by Lois Greiman
“Listen, I didn’t do anything wrong,” I said, and covered my eyes with my hand.
“Chrissy.” The voice on the other end of the line was a mix between a jackhammer and a road-grader.
“Mom?” I snapped my eyes open and sat up straight. Harlequin trotted in, tags jingling, lips wet from slurping water from the toilet bowl. He was a big believer in hydrating. “How are you?”
“Why didn’t you tell me Elaine’s getting married?”
My throat felt as if it had been corked up tight. The previous night had been scary as hell: The sight of Jackson’s bleeding body tilted against the foyer wall, Lavonn’s oddly dilated eyes, the gun, the angst, the anger. But there are few things that can compete with my mother’s righteous rage. Harley plopped his head on my foot and swore undying devotion with his eyes.
“What?” I said. It was the best I could do at seven o’clock in the morning. Maybe with a couple more hours of sleep I could have come up with “Whatever do you mean,” in a dynamite antebellum lisp, but I wasn’t up to that sort of clever wordplay just then. And besides, it would probably have been nothing short of verbal suicide. My parents love Laney. Well, maybe not my father. As far as I know, Dad only loves two things. One of them is his easy chair, the other is produced in Milwaukee. Neither of those things would be available at Laney’s wedding. I hoped to say the same of my parents.
“Elaine’s getting married and you didn’t think I should know?” Mom asked.
“Know? No. I mean, yes. Didn’t I tell you?” Harley was drooling on the coverlet. “I was sure I told you.”
“Where’s the ceremony?”
“Where?”
“Yes. Where?”
Oh God, oh God, oh God, maybe I could convince Laney to perform her ungodly act of matrimonial stupidity in Las Vegas. Or Disneyland. Or Timbuktu. Anywhere that wouldn’t lead my sordid kindred to L.A. “I’m not sure.”
“What do you mean you’re not sure? You two haven’t had an argument or something, have you?”
Silence hung in the air like smog. For a moment I thought I saw a glimpse of an out and almost made a mad dash for it, but mothers can be sneaky and I thought I smelled a trap. “Why do you ask?” I asked.
Silence stretched on again, then, “Because I spoke to Pastor Butterfield.”
So I’d been right about the trap. It had been yawning right in front of my feet, but I’d managed to escape it. Still, I winced. “Laney’s dad?”
“He said you’re Elaine’s maid of honor.”
“Oh.” I nodded, sure she was watching me. Some people can see through a thousand miles of telephone wire. It’s called mother-vision.
“Is that true?” Her tone was slick, as if she didn’t care.
There it was. That sneakiness. I mean, of course it was true. Would a pastor lie about his own daughter’s wedding? And more important, could I pull off a lie involving a pastor’s daughter?
No. Even I wasn’t that good.
“Well …” I yawned. It was entirely fake. I hadn’t been this wide-awake since my brothers put red ants in my underwear drawer. “It’s just a little ceremony.” A couple hundred of her closest friends and most of the Hollywood community. “I didn’t think you’d be interested.”
“Not interested? Elaine is like a daughter to me!”
The daughter she had never had. The daughter every mother longed for. I had never wished more that I could hate the little bride-to-be. But Brainy Laney’s like spaghetti, long and slim and impossible to dislike.
“Give me her address. I’ll send her a gift …” She paused. It was a lengthy pause, and about twelve months pregnant. “… since she doesn’t care enough to invite me.”
That’s when the war began inside me. Because although I wanted with stark desperation for Mom to send a gift instead of delivering it in person, I couldn’t bear to allow anyone to believe that Laney was callous enough to neglect to send an invitation to her maid of honor’s mother.
“Chrissy?”
“Yes?”
“She didn’t invite us, right?”
And suddenly I couldn’t come up with a single lie. Me, a tuba-player, a woman, a psychologist. Nothing.
“Chrissy!”
“I—”
And then my cell rang. I couldn’t believe it. It was like a trumpet call from the heavens. Like Gabriel’s ethereal fanfare.
Sliding past Harley, I reached for the purse I had dropped on the floor. “Listen, Mom, I’d like to chat, but I have another call.”
“I don’t care if it’s Saint Peter, himself. I want to know—–”
“Oh, look. It’s Rivera.”
She was just inhaling for another blast, when she paused. “Gerald?”
I closed my eyes and covered them with my palm. There was some sort of proverb about a frying pan and a fire. Which was preferable?
“So you two are still dating?” she asked.
“I’ve really got to go. This could be important.”
“Important?” Her tone had sharpened to a needle point jabbing my eye. “Important how? Is it serious between you two?”
Yes, it was serious. As serious as a body tipped against the wall and bleeding onto the rosewood floor, but I had a feeling that wasn’t exactly what she meant, and I didn’t share the specifics. “I think it is,” I said, and for that one statement I knew I could burn in hell. Or worse yet, be cornered by an irate mother insisting that I had misled her into believing there might be wedding bells in her only daughter’s future.
Maybe it was that thought that made me stammer an apologetic good-bye. Maybe it was some long-dormant sense of masochism that made me snap open my cell phone.
