Death of a Gigolo

by Laura Levine

  Kate and I had just joined him when Daisy came sailing out, arm in arm with Tommy, her face wreathed in smiles.

  “Everybody, I’d like you to meet Tommy LaSalle, my late companion Emma’s nephew!”

  As Daisy made introductions, Tommy barely glanced at me and Kate, dismissing us as the nobodies he thought we were. Then he turned to Clayton and nodded at him curtly, sizing up Daisy’s ardent suitor, clearly finding him wanting.

  Clayton, meanwhile, looked none too happy at the way Daisy’s arm was linked so possessively in Tommy’s.

  “Clayton, sweetie,” Daisy said, “would you mind scooting down a seat so Tommy can sit next to me? Now that I’ve found such an important link to my darling Emma, I can’t bear to let him go.”

  Something told me darling Emma had nothing to do with the sparkle in Daisy’s eyes.

  Clayton grudgingly got up and moved down a seat.

  “Wonderful news!” Daisy announced as she plopped down into her chair. “It turns out the lease has run out on Tommy’s apartment and I’ve invited him to stay with me until he finds a new place!”

  At this late-breaking bulletin, Clayton reached for his wineglass and took a healthy slug.

  “So,” he said, checking out Tommy’s work clothes, “I take it you’re a construction worker.”

  “Yep. Been doing it for the past five years. But I’m hoping to switch careers and make a move to financial planning.”

  “Don’t you need a degree for that?” Clayton asked.

  “Ordinarily, yes. But I’m sure I can make the transition. I’ve been playing the stock market on paper, and I’ve made a killing.”

  “It’s easy to make a killing when you’re not investing real money,” Clayton said. “Playing the market takes a lot of skill. I should know. I used to be an investment banker. Trust me, young man. It’s very hard work.”

  “I bet it was, sir, back in the days before they invented computers.”

  Clayton was sitting there, fuming at Tommy’s snark attack, when Solange showed up, wheeling the lunch cart.

  “Solange, dear!” Daisy said. “I need you to make up the blue guest room for Tommy. He’ll be moving in with us.”

  “Yes, Mrs. Kinkaid,” she said, blinking back her surprise.

  “Tommy, you’ve already met Solange, our maid.”

  As Tommy smiled at Solange, I couldn’t help but notice a flicker of interest in his eyes. A flicker that went undetected by Daisy, who’d been momentarily distracted by lunch.

  “Mmm! Filet of sole meunière. How divine!”

  And indeed it was. Meunière meant butter (as I knew from my high school French class—Thanks again, Mrs. Wallis!), and the fish was swimming in it. Like I said before, I’m not much of a fish eater, but this sole was dee-lish.

  Tommy, however, was listlessly poking at his fish, unimpressed.

  “Something wrong with your filet, Tommy?” Daisy asked.

  “I’m afraid I don’t go in for fancy French stuff. I’m more of a meat and potatoes kind of guy. I usually eat burgers for lunch. Or burritos. Or meatball subs.”

  “Why am I not surprised?” I heard Clayton mutter under his breath.

  “A meatball sub!” Daisy chirped. “I’ve never had one of those. Sounds positively intriguing!”

  Unnerved at the way Daisy was beaming at Tommy, Clayton spoke up, making another valiant effort to defend his turf.

  “I don’t suppose you play tennis, Tommy. I’m guessing you’re more into bowling and sports of that nature.”

  “Actually,” Tommy volleyed back, “I play a little tennis. Learned when I was a kid at the Y.”

  “I’m senior division champ at the Bel Air Country Club,” Clayton preened.

  “Who gives a flying frisbee?”

  Okay, what Tommy really said was, “Good for you.” But there was no mistaking the disdain in his voice.

  “You play tennis, Tommy?” Daisy chimed in. “How fascinating. I’ve always wanted to play but haven’t had the time.”

  What the what? Just yesterday she was saying she had absolutely no interest in batting a ball around the court.

  “We’ll have to give it a shot, then,” Tommy said, lobbing her his Bachelorette contestant smile.

  By now, Clayton’s face had turned an alarming shade of puce.

  “Daisy, sweetheart,” he said, emphasis on sweetheart, “I got the concert tickets.”

