It was on my last shift cleaning bathrooms at the Pizza Port, just before I told the manager I was quitting, that I found the wallet in one of the stalls. I cleaned it off meticulously with an alcohol wipe and saw that it was a Shenola men’s wallet, light brown leather, with a slim billfold. After I thoroughly cleaned the wallet, I examined the contents. The guy, whoever he was, Cristo Sid Polizacio, had every high-end credit card one could qualify for, including a Platinum American Express. The picture on his license was exotic. Cristo wore a turban; he had thick tortoiseshell eyeglasses, and he sported a flat gold chain with an amulet, a Tunisian gold coin. Cristo Sid Polizacio—what a bizarre name! Some kind of Arab sheik with Mafia ties? There were also sixteen brand new one-hundred-dollar bills pressed tight together, and a shiny card from a club called The Cage, which featured a crisscrossed chain and whip. It read: Have you been a naughty boy? I tucked the wallet in my pocket. The manager, Drayko Spawn, a local surfing hero, accepted my resignation with resignation. “We go through a lot of maintenance guys,” he said. He paid me for the six days and boxed up a pie with mushrooms, green peppers, and olives, my favorite, which made my heart pulse with gratitude. I thanked him profusely and promised that if I ever got the smell of excrement out of my nose, I’d work for him again. 
 
I decided, for no particular reason, that I’d drive down to La Jolla and deliver the wallet to Cristo Sid Polizacio in person, ignorant that this off-the-cuff decision would be a turning point in my life—almost an end to my life. I decided that I’d splurge on an oceanfront motel and a nice meal for my last night; I love fried clams with extra tartar sauce, a holdover from my teenage years on the Jersey shore. In the morning I would leave for home, wherever that would be. I was no match for California, and I knew it. Even the seals who barked at me on my beach walks knew it.
 
La Jolla was an eye opener. I’d heard it was fancy but I wasn’t prepared for how plush and opulent it was. Cristo’s house was not a house, but an exquisite Muirlands trophy estate, sited gracefully with a two hundred and eighty degree view of the ocean world. It made Elite Estates [back in Florida] look like a fifties Adirondack campground with black flies and mosquitoes swarming.
 
To access the gate bell, I had to put my hand in a cement lion’s mouth and press the button. Nothing happened. I thought, momentarily, that I should just toss the wallet over the gate and get on with my evening. Then a covering in the wall next to the gate slid open, revealing a screen. A striking looking woman, seated at a desk with a bank of security screens shifting behind her, stared at me as if I were a toxic lab slide about to be put under a microscope. “Do you have business here?” she asked. I noticed a camera lens aimed down at my license plate. 
 
“Is this Mr. Polizacio’s home?” It felt funny to use the word home. Kingdom would have been more appropriate. 
 
“Why are you here, Mr. Zoitner?” Their intel was fast. It took less than ten seconds after scanning my license plate. She seemed to be typing something into her laptop. Then a bank of LED lights lit up the gate like Legoland at night.  
 
“I have something for him.” 
 
She whispered into a microphone clipped on the collar of her sheer black blouse. A moment later something huge and ominous was lumbering toward the gate. As it advanced, I saw that it was a Hummer. There was a dome on top of the roof with something that seemed to be rotating around inside of it, maybe radar. As it closed in, I realized that someone was standing in it. It looked like a machine gun turret. Slowly, the gate began to slide open. My instinct was to back away and get the hell out of there as fast as possible—I should have. But I froze, staring at it.
 
Two guys in paramilitary uniforms hopped out and walked around my car. One had a scanner that he swished over the exterior. The other one shoved an under-vehicle inspection mirror beneath the frame. Then each one stood on either side of the front windows and shined flashlights on the interior, including myself, down to my feet and between my legs. “Follow us in,” one of them commanded, in a thick accent. 
 
“I think I have the wrong address,” I said weakly. “Sorry.”
 
“Follow us in,” he said. It was a forceful invitation. I wanted to flee, but I didn’t know what they would do. I looked into the rearview mirror and thought; I should not have come here. I should have left his wallet with Drayko at the Pizza Port and let him sort it out. He was very good with handling tough customers. 
 