“What the hell were you thinking?” Rivera snarled.
I closed my eyes and rubbed my gritty lids. “Whatever happened to early morning pleasantries such as ‘good day’ or ‘top of the—’”
“You knew he had shot someone before you went skipping over to Glendale, didn’t you?”
“Actually, I drove. I’ve never been good at skipping. Something about the rhythm of hopping and—”
“Why the fuck would you get involved with him?”
“Who? Micky?” I asked.
For a moment there was a silence. “Was there another shooter?”
“Well, there was Lavonn,” I said, and froze. To this day, I still don’t know why I would say such a thing. In the past there has been some evidence to suggest that I’m not completely brain-dead. Not a lot, but—
“She shot at you?”
“Not at me exactly.”
“Who exactly did she shoot at?” His voice had taken on that patient-father tone I had come to detest.
Laney appeared in my doorway wearing an oversized T-shirt and baggy sweatpants. Her hair was mussed, her face bare of makeup. She was beauty personified. It almost made me wish I had kept the gun, just in case I caught a glimpse of my own face before applying my usual half a gallon of foundation. But cops are funny about letting could-be psychopaths walk away bearing arms.
“Rivera?” She mouthed the name.
I nodded.
“How’s it going?” Mouthed again.
“Excellent.” My answer was silent, accompanied by a confident nod.
She grinned at my lie. “I’ll wait to hear the story,” she said, and headed for the bathroom.
It was impossible for me to guess how she knew there was a story. Laney hadn’t returned home yet when I’d left for Glendale. I had privately hoped she was still honing wedding plans at midnight or maybe out knocking over 7-Elevens … anything besides sharing a bed with Solberg. But it’s impossible to say for sure. Brainy Laney’s spooky in a lot of ways.
“McMullen.” Rivera’s patience sounded a little strained now, which, oddly enough, made me feel better.
“Yeah?”
“Who did she shoot at?”
“I’m not sure she had decided exactly.”
He mumbled something then. It might have been a swearword. Hell, it might hav
e been several.
I waited, staring at my legs. They were pasty white and kind of jiggly. I gave the right one a poke.
“… fallen for someone with a couple of brain cells?”
My attention snapped up. “What?”
“I suppose you didn’t even consider letting me know where you were going.”
“Actually I tried …” I began, then remembered his words. “What were you saying? Something about falling?”
“What did you try?” he asked. Impatience had slipped into pissed. It wasn’t a long slide.
“I called you,” I said, and scowled, remembering the night before. The panic I had felt at the sound of the voice on the phone. “He’s dead,” Micky had said and the first person that had popped into my mind had been Rivera. What did that mean? “Your line was busy.”
“When?”
“About two minutes after I turned you down.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
I stood up. “Why are you so pissy? Did the next woman reject you, too?”
For a moment there was silence, then, “Oh, for God’s sake, you don’t seriously think I was propositioning someone, do you?”
“You propositioned me.” I could feel anger and doubt accumulate like tartar inside me.
“I’d just put in a ten-hour day. You seriously think I was trying to get you in the sack?”
“Me and probably a half-dozen others.”
He snorted. “Jesus, McMullen, if I put my mind to it you’d be flat on your back before you could even remember the word ‘no.’”
I curled up a lip. “I prefer being on top.”
“I’ll keep that in …” He stopped himself, drew a deep breath. I swear I could hear him grind his teeth. “Are you okay or what?”
I narrowed my eyes. Mothers weren’t the only ones who could be sneaky. Men were right up there with the champs. “Who were you talking to, Rivera?”
“What?”
“Last night, after we hung up. Who’d you call?”
“Are you seriously asking this?”
“Are you seriously evading the subject?”
There was a pause. I opened my mouth to blast him, but he spoke first. “Mamá.”
I closed my mouth, scowled. Harlequin had trotted after Laney. She had that effect on males. “You were talking to your mother?”
“Sí.”
“At that hour?”
His laugh was more of a heavy exhalation. “I know that wildcats like you have to get to bed before nine, but Latina women are known to stay up well past dusk.”
My hackles rose. There had been more than a few Latina women in his past. Hell, there had probably been Chihuahuas in his past.
“What did she say?”
“Mamá?”
“Yeah.”
“She said you’re a nut job.”
“It wasn’t her, was it?” I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Really, I don’t. I’m not usually the jealous type. The nutty type, yes. The horny type, absolutely. The weird, “I want to sleep with you but I won’t” type. But not the jealous type.
He cursed again. He was getting more inventive. Which, in my own warped brain, made me think he probably was hiding something. Still, maybe it’s not my fault that I’m warped. Maybe it’s the fact that I’ve dated approximately seventy-eight guys, most of whom were certified whackos.
“Listen, Rivera. It’s not as if we swore to be exclusive or—”
“She said you told her all you wanted was a man who wouldn’t wear your underwear.”
I closed my mouth, closed my eyes, momentarily wished I had been born mute. Because, actually, I had told Rosita Rivera just that. In fact, I had said a whole lot of embarrassing things. A long time had passed since then, but some evenings are more memorable than others.