  Wrenching her eyes from Tommy, Daisy looked at Clayton in a daze.

  “What concert?”

  “Mozart at Disney Hall. This Saturday.”

  “Oh, right. How lovely.” Then, like a magnet, her eyes snapped back to Tommy. “Do you like classical music, Tommy?”

  “Not really,” he confessed. “It’s sorta dull. It always makes me sleepy.”

  “Me too!” Daisy giggled. “Aren’t we just awful!”

  At this final act of betrayal, Clayton grabbed his wine glass and slugged down the remaining contents in a single gulp.

  The rest of the meal staggered along rather awkwardly as Clayton and Tommy traded barbed zingers, Daisy oblivious to the tension in the air.

  To be honest, I was sort of oblivious myself, scarfing down my sole meunière. Really, I thought, as I shoved the stuff in my mouth, Raymond should be declared a national treasure.

  After a spectacular dessert of flourless chocolate cake, Raymond came out to the patio in his chef’s whites.

  “Was everything to your liking?” he asked Daisy, just as he had the day before.

  “It was very nice, Raymond,” she replied with not nearly as much enthusiasm as she’d lavished on him yesterday. “But tomorrow, I think I’d like something less fancy. Like meatball subs.”

  “Meatball subs?” Raymond repeated, as if she’d just suggested serving Alpo on toast.

  “Yes,” Daisy nodded. “I think that would be a welcome change of pace.”

  Once again, she beamed at Tommy, gazing at him much like I gaze at a pepperoni pizza.

  No doubt about it. My sixtysomething boss had the hots for her young houseguest.

  The hunka hunka burning hots.

  Chapter 6

  Tommy moved in that afternoon, showing up in an Uber, his worldly possessions crammed into two Hefty bags.

  Whatever he’d been hauling in those trash bags was quickly replaced in the ensuing days as Daisy took him on a whirlwind shopping spree, buying him Armani suits, Hugo Boss ties, handmade leather shoes, and two Rolexes—not to mention a boatload of athletic wear.

  Daisy even converted one of the guest bedrooms on the main floor to a gym, complete with a rowing machine, treadmill, and a tanning bed to keep up Tommy’s bronzed glow.

  The gift Tommy seemed most taken with, however, was a platinum Swiss Army Knife, which he proudly used to clean the gunk from under his fingernails.

  In return for all his new goodies, Tommy was showering Daisy with seductive smiles and glimpses of his six-pack abs. The job he really seemed to be applying for was Daisy’s boy toy.

  And it was working. The woman was utterly gaga over him, unable to tear her eyes away from his bod.

  Unfortunately, she was alone in her ardor.

  “I know a grifter when I see one,” Kate confided when we got back from our first lunch with the tanned lothario. “And that guy is bad news.”

  She grew no fonder of him in the ensuing days when he started running her ragged, sending her all over town to pick up his favorite snacks—barbeque in Koreatown, dim sum from Monterey Park, and burritos from a Mexican food truck in Van Nuys.

  “Who does he think I am?” Kate groused, exhausted from her freeway treks. “FedEx?”

  Apparently so.

  A few days after his arrival, he strolled into our office in cutoffs and a tank top, his thick mane of hair slicked back with gel.

  “I’m in the mood for a chili cheese dog,” he said to Kate. “Drive over to Pink’s and get me one.”

  For those of you unfamiliar with L.A.’s restaurant scene, Pink’s is
a wildly popular hot dog stand at La Brea and Melrose—several light years away from Daisy’s Bel Air manse.

  Kate looked up from her computer screen and shot him a death ray glare.

  “You expect me to drive all the way across town in traffic for a chili cheese dog?” she asked, furious at this latest request.

  “With extra chili,” Tommy replied, cleaning the gunk from his fingernails with his prized Swiss Army Knife. “So chop-chop. Better move your fanny.”

  Then, with a withering look at her tush, he added, “It could use the exercise.”

  Ouch. That had to hurt.

  Kate got up and stomped over to him, her curls springing wildly from her head, as if outraged on her behalf.

  “Sooner or later,” Kate said through gritted teeth, “Daisy’s going to realize what a sleazebag you are, and you’ll be out of here so fast your head will be spinning.”

  “I wouldn’t count on that, Tubby.”