I followed them slowly up to the massive marble columned portico and we parked underneath it. Off to the side was a squat two-story building of stone and glass, a small fortress, with various length antennas spiking up in the air. About six or seven more guys in military uniforms hung out, some on their phones, others smoking. Next to the building were parked several more Hummers and a few Mercedes-Benz Sprinter Passenger Vans. Obviously, transportation was intrinsic to whatever operation was going on here. We got out and approached the massive oak doors which yawned open automatically. Each door displayed a carved crescent moon and star. One of the soldiers—maybe they were security guards—turned around and pointed at my car. He said something in Arabic with some English mixed in: “Can crusher.” The other guy laughed.
 
We entered a great hall and marched along a maroon carpet that went on and on past large side rooms, a library, and some museum-quality art and vintage furniture. When we reached the elevator, just one of them accompanied me in, the bigger one. He pressed number four. I made a bit of small talk. “It’s quite a place you’ve got here.” He didn’t look at me; he just grunted and patted the bulge under his jacket where I saw the tip of the holster resting snug against his thick leg. The door slid open to a massive conference room. There was a long table with ten chairs set around it. At the first seat next to the head of the table sat a diminutive figure that looked very much like a child, a young girl perhaps. I was directed to sit across from this person. Immediately, a servant entered the room with tea and a plate of assorted Middle Eastern pastries. 
 
I calmed down a bit and realized that this beautiful young person was not a girl, but a young man of perhaps nineteen or so. He wore a simple Cubavera linen shirt with a banded collar. His hair was jet black and shined with oil that smelled of jojoba. The only adornment he wore was a Rolex Yacht Master wristwatch.
 
The young man stood and offered me his soft hand; he was obviously not someone who performed manual labor. “I am Naeem Rahman Polizacio,” he said cordially. “You have something for me, I believe?”
 
“Well, it’s actually for Cristo Sid Polizacio.”
 
“Yes,” he nodded, “my father. I am conducting business for him as he is traveling out of the country.”
 
If he was out of the country, how did his wallet wind up in a bathroom at the Pizza Port in Carlsbad, I wondered? Not an auspicious beginning, the mysterious separation of the man and his wallet. “Oh, he’s not here,” I said, to give myself a moment to think. He stared at me; his almond-toned skin translucent. For all his good looks and charm, there was something delicate about him, a certain vulnerability. He had the look of a person who was recovering from a childhood illness. I took the wallet out of my backpack and slid it over to him. He smiled and opened it. He examined the contents thoroughly, removed the credit cards and dropped them into a paper shredder under the table. 
 
“That’s a lot of credit you’re shredding there,” I said.
 
“They’re fake, it doesn’t matter.”
 
“Fake? Why?” I felt suddenly that I’d fallen into a scam, some kind of grand manipulation. But what could they want from a poor schmo like me? I had nothing to offer. 
 
He didn’t answer. He took the crisp hundred dollar bills out and placed them on the table. “How many, Mr. Zoitner?”
 
A trick question, I thought. I answered directly, “Sixteen.”
 
He counted them and smiled. “Yes, sixteen. You weren’t tempted to keep them?”
 
“I wouldn’t be here if I was.”
 
“Then why are you here?” His playful eyes shone like lapis lazuli. 
 
“I’m just returning something I found.”
 
“What are your plans?” he asked.
 
“I’m heading home tomorrow…east.”
 
“I see.” He took the business card out for The Cage and glanced at it, chuckled, and fed it into the shredder. I was, by this point, more than ready to leave. I’d have to get myself and my car out of the front gate, which seemed formidable given the squad out there.
 
I took a nervous breath and said, “You’re welcome…I’ll be leaving now. Very good to meet you.”
 
“Of course, and with much thanks for your honesty. My father would be impressed with a man like you. Perhaps,” he paused for a few seconds, “you might be interested in some short-term employment. It pays quite well.”
 
I’d just gotten out of a bizarre situation with Saradonna and Toypurina. I was decidedly not up for any more adventure. I deflected the offer by saying, “You don’t even know me. Why would you hire someone without checking their references?”
 
