She lifted her sweater to reveal a gruesomely scarred chest.
“Do you think the incisions are healing? The doctor said the drugs were wrecking my immune system. That's why I'm here. They won't give me the new saline boobs until I'm officially off the toot. Like it's going to matter if I look like a whale.”
Regina turned away. The poor thing looked like a torture victim.
“Here.” The Spoon made a grab for the scrubbing brush. “I'll finish the floor at this end. I don't know why they didn't change your duty when you broke your foot. You finish mopping. We don't want to be late for group.”
“Why, thank you.” Regina grabbed the mop as her new-made friend marched toward the uncleaned stall with surprising vigor.
~
“I still can't flush this thing,” the Spoon said a few minutes later. “The chain is stuck. Want to give it a try?”
Regina limped into the stall and pulled the chain hard. The girl was apparently so weak from her bulimia she couldn't flush a toilet.
“Princess! My God! Look out!”
Regina heard a crash and the gush of water as she felt bony arms yank her backwards.
The old toilet tank had pulled from the wall, smashing onto the bowl beneath. The roaring water scattered ragged porcelain shards across the tile floor.
“Oh, my God, that could have been me!” said the Spoon.
“Or me.” Regina watched the water rush around her ankle, ruining the Prada pump on her good foot as well as soaking her skirt. “If you hadn't wandered in, that certainly would have been me.”
“Stupid wild-west plumbing.” The Spoon gave a shrug. “You'd think they'd have redone this stuff when they turned this place from a guest ranch into a clinic. Accidents like this must happen all the time.”
Regina stared at the shattered bowl, her chest tightening.
“I suppose so,” she said without conviction. “Accidents happen.”
Chapter 2—Cady: Crisco and Prayers
Reverend Cady Stanton tore through the makeshift office she'd set up in her suite at the Beverly Wilshire Hotel, yanking the white linen pumps from her blistering feet.
“What do you mean, I have to be at Spago at noon? I'm trying to stick to a diet here, people. I'm promoting a TV talk show, not a food franchise.”
She sank into a chair next to the desk where her secretary, Florence Adams, typed furiously on her laptop, and Albert Sneed, the network P. R. man, studied the tyrannical appointment book that had ruled her life since she'd arrived in Los Angeles.
“Why Spago? All that talk about Washington pork is a metaphor, you know. Can't those network people think of anything for a former Congresswoman to do but eat?”
Little Albert looked up at her with his pale, dead-fish eyes.
“Because you're booked for Spago, Reverend. Twelve o' clock. The limo's on its way.”
Cady smoothed the skirt of her two-thousand-dollar designer suit, stretched taut against her heavily girdled belly.
“Do you know what I've had to put in my stomach today, Mr. Sneed? Bagels and cream cheese at the power breakfast with the Monsignor's lawyers; doughnuts with the network studio crew, brioche with the sponsor's wife in Pasadena—and you don't even want to know about the pie at the video shoot at the Downey Foursquare Gospel Church Ladies' Auxiliary Community Breakfast and Bake Sale.”
She grimaced as she pulled in her belly.
“If Crisco was prayers, I tell you, those ladies could save the world.”
Albert gave a pained smile. “The limo will be here in five minutes.”
“Five minutes? Till I have to eat goat cheese pizza? I don't think so. These diet pills make me nauseous when I even get near grease.”
“You could stop taking them,” Flo said, glancing up over her glasses.
Cady sighed. She hated it when Flo was sensible. But she couldn't blimp out again. Not after all the media hype about her weight loss. She couldn't go through the hell of losing that forty pounds again—the fasting, the pills, the frenzied self-hatred.
After twenty years of looking “matronly,” she finally had her teenage figure back. She wasn't going to give it up without a fight.
And—she found this difficult to admit, even to the Lord—not without the pleasure of being asked out on a date. At least once before she hit fifty. She'd given up hope of traditional marriage when she entered politics, and the possibility of motherhood had been snatched from her thirty years ago by butchering doctors, but she could still hope for a little romance.