  Tubby? That did it. Her face flushed with fury, Kate practically spat at him.

  “You miserable fink!”

  Okay, so “fink” wasn’t the “F” word she used, but this is a family novel, so I’m keeping it clean.

  I guess Tommy was used to being cursed at, because he barely batted an eye as he strolled out the room.

  “And while you’re at it,” he called out, “get me a side of fries.”

  * * *

  Kate wasn’t the only one in the I Hate Tommy Club.

  That afternoon, I wandered into the kitchen for a nice crisp apple (okay, apple turnover) and found Raymond chopping carrots with the ferocity of a samurai warrior.

  “Tater Tots!” he groaned. “Two years at the Culinary Institute of America. Six years executive chef at Christophe, L.A.’s premiere French restaurant. And I’m reduced to serving Tater Tots.” He eyed a plastic bag of the starchy offenders on the kitchen island and snarled, “Disgusting, no?”

  I didn’t have the heart to tell him I actually like Tater Tots. Preferably drenched in ketchup.

  “Absolutely,” I said instead, eager to soothe his frazzled nerves.

  Next to Raymond, Solange was toiling at an ironing board, muttering curses as she worked.

  “The nerve of that creep! Expecting me to iron his repulsive thong underwear.”

  She picked up a pair of freshly ironed leopard print thongs, gingerly holding them between the tips of two fingers.

  “Ugh!”

  Ugh, indeed. They looked like something you’d see in a porn flick. And I wouldn’t have been at all surprised if they’d been in one.

  “And he won’t let me take time off to go to auditions,” Solange fumed. “What a fathead!”

  Once again, not the “F” word actually used.

  Leaving the two of them to trash Tommy, I headed back to the office, grateful I’d not yet locked horns with Daisy’s hunky heartthrob.

  * * *

  In fact, what with the excitement of Tommy’s arrival, Daisy seemed to have forgotten about Fifty Shades of Turquoise.

  The pressure was off!

  Or so I thought.

  Just when I figured I was off the hook, Daisy asked me to send her the first few pages I’d written and summoned me to her bedroom to discuss the book.

  I only hoped Tommy wouldn’t be there to trash my work.

  Daisy was alone, thank heavens, when I showed up at her bedroom—a pale turquoise affair dotted with priceless antiques no doubt mined from some castle on the Loire.

  She was seated at her vanity in a vibrant floral silk caftan, screwing what looked like genuine emerald baguettes into her earlobes.

  “Jaine, dear!” she cried, swinging around to face me. “I need to talk to you about our little book.”

  I braced myself for bad news. Surely she’d upchucked when she saw the glop I’d been writing about sinewy muscles, heaving bosoms, and loins of steel.

  But there was no bad news.

  “I’ve been so busy getting Tommy settled, I haven’t had the chance to read what you’ve sent me.”

  I sent up a tiny prayer of thanks for my reprieve from the guillotine.

  “But I’ve had the most wonderful idea,” she beamed, “for Max Laredo, the burly miner Clarissa falls in love with. I know what I want him to look like. He should have black hair and blue eyes and a really deep tan.”

  Wow, I didn’t have to be Sigmund F. to figure out that she wanted the leading man of her fictional romance to be the same as the leading man in her real-life romance.

  “That’s sound great,” I lied, annoyed at the way Tommy had wormed his way into our book.

  Daisy was busy applying mascara and gushing about how she just knew Fifty Shades of Turquoise was going to be a best seller, when we heard:

  “Yoo hoo, Daisy, darling!”

  It was Daisy’s pal Esme, who came swooping into the room, decked out in yoga pants and hoodie, her salt-and-pepper hair swept back in a headband.

  “Hello, sweetheart,” she said, pecking Daisy on the cheek.

  She nodded at me vaguely, dismissing me as social wallpaper.

  “You’re not wearing that beautiful silk caftan to the spa, are you?” she said, turning her attention back to Daisy.

  “Oh, dear,” Daisy said, dismayed. “Today’s our spa day.”

  “Indeed it is!” Esme smiled.

  “Don’t be cross, Esme, but I’m afraid I forgot all about it. Tommy and I were planning to drive up the coast and have lunch in Malibu.”

  “That’s too bad,” Esme said, irritation flitting across her hawklike features. “Can’t you go to Malibu another day?”

