the sea, and I found out all about your little friend. What do you suppose she does with your Avon? Do you have any idea at all?"
I didn't flinch, didn't change my expression, just stared at Ulak's left eye, the eye pinning me to the fountain tiles.
"She sells lotions by the seashore," Ulak singsang like the tongue twister, "She sells 'intimacy' lotions with sandlewood and myrrh. Massage lotions. She squeezes out your Avon into glass bottles and mixes them with essential oils and sells them for twenty dollars a bottle. Here, I bought one for you." Ulak pulled a blue glass bottle from his cargo shorts and handed it to me. The label said "Magikal Massage Lotion - Clove" in spirited twirly script and I opened it, breathed it in, and smelled the unmistakable scent of cloves mixed with Moisture Rich hand cream.
9:39:15 AM 
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