“You’ve been vetted already,” he said, offering me another pastry, which I declined.
 
“I don’t understand.”
 
“You returned the wallet with all of the money. That’s what an honest man would do. A trustworthy soul,” he added congenially. He was too smooth.
 
I wasn’t feeling particularly trustworthy at the moment. I was more suspicious and anxious to get away. I wanted to be done with people with strange names—done with California, as intoxicating as it was.
 
He smiled again. “Five hundred per day, cash. No taxes.” 
 
I would need more money to get home, but what would I have to do to make that kind of money, I wondered? And who were these people anyway? Arab, Italian mafia millionaires? Probably billionaires. “I’m afraid I’m a bit out of my league here,” I said.  
 
“You shouldn’t sell yourself short. I’m sure you have more talent and skills than you’re even aware of.” 
 
“Thank you, but I’m anxious to get home. I…”
 
“Have you ever had any experience with royalty? A person of high stature, a titled individual?”
 
I’d once sold a house to a family named King, some mattress and bedding magnates from Buffalo. But I didn’t tell him that. “May I use the bathroom?” I asked. I needed a think break.
 
“Of course.” He indicated a door at the end of the long conference table. I peed and then glanced at my cell phone. My cell was dead, which surprised me. I knew I had fully charged it earlier. Fear gripped my shoulders and squeezed hard. They must have been blocking my service. The woman in the black blouse had probably read my emails and downloaded all my contacts by now. Was I being detained? Anxiety reared its fearsome head. I forced myself to breathe and not panic. When I opened the door, she was there, showing Polizacio Junior a document. It was probably a printout of my cell phone contacts. What the fuck was going on? 
 
I stopped about ten feet away and said, “I’m leaving now.”
 
He smiled and said, “May I introduce you to my sister. This is Syeeda Johre Polizacio.” It was the same woman who’d greeted me on the screen from the security office. In person she was as stunningly beautiful as any woman I had ever seen: raven black hair, almond shaped eyes, skin the color of cocoa fused with milk, and her full claret red lips poised in a frowning grimace.  
 
She turned her head slightly in recognition of me. “Yes, Mr. Zoitner. Welcome to Qasr Fakhm Polizacio,” she said with an edge in her voice.
 
Naeem gave her a slightly disapproving look. “Dear sister, we should not allow ourselves to resort to cynicism.” Later, when I got service back on my phone, I looked it up on my Pimsleur Language App that Qasr Fakhm was Arabic for “opulent mansion.” Apparently, Syeeda was telegraphing some resentment about the place, and perhaps her situation in it. Maybe some family issues. How could there not be? The place smelled of patriarchal dominance. And where was the matriarch, I wondered? Traveling with Cristo Sid, or perhaps locked up in a tower? Prominent, on Syeeda’s ring finger, was a reddish carnelian stone the size of a pregnant chickpea, set in a gold setting. It glowed when she gestured with her hand.  
 
She gave her brother a meaningful nod and whispered something to him, then brusquely left the room. Then came his offer. “Good, she approves of you. What I need, Mr. Zoitner, is a driver to chauffeur her around, a civilian as it were, to take her to various places of her liking.”
 
“Why can’t your people drive her around? There’s a whole fleet parked outside. Those guys,” I almost said thugs, “who brought me in here, they seem capable enough to drive her around anywhere she wants to go.”
 
He got quiet for a few moments. I could see that he was trying to figure out how to best bend me to his will. “The situation is more delicate than that.” He folded his hands and stared at the table. “Mr. Zoitner, I’m going to take you into my confidence, if I may.”
 
I needed to assert myself. “I can’t get involved with this. I…have a dinner engagement, and I’m going to be late.”
 