  “Nope, she can’t.”

  We turned to see Tommy looming in the doorway.

  “She’s having lunch with me,” he said, striding to Daisy’s side and clamping a possessive hand on her shoulder.

  Esme’s eyes narrowed into angry slits.

  “You must be Tommy,” she said, forcing a smile. “I’m Esme, Daisy’s dearest friend.”

  “Not for long, bitch.”

  Okay, he didn’t really say that, but I could practically see the cogs churning in his brain, trying to figure a way to oust Esme from Daisy’s life.

  “Tommy, dear,” Daisy said, “would you mind awfully if I went with Esme to the spa? We have a standing date every week, and I forgot all about it.”

  Esme smirked in victory. But she miscalculated her win a beat too soon.

  “No problem,” Tommy said, all oily compliance, “but I was really looking forward to a cozy lunch by the beach. Just the two of us.”

  That said with his finger grazing the nape of her neck.

  “Okay, then,” said Daisy said, eyes glazed, melting at his touch. “Lunch in Malibu it is.”

  Now it was Tommy’s turn to smirk.

  Seeing the disappointment on Esme’s face, Daisy rushed to placate her.

  “There’s no reason for you to miss out on the spa, Esme. Wait right here, and I’ll get you my membership card. I’m sure they’ll let you in without me. Tell them to charge everything to my account.”

  As Daisy disappeared into her cavernous walk-in closet, Esme shot Tommy a withering look.

  “Looks like someone won the lottery,” she said, gazing at the Rolex on his wrist.

  “Lucky me,” Tommy replied, a poster boy for insolence.

  “I heard on the grapevine you’re a construction worker.”

  “You heard wrong. I’m not in that line of work anymore.”

  “I can tell exactly what line of work you’re in,” Esme sneered. “But don’t you boys usually get paid by the hour for services rendered?”

  Tommy looked like he was about to haul off and deck her when Daisy came bouncing back into the room, waving her spa membership card.

  “Here it is!” she said, handing it to Esme. “Do you want Tommy’s cell phone number in case you need to reach me in an emergency? You know how I’m always forgetting my cell.”

  “No need for that, hon,” Esme replied. “I’ve already go
t Tommy’s number.”

  Chalk up another member in the I Hate Tommy club.

  Chapter 7

  I hurried home from the cauldron of hostilities brewing at La Belle Vie, looking forward to the weekend ahead.

  Dickie had been working late all week, so we hadn’t had a chance to get together. But we’d kept in touch, texting and talking on the phone, and had set up plans to have a romantic dinner at his condo that night—followed by what I hoped would be a session of passionate dipsy doodle.

  Back at my apartment, I luxuriated in the tub, fantasizing about what the night held in store—Prozac glaring down at me from her perch on my toilet tank.

  I swear, that cat is psychic. She knew I was going to see Dickie, and she wasn’t the least bit happy about it.

  “I wish you’d give Dickie a chance, Pro. He’s really a sweetie pie.”

  A disgusted thump of her tail.

  Oh, please. If I have to listen to any more of his stupid affirmations, I’m putting myself up for adoption.

  But I refused to let Prozac rain on my parade.

  Studiously ignoring her dirty looks, I proceeded to get dressed, slap on my makeup, and crunch my curls so they were at their Botticelli best.

  Then I headed out to my Corolla with a song in my heart, a smile on my face, and an extra spritz of perfume on my undies.

  Dickie greeted me at the door of his Venice condo in jeans and a body-skimming polo, his sun-bleached hair provocatively spiky. Whisking me inside, he took me in his arms and hit me with a blockbuster of a kiss.

  “Preview of coming attractions,” he whispered in my ear.

  Yikes. I only hoped I’d be able to hold out until after dinner.

  I followed him into his hip, metrosexual living room—lots of dove-gray leather on dark hardwood floors, recessed lighting, and spotless white walls adorned with abstract art.

  Back in the old days, Dickie’s idea of fine art had been Elvis on velvet and Dogs Playing Poker.

  “Let’s watch the sunset,” he said, leading me out onto his balcony with its spectacular view of the Pacific.

  We settled down into twin chaises, sipping organic chardonnay and sharing a small plate of baby carrots.