I reached Santa Cruz well in time to catch my 5:30 flight to Delhi aboard an Air India 747. Wedging the valise between myself and the window to keep it safe, I took advantage of the empty seat next to me to stretch out and sleep for about an hour. In Delhi, my connection was a short one, but I found the gate and boarded Royal Nepal Airlines flight 206. After a hairy approach over the mountains, followed by a sharp descent through heavy rain, we touched down safely in Kathmandu at 9:30. I was a good flyer, but that landing got my heart pumping.

Up to this point, I hadn’t opened the valise. I sensed this might be a test. A dry run before Willy gave me any real work to do. It would be foolhardy to confide drugs or contraband to an unproven courier, so I was fairly confident I wasn’t risking arrest for smuggling. My stomach turned over a couple of times all the same when the customs agent asked me what was in the bag. I told him samples.

“What kind of samples?”

“Business,” I said.

“Open, please.”

Shit. I had no idea what to expect, but there was no avoiding it. I unbuckled the strap, said a prayer, and flipped the bag open.

The officer peered inside. His upper lip curled. “Sample? Brassieres?”

I glanced at the contents of the valise and, indeed, it was stuffed with bras. Different sizes, colors, and styles, from young miss to matronly. The officer counted them. Eleven. I know I blushed, because my face was burning hot.

“I sell lingerie. These are samples for ladieswear shops. My clients.”

He smirked, then waved me past. I refastened the valise’s buckle and went through.

Willy had instructed me to take the samples to a souvenir shop in Jhochhen Tol. When the taxi dropped me there, I was surprised to see so many young Westerners. Hippie types. I felt out of place in my shirt and trousers and closed shoes. I wore my hair medium long, but I looked like a marine compared to my compatriots hanging around the narrow street, smelling of hash in their tie-dyed T-shirts and sandals. I learned soon enough that this place was known as Freak Street, thanks to the throngs of stoners who’d made it famous.

The Wicked Walrus Export Co. was easy enough to find. It was a small shop, jammed with souvenirs—some kitschy, others displayed as authentic Nepalese crafts. And there was a huge variety of hookahs, bongs, and other drug paraphernalia, if that was your idea of mementoes.

“Excuse me,” I said to the thin man sitting on a stool near the back of the narrow shop. “I’m looking for Dhonu.”

“Who are you?” he asked, as he pinched a hand-rolled cigarette between his lips.

“Willy sent me.”

He smiled an exaggerated grin at me, baring his stained brown teeth. “Then I’m Dhonu. They call me the king.”