“The Reverend has to keep taking the pills,” Albert said in Florence's direction. “We don't want to see her plastered on the cover of the Star looking like Miss Piggy in her skivvies. Did you see that photo of Princess Reggie yesterday?”
Cady stiffened. Even though she and Regina hadn't spoken since Regina's mother died, she hated to hear cruel talk about the only white woman she ever truly considered a “sister”.
“There's nothing funny about invading somebody's privacy like that—especially Regina. She's so fragile. When we were kids…”
She stopped herself. That was fatigue talking. The last thing she needed right now was for the soured friendship between her and the bad-girl princess of San Montinaro to be aired in the media.
“'Judge not according to appearance'—John 7:24.” Flo gave Albert her withering over-the-glasses stare as she quoted the line of scripture. “Besides, I heard some bottom-feeder stole that picture from the surveillance video of a designer's dressing room. There's not a woman alive who deserves that kind of treatment.”
Albert parried with a smirk.
“There's not a lot of women alive who are former supermodels married to fashion-designing European royalty. Sorry, but privacy doesn't come with that job description. Not that you'd know, the way these people whine. I heard on the radio this morning that the princess is so depressed about the photo, she had to go into hiding.” He chortled into his Starbuck's cup. “What's that old joke about how do you hide an elephant…?”
“Speed ahead, Mister. Hell's not half full,” Flo said.
After a thirty-two year career as a Boston schoolteacher, and another ten as the first black president of the Boston chapter of the Daughters of the American Revolution, Flo was never going to be intimidated by a white boy half her age, network or no network.
Cady smiled carefully. She needed to keep the peace between her two top aides.
“I think people shouldn't judge the Princess until they walk a mile in her Manolo Blahniks.”
She massaged her own throbbing foot.
“Anyway, don't I have some fund raiser at the Silver Cathedral today? The Reverend Elmo Greeley is expecting me at one o'clock, so I can't do lunch at Spago.”
Albert wrinkled his nose in a snotty-kid gesture that made him look even younger than his twenty-seven years.
“Not 'do' lunch at Spago, Reverend. Nobody 'does lunch' any more. What I said was 'get' lunch. Pick it up. Your box lunch. For the social at the Silver Cathedral. You don't have to eat it until after the auction. That may take a long time. Reverend Elmo has called out the troops. Each of you celebrities will auction your lunch on the air, and the highest bidders get to share the lunch with the celebrities.”
“I know what a box social is,” Cady said. “I'm old enough to remember when churches gave them for real. But I didn't know Wolfgang Puck made box lunches.”
She might be a Hollywood outsider, but at least she could show him that she was aware of Spago's celebrity owner-chef.
“He doesn't,” Albert said. “Our people talked his people into doing this as a donation, but only with the provision that you accept it on camera. That's why you have to be there at noon. The crew is already en route.”
“Then you can route them right back home again,” Flo said. “The Reverend has a twelve o'clock appointment right here.”
“Cancel it. And by the way, shoes are required at Spago,” Albert said. “What Bozo made a twelve o'clock appointment?”
> Cady kept massaging and prayed for strength.
She wasn't good at taking orders; especially from a pipsqueak like Albert. When she lost her Congressional seat in November, she thought she'd go back to her Boston parish. But then the call had come. A bigwig Roman Catholic calling a Baptist minister—a black woman Baptist. The Monsignor's Alliance for Christ was starting a family values television network. He wanted her on board.
Television talk without the trash. It had sounded so good
“I made the appointment,” Flo said. “He's been calling all week. I thought we ought to see him. He's been so insistent, and he sounds sincere. He has a lot of clout with the younger voters, you know.”
“Voters? What voters?” Albert wrinkled his nose again. “Reverend Stanton isn't running for office here. She's launching a new television show. And we're not going for a young demographic. Our biggest sponsors are fart pills and adult diapers. Doesn't that tell you something about our target audience? I don't care if you've booked her with Mickey Mouse; she's going to Spago.”
Flo said nothing as she tapped away on the computer keyboard. Albert picked up his mobile phone.
“At least I'm going to wear a more comfortable pair.”
