Genie no longer does the master’s bidding

Genie got into Ernesto’s car outside the Tom Bradley International Terminal. It was a black Crown Victoria, the kind of car the police drove. She hated it as much as she loved Charlie’s Porsche convertible. In fact, she hated almost everything about Ernesto: his ‘70s polyester shirt, his ugly crepe-soled shoes, his stringy comb-over, and, most of all, the smell of stale cigarette smoke and cheap cologne that seemed to hover around him like a haze of smog.

But Ernesto knew things, did things and was for sale to the highest bidder. He knew who Charlie was taking that black flash drive to -- the one now in her purse, stripped of its piece of masking tape. And Charlie was rarely the highest bidder. For all his wealth, he was still a tightwad when it came to certain things, like bribes and payoffs. Genie wasn’t.

“Mr. Palmieri’s gonna be sore when Charlie shows up at the meeting without the tape,” Ernesto told Genie reproachfully. “He ain’t a very nice man when he’s sore.”

Misguided loyalty to Charlie, Genie thought, considering she had already paid him twice what Charlie had offered. And sadly out of touch with the times. Tape? Everything was computerized now.

“Charlie didn’t buy any return tickets from Mexico,” she told Ernesto. “You know that? But he bought one ticket from Mexico to Colombia.” Ernesto didn’t say anything. Go in for the kill, Genie thought. She put on a distraught face and mimicked Charlie’s nasal voice: “I don’t know what happened to my wife. She said she wanted to go shopping in town. I asked her to wait for me. I should have gone with her. Please find her for me.” She switched to her own voice. “Only they don’t,” she added.

“So what do we do now?” Ernesto asked.

“Get Carmen.”

All this time, Ernesto had been driving aimlessly about in the vicinity of the airport. Now, with a destination, he headed toward the 405. Genie relaxed in the back seat. It was roomy and comfortable, but the car was no convertible. It didn’t even have a sunroof. They hit the 405 north. It was jammed, and traffic was at a crawl. Ernesto turned the radio on to a Spanish-language station. It was playing sappy music she couldn’t stand or understand, but she said nothing. She needed Ernesto.

They crawled up the hill, over the Sepulveda Pass, then back down the hill. How can people do this day after day, Genie wondered. “If I had to do it, I’d slit my wrists!” she said aloud. “Do what?” asked Ernesto. “Sorry, I was thinking aloud,” Genie said. “Drive in this traffic.” “It’s not so bad,” said Ernesto, “you get used to it.”

Ernesto curved onto the Ventura Freeway and got off at Reseda Boulevard. Genie looked out the windows as they drove past mammoth apartment buildings, ugly hulking things with random patches of wood siding on them, then small, ugly houses with brown lawns and ratty-looking bushes under the windows. Finally they drove up to a small apartment building on a street lined with small apartment buildings. The building in which Carmen lived was vomit-yellow, with a brown lawn and bushes under the windows. Birds of paradise. How ironic, Genie thought.

Ernesto parked the car next to a fire hydrant -- the only open spot -- and Genie followed him to the second floor apartment in the rear. She planned to have Ernesto kick the door down if necessary. It wasn’t necessary. Someone had beaten him to it.

Nina Levin Jackson is a research attorney at the state Court of Appeal who finds “writing fiction is a nice change from drafting legal opinions.”