Tales of the City 03 - Further Tales of the City

woman in a two-tone green uniform.
    “A friend of ours may have rented a car here yesterday. We were wondering if you’d mind checking … if it’s no trouble.”
    The young woman’s smile fell. “We don’t normally give out that kind of information.”
    “Why the hell not?”
    Mary Ann stepped forward, touching the small of DeDe’s back. “Uh … it’s kind of stupid, really. He told us to be sure to use the same rental agency he used, and we forgot to ask him the name. Dumb, huh?”
    The woman refused to thaw. “Customer records are confidential. If I gave out that kind of information, I’m afraid it would be an invasion of privacy. If you’d like to rent a car, I’d be glad …”
    “This isn’t a fucking missile station, you know!” DeDe was edgier than ever.
    This time Mary Ann gripped her elbow. “We don’t need you to check the computer, actually. They’d be easy to recognize.”
    “I thought it was one person.”
    “One adult,” amended Mary Ann, before DeDe could speak. “A nice-looking man about fifty and four-year-old twins, a boy and a girl.”
    “Eurasian,” added DeDe.
    “I’m what?” snapped the woman.
    DeDe groaned. Before she could retaliate, Mary Ann said: “The children are part Chinese. They were wearing fur-lined parkas. I think you would’ve remembered them if …” The woman had become an obelisk; it was futile to continue. Mary Ann addressed DeDe, who was smoldering. “I think we’d better go.”
    DeDe shot daggers at her adversary until she was out of sight.
    At the next agency, DeDe did all the talking, while Mary Ann looked for a dictionary at a neighboring motel. The desk clerk produced a battered volume which Mary Ann consulted while standing in the lobby.
    She found this:
Diomedes n. Class. Myth. 1. the son of Tydeus, next in prowess to Achilles at the siege of Troy. 2. a Thracian king who fed his wild mares on human flesh and was himself fed to them by Hercules.
    When DeDe emerged from the rental agency, Mary Ann was waiting for her on the street.
    “Any luck?” asked DeDe.
    “Afraid not.”
    “They didn’t have a dictionary?”
    “They had one. Diomedes wasn’t in it.”
    “There’s a book store over there. Maybe they would know.”
    Mary Ann shook her head. “I think we’re beating a dead horse.” Clever girl, she told herself. You have a cliché for every occasion.
    DeDe persisted. “The sign says: ‘Specializing in Alaska Lore.’ If anybody would know, they would. It’s worth a try, at any rate. C’mon.”
Hundreds of musty volumes were stacked everywhere in the tiny book store: on shelves, on tables, on the floor. But there wasn’t a person in sight.
    “Hello,” hollered DeDe.
    No answer.
    “I think we should check the float plane places,” said Mary Ann, inching towards the door.
    “Hold it … I hear somebody.”
    The proprietor, an Ichabod Crane look-alike, emerged from the back room. “Yes, ladies. May I help you?”
    “I hope so,” said DeDe. “We need some information. Do you know what the word ‘Diomedes’ means?”
    The man smiled instantly, unveiling the sizable gap between his front teeth. “You mean, The Diomedes.” He might have been talking about old friends, like The Martins or The Browns. “What would you like to know about ‘em?”
    “For starters,” said DeDe, “what are they?”
    “Islands,” replied the bookseller.
    “Thank God!” said Mary Ann.
    DeDe turned and scrutinized her. “Why thank God?”
    Mary Ann reddened. “I … well, I’m just glad somebody knows.”
    “Where are they?” asked DeDe, addressing the proprietor again.
    “Way north of here. In the Bering Strait. Cute little buggers. Little Diomede and Big Diomede. The little one’s about four square miles. The other’s … oh, twenty or so. No trees. Lots of rocks and Eskimos. The two of ’em are just a few miles apart.”
    “Is anything … special there?” asked Mary Ann.
    The man grinned like a jack o’lantern. “It’s not what they are, but where.”
    “How so?” asked DeDe.
    “Well,” said the man. “Little Diomede’s in the United States and Big Diomede’s in Russia.”

Revising the Itinerary
    T HAT SON OF A BITCH,” MUTTERED DEDE, BACK IN THEIR room at the Potlatch House, “that two-bit Bolshevik son of a bitch. Jesus H. Christ … Russia!”
    Mary Ann felt more ineffectual than ever. “I’d forgotten how close we were,” she said.
    “He probably lives there,” added DeDe. “He’s got what he