I rubbed my eyes but didn’t entirely give up on my line of questioning. Better to sound jealous than nuts. “She told you that last night?”
“You think I wouldn’t have mentioned it sooner if I had heard it before?”
Good point. Valid point. “Listen, I’m sorry. I’m just—”
“An idiot?”
I nodded a little. It was entirely possible, but I wasn’t about to admit as much out loud. He already knew I had been discussing underwear with his mother. How much ammo did the man need?
“Do you want to be dead? Is that it?” he asked.
“A client called,” I said. “He was—”
“Michael Goldenstone.”
“Micky. Yes. He asked me to meet him in Glendale.”
“Why?”
“I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to divulge that sort of information about my client.”
“Are you fucking serious?”
Kind of. “Suffice it to say, the situation was defused and—”
“By tackling a woman with a gun!”
Oh. So he had heard that. Kind of heroic, really. He should be proud. He didn’t sound proud. He sounded pissed enough to pee tacks.
“No one got hurt.”
“Besides the guy in the ER.”
“Which happened before I arrived,” I reminded him. It was something of a feather in my hat, I thought. Generally, when people get shot, I’m Johnny-on-the-spot. Things were looking up.
“So you thought it a grand idea to trot on over so you could get in on the action.”
I refrained from telling him that I didn’t really trot, either. Maturity, thy name is Christina. “How is Jackson doing?”
“He’ll live.”
“That’s good.”
“Is it?” His voice was kind of growly.
“What?”
“He’s a rich fucking drug dealer who holds a grudge. There’s no reason to believe he won’t blame you.”
“He’s rich?”
“Funny, I thought you’d focus on the part about blaming you.”
“I was getting around to that.”
I heard him sigh. It sounded like the conversation was kind of making him old. I decided to change the subject before he needed an oxygen tank.
“How about Micky?” I asked. “How’s he?”
“I heard he’s a pain in the ass.”
“Sometimes he becomes fractious when he’s feeling guilty about his past,” I said.
“Are you being televised or is there another reason you’re talking like a damned robot?”
I made a face. “Sometimes he gets nasty when he’s scared.”
“Why should he be scared? He said the gun was the other guy’s. He said he acted in self-defense.”
“And I suppose the legal system is just going to take his word for it.”
“What do you know about this, McMullen?”
“I have no reason to believe he had a gun or would have chosen to use it on Jackson even if he did.”
“So you believe his story.”
“Doesn’t it seem unlikely that he would have intentionally shot him, then called the paramedics, if he meant to kill him?”
“I believe you were the one who mentioned guilt. Maybe he makes a habit of doing shit, then feeling bad about it later.”
I held my breath. Moms were sneaky. Men could be even sneakier. But men who were cops … they were the true experts. “What do you mean?”
“He’s been accused of rape. Did you know that?”
I hoped to hell he didn’t know about Jamel’s mother. If Kaneasha’s family knew the truth about the circumstances, Micky wouldn’t have a chance of obtaining custody. “A woman named Sheila Branigan, I believe.”
“But you hopped on over to Glendale to save him anyway.”
“What is it with you and weird verbs today?”
“Did you ever consider your own life might be in danger?”
“Did you know that Sheila Branigan also accused three other black men of rape? All of whom had solid alibis?”
“Maybe you’re not aware that most women don’t cry rape just for the fun of it.”
“I’m a licensed psychologist,
Rivera. I’m well aware of the lasting effects of rape, but Sheila’s accusations were entirely fabricated.”
“You got something for this Micky guy?”
I raised my brows at the tangy sound of jealousy in his voice. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a masochist or anything, but jealousy is not necessarily frowned upon in Chrissyland. “He’s a client, Rivera. We have a professional relationship. You’ve heard of that, haven’t you? It’s a situation where two people treat each other with mutual—”
“Lavonn says he raped her sister.”
The air escaped my lungs like helium from an overfilled balloon. “What?”
“She’s not denying that the kid’s his, but she says he’s a product of rape.”
I kept my voice calm. “Does she have any proof?”
“The boy’s eight years old. Unlikely to be proof after this much time.”
I felt myself relax a little.
“Unless his shrink would step forward with evidence.”
“Micky’s made some mistakes,” I admitted. “But he has nothing but good intentions where his son is concerned.”
“Lompoc is full of men with good intentions.”
“I guess it’s a good thing he found me, then. To help him nurture those intentions.”
“Is that your job, McMullen? To save the fallen angels of the world?” Rivera had made his share of mistakes. For better or worse, his father, an ex-senator with more charm than morals, had been able to sweep most of them under the rug.
“Some are too far gone,” I said.
“Good to know you’re aware of that.”
“Micky’s not one of them.”
“Did he rape Lavonn’s sister?”
“Did you see Lavonn’s eyes?” I asked.
“You’re avoiding the issue.”
“That’s my job. Did you see her?”
“I heard reports.”
“Did they say she was stoned?”
“Tox hasn’t gotten back to us yet.”
It was my turn to snort. “I’m willing to bet Jackson was just as far gone.”