Cady picked up the white pumps and headed for the bedroom. She rummaged through the closet for her Nikes, then collapsed onto the bed, fighting another surge of nausea.
A few minutes later, she heard an authoritative knocking at the outside door, followed by strained silence from Albert and Flo, and more knocking.
“Isn't anybody going to answer that?” Cady got up and peered out the bedroom doorway.
Flo didn't slow the rhythm of her typing.
Albert shot an angry look at the back of Flo's head as he put his phone in its belt holster and walked slowly—very slowly—toward the door.
Chapter 3—Cady: King of the Wild Frontier
A compact, muscular black man entered the room and all petty squabbling ceased in the hotel room.
Albert's head bowed forward. He seemed to shrink.
Even Flo's quick fingers stopped as she took an audible breath.
Cady dropped her Nikes and automatically smoothed her hair.
In spite of the man's outrageously casual dress; a too-big T-shirt and baggy Levis, the hint of expensive cologne, the Rolex watch, and the two hundred dollar haircut signaled some big money. He wasn't movie-star handsome, but he had velvety brown eyes and full, sexy lips that seemed about to break into a grin.
“Power Magee?” Albert's voice was hushed, reverent. “Mr. Magee, sir. We're… honored.”
The poor kid was nearly genuflecting.
“Reverend Stanton, Mr. T. Power Magee, the film director is here.”
“I can see that,” Cady said.
So this was the famous man—Tyrone Power Magee, exploiter of African-American womanhood and egotistical moviemaker extraordinaire, the man Vanity Fair called the “Black Fellini.” Big deal. A pornographer was a pornographer. What was he doing here? How dare he come to her office dressed like some down-and-out homeboy? How could Flo have done this to her?
But of course, Flo couldn't help it. She might be a conservative when it came to family and education, but she was also a veteran activist. To her, any black man was a brother, even one as sexist and anti-family as T. Power Magee.
Albert backed away and disappeared into the bedroom with his cell phone. The man really was no use at all.
Cady stepped into the center of the room.
“I'm sorry, Mr. Magee, but there's been some miscommunication with my office staff.” She gave him her most distant, professional smile. “I'm unable to meet with you at this time. I'm on my way to Spago.”
She moved toward the door, hoping Mr. Magee would at least have the manners to stand aside.
He didn't.
“I heard this new God Bless America Network was low-budget, Reverend. But it's hard to believe one of their biggest stars is forced to go around barefooted.”
Mr. Magee's coldly appraising gaze moved from her unshod feet up her Valentino-suited body until it rested steadily on her face. He had not moved an inch.
It was Cady who had to turn away.
“Flo, hand me my Nikes.” Cady's voice came out shriller than she meant it to be. “I'll put them on in the limousine.”
“There's no limo,” Albert called from the bedroom. “I sent him for the lunch.”
“Then call me a cab. Didn't you say I had to be at Spago at noon?” Cady's watch said 12:05. “And you'd better call and tell them I'll be late.” She leaned against the wall and jammed a foot into a sneaker.
“I have a limousine outside,” Power Magee said. “I'd be honored to escort you to Spago, Reverend Stanton.”
Absurdly, he sank to one knee and started to tie Cady's shoelaces.
“And maybe you'll let me treat you to a birthday lunch,” he said.
“Birthday? What birthday?” Albert looked angry. “She's got to be in Anaheim at one o'clock. Is today your birthday, Reverend? February twelfth? Why didn't you tell me? We can use this. I've got to tell the Cathedral people.” He reached for his phone holster.
Flo laid a firm hand on Albert's arm.
“It was yesterday. Leave it alone.”
Cady and Flo exchanged smiles. Flo knew Cady didn't see this unwanted milestone as an occasion to celebrate, although Flo had quietly presented her with a copy of Terry MacMillan's racy new book.
“I'm not going to leave it alone,” Power Magee said. “Birthdays used to be real important to this lady. I can't believe things have changed that much.” He concentrated on his elaborate lacing of Cady's shoes. “She once even broke the law so she could keep a birthday promise to a friend. Got herself in a hell of a lot of trouble.”