He smiled and gave me a penetrating look. I’m a lousy liar. “Let’s say $800 per diem.” That got my attention. With that kind of money, I could take the car train back east and stay in a sleeper and order room service. He lowered his voice. His expression changed; he looked somewhat pained. “We, as you may have construed, are a royal family. Syeeda is betrothed, or rather hopefully almost betrothed, to a young man, a prince from another royal family—if she will acquiesce and accept his proposal, which she hasn’t as yet. It is my father’s sincere wish that she will agree to take the young man for her husband. I won’t go into more detail about our families, though I suspect you’d be familiar with the name of the prince’s family. And,” he said, with a coy expression, “don’t believe everything you read in the press. Politics are always in play, especially with…well, I’m sure you understand. I’ll just say that my father is keen to create this connection, this alliance if you will.” 
 
I didn’t like what I was hearing. It irritated me. “And she has no say in it? An arranged marriage? What’s that about?”
 
For the first time he seemed ruffled. “It’s not arranged. We don’t do that anymore. My father thinks that it’s a good match. But Syeeda, though she was born in our country and lived there until she was sixteen, and then came to the states for college, well, she has different ideas about things.”
 
“She should,” I said. It sounded like an arranged marriage to me—a giveaway to benefit the family, whatever they were about. “What is it you’re really asking me to do?” 
 
“I need someone, an American in particular, such as yourself, to accompany her—to be her driver and escort. To take her mind off family business.”
 
“Like selling her off to the highest bidder?” 
 
His face turned red with anger, but he controlled himself. “I’ve made you a very generous offer. She approves of you. All you have to do is drive her anywhere she wants to go, except out of California, not Mexico, that’s off limits. She can shop, go to museums, have lunch…whatever. She has an unlimited credit card. You won’t have to pay for anything. You get eight hundred a day, free and clear. No strings attached, as they say.”
 
I was parsing it out in my head; the person of high stature, the titled individual, was Syeeda. It occurred to me that there might be security issues driving her around. There could be some serious strings attached. “OK, she’s royalty. How am I supposed to guarantee her safety?”
 
“Yes, she is a princess…and…she could be more than that if affairs go well. We’ll provide security. There will be a detail following you in an unmarked vehicle two car lengths away at all times. You won’t even notice it—you don’t have to worry.” He waited a few moments, “You will be less obvious driving...whatever that is.”
 
I filled in the blank, “It’s an MG Midget.” His promise that I wouldn’t have to worry made me worry. There was something off about this whole arrangement. It felt outside the parameters of reality. But all of my experiences here on the West Coast had pretty much been that anyway. 
 
He laced his fingers together. “Exactly, you’ll look like locals,” he said with a bit of distaste.
 
“How long will this go on for?” I asked.
 
“Until all the arrangements are made,” he let it slip.
 
“Until what arrangements are made?”
 
“Contracts, etc. International considerations. Until the time comes when she goes back,” he said, quietly.
 
So that was the deal. I was to entertain her until they married her off to some prince to boost the family stature and pocketbook. They were just going to use her—send her into a bad situation, most likely ship her off to Saudi Arabia, or some place in the Middle East against her wishes. 
 
He slid the cash, sixteen hundred, across the table. “Here, eight hundred per diem. This is for the first two days. You drive a hard bargain, Mr. Zoitner,” he chuckled a bit nervously, perhaps because he’d revealed more than he’d intended. “And if you want a place to stay, we have plenty of room in our humble abode,” he added in an ironic tone.
 
That sounded like a captivating offer. “No thanks, I’ll get my own place. I want to be by the ocean.”
 
“You can see the ocean from here. We have beautiful views.”
 
I resisted his arm twisting by not answering him. He stood and extended his hand. “Well, I’m delighted you’ve accepted my offer.” I nodded, shook his hand and left wondering if I’d made a mistake, going for the money like that. Was that all I really cared about? What about Syeeda? I didn’t want to be an accomplice to her future misery—maybe even slavery. It irked me that her freedom might be at stake. But what was I doing? Did I imagine that there was some way I could help her? What if I tried and it went wrong? I could wind up dead with this crew. He called after me, “Tomorrow at nine,” he said cheerfully. 
 
 
© Mark Morganstern 2022
 
This is an excerpt of the novella A Factotum in the Land of Palms from the book The House of the Seven Heavens by Mark Morganstern, Recital Publishing 2022.