“You'd better watch your tongue, young man.” Flo looked up from her keyboard. “This is the Reverend Cady Stanton you're talking about.”
“Cady Stanton has a pristine record.” Albert looked as if he might cry. “The Monsignor's people assured me her background had been thoroughly checked.”
“Maybe.” Power Magee rose to his feet. “But a certain Miss Cadillac Deville Stanton once stole a Davy Crockett raccoon skin cap out of Filene's basement. She wanted to give it to Myrna Loy Magee's baby brother on his seventh birthday.” He stood up and fastened his gaze on Cady again. “You must have been what, ten years old? That's when you got arrested and they sent you away to the foster home, wasn't it, Caddy? I never did get to thank you properly.”
“Cady,” she said, carefully pronouncing her name “Kay-Dee”.
She tried to keep her anger under control. How dare he bring up the ghetto name she had spent so many years trying to erase from the record?
Power McGee's gaze transfixed her and for a moment she saw him as he had been—a sad, skinny six-year-old, crippled by asthma, teased the bigger kids, and addicted to his grandmother's television set.
All he'd wanted for his birthday was that stupid hat. Too bad she'd been so rotten at shoplifting. They'd caught her with the raccoon tail hanging out from under her coat.
“Da-a-vy, Da-a-vy Crockett,” he started to sing.
Cady smiled, in spite of herself. She couldn't look away.
“Da-a-vy, Da-a-vy Crockett,” she sang back, softly.
“King of the Wild Frontier, at your service, ma'am.” He made an elaborate, country-bumpkin bow.
This was absurd. Here was the man whose so-called art films—like Afro-Blue and Hey Mikey, She Likes It!—used real prostitutes instead of actresses to tell his gritty stories of ghetto life and drug addiction—the man whose movies were so shocking that even with today's standards, the motion picture board refused to give his films anything but an “X” rating. The man was her enemy; the enemy of all women on the planet, as far as she was concerned.
So why couldn't she do anything but stand there, grinning like a schoolgirl at Myrna Magee's baby brother, all grown up?
And he grinned back; a big, gee-whiz, happy kid smile.
“So how about that birthday lunch?” he said.
“No-no, thanks. There's this Spago thing, and I need to be at the Silver Cathedral by one. I'm late already. I'm sorry.”
“Then how about tea? In my limo? The drive would give us a chance to chat. To catch up.” His smile blazed.
To catch up. On nearly four decades? Poor Myrna had been dead nearly two years, a victim of drug addiction and AIDS. What could they possibly have to say to each other?
He opened the door, gesturing for her to precede him.
Cady didn't move. She could hear Albert's strained, shallow breathing behind her. She glanced at Flo, whose eyes sparkled above her glasses.
“He's single. You're single. What's the harm?” those relentless sparkles seemed to say.
Cady made a small step toward the door. Power Magee took her arm.
“Wait,” Albert said. “What about Spago? Do I cancel?”
“Yeah,” Power Magee laughed. “Cancel Spago. Tell Wolfgang to get Pucked.”
Chapter 4—Regina: Sharing
The therapist was wearing socks with hiking sandals again. Thick wool socks. Sort of brown. And a long greenish tunic over mud-colored leggings. Regina decided the look was something between Visigoth and Arthur Rackham elf.
But she was not in a position to make fashion judgments. Here she was with a plaster cast on one foot and the other encased in one of the Spoon's slippers; a large, orange, fuzzy thing with the head of Garfield the Cat grinning on the toe, the only footwear of the Spoon's that fit Regina's long, narrow, foot. There had been no time to negotiate the stairs to Regina's second-floor room before their required group therapy session.
The Spoon, whose actual name was Tina Davis—she must remember that—had sweetly offered to lend Regina a lovingly frayed T-shirt dress with a picture of the cast of Friends on the front, but Regina had declined. She'd wrung the excess water out of her dry-clean-only suit, and calculated she had an hour or two before it dried to a shrunken three-sizes-too-small disaster.
Six Pack of Sleuths: Comedy Mysteries Page 80