by Lois Greiman
“That give your boy the right to shoot him?”
“My client has the right to defend himself … and his son … even in L.A.”
“Spoken like a gun-toting Midwesterner.”
“You don’t have to be an ass, Rivera, just because you’re jealous.”
There was a momentary pause. Maybe it was even thoughtful. “Is that what I am?”
“Sounds like it.”
“And what would you say if I told you I was really talking to Rachel last night after I hung up with you?”
Anger zipped through me. Immediately hot. “Is that skank circus back in town?”
There was a moment of silence, then he chuckled, soft and low, sending the sound skimming over my nerve endings like fingers on sensitized skin.
“Mamá says you should come over for margaritas,” he said, and hung up.
5
In my family, being an overachiever means drinking your weight in the alcoholic beverage of your choice.
—Chrissy McMullen, whose
brothers had actually
achieved that feat on more
than one occasion
“Hey, girl.” Shirley glanced up as I walked into the reception area of L.A. Counseling, then did a double take and popped to her feet. She was freaky graceful for a woman her size. Shirley Templeton is a big woman. Big hands, big shoulders, big belly. Huge heart. “I didn’t think there was no trains in your part of town.”
“I wasn’t hit by a train,” I said, carefully removing my sunglasses as I lowered myself into a chair near her desk. It had been hotter than jambalaya on Interstate 2 that morning and the Saturn’s air-conditioning hadn’t quite been up to the task of keeping my brain from shriveling like overcooked bacon. I closed my eyes and rested my head against the wall behind me.
“Well, what in God’s good name happened to you, then?”
“Oh …” I may have limped a little as I made my way toward my office. Maybe I had even added a pathetic little mew of pain as I’d entered the building. Let it never be said that Christina McMullen is above soliciting sympathy. Shirley’s usually comes in the form of sugar. Need I say more? “There was a little altercation.” Lavonn might have been a scrawny little crackhead, but she could pack a wallop when cornered.
“Who was she?”
I opened my eyes and turned to look at my receptionist. There are times when she can be almost as spooky as Laney. Maybe that’s why she had slipped so seamlessly into Elaine’s position behind the front desk.
“What makes you think it was a woman?”
“’Cuz I ain’t heard ’bout no fatalities in your part of town and if there was a man involved, I got a feeling there woulda been a funeral.”
“Actually, there was a man involved. Two, in fact.” I frowned, remembering Jackson.
“They gonna be all right?”
“Who?”
“Whoever you’re worried about.”
I considered that for a moment. “Have you ever thought about becoming one of those psychic readers?”
She shook her head. “They make a lot of money?”
“Has to be more than what I pay you.”
She thought about that for a second, then shrugged. “Money ain’t all it’s cracked up to be. My kids would just take it anyhow,” she said, and turned back toward her desk. “You need any ice for those ribs?”
“No. I’ll be fine.” I’m extremely comfortable in the role of martyr. More than once I had considered investing in a nice camel-hair tunic, but at that precise moment I was wearing a pair of black capris with a short-sleeved turquoise blouse. It may not be much in the way of fever-inducing itching, but the top was fairly new and I didn’t want to get it wet from melting ice.
“How about a long john?” Shirley asked, and opening a drawer, drew out a little white paper bag.
The glorious smell of refined sugar permeated the air. Thompson’s Bakery, I thought, then sniffed again, olfactory nerves twittering. No. Donuts Go Round, I decided judiciously. Two rolls. Fresh-baked that morning. Maple frosting. No filling. “I shouldn’t,” I said.
“You been in a scuffle,” she argued, and came back around the desk, delectable bag held in her right hand like a balm from the gods. “You need healin’ food.”
“Long johns have been proven to have medicinal benefits.”
“Nothing better.”
“And you are wiser than I,” I said.
“It’s God’s truth.” Handing over the bag, she lumbered back to her post. “Got a new client coming in at nine,” she said, but I was still staring at the bag and feeling a little mushy.
“Shirley …”
“I love you, too,” she said, and not bothering to look up, waved me off. “Now go eat that before the new gal shows up and finds you got frosting in your hair.”
Rising a little unsteadily, I turned away, knowing true wisdom when I heard it. I do tend to frost my hair when donuts become involved. Sometimes, in fact, my shoes get a little glaze on them.
It didn’t occur to me till later that I was unwilling to dampen my turquoise blouse with melting ice but willing to risk a frosting encounter.
I had just finished up the second john when my first client arrived. She was tall and slim and as serious as a Hemingway novel.
I stood up and turned toward the door as she entered. According to her chart, she was seventeen years old, but she looked like a leggy fourteen who was trying hard for forty.
“Emily Christianson?” I asked.
“Yes.” Her handshake was firm and quick, her complexion pale. There were purple crescents under her eyes. I smiled. She didn’t.
“I’m Christina McMullen. Have a seat.” I motioned her toward the couch. She went, turned, and sat slowly, sitting very erect on the ivory cushions. She was wearing a pale pink button-up blouse tucked into black slacks that were cuffed at the bottom and neatly pressed. Her hair was dark, straight, and pulled into a high ponytail. Her lips were pursed in a somber expression that looked as if it had settled in for the long haul. “So, why are you here?”
She blinked at me. “I filled out the chart.”
I didn’t glance at it. It only stated the most rudimentary information … just a little less than nothing. “So you came at your parents’ request?”
“They thought I seemed stressed.”
Ah, perception, thy name is parent. “Can you tell me why you’re stressed?”
She shrugged. Economical and stiff, as if she were afraid the motion would take too much precious time. “Isn’t everyone?”
Most were, but I had a feeling she brought it to collegiate levels. “You’re a junior in high school?”
“A senior.” Her lips pursed even more. “Accelerated classes.”
“Ahhh.” I hoped to sound smart, because I had a feeling I was in the presence of an intellect that would make my own relatively impressive brain blush with embarrassment.
“I’m hoping to be accepted into Harvard for my undergraduate courses.”
“How come?”
She scowled at me, just the slightest lowering of her brows. “What?”
“Why do you want to attend Harvard?”
“Education is the keystone to success.” She said the words very succinctly. I had once seen I, Robot with Will Smith. Mostly in the hopes of seeing Smith sans shirt. Eureka! Not only had he been shirtless, there was a shower scene. I remember it vividly. I didn’t recall the robots as well, but I believe they had spoken in a tone similar to Emily Christianson’s.
“And how do you define success?” I asked.
She seemed a little confused. “The generally accepted definition, I suppose. A good career. A nice home. A decent financial portfolio.”
She had a scant two inches of skin showing between her clavicle and the top of her blouse. Otherwise she was buttoned up tighter than Sister Margaret Mary on holiday. Even the cuffs at the ends of her long sleeves were secured over her narrow-boned wrists.
“What career are you
considering?” I asked.
“I’ll become a vascular surgeon.” No equivocation. No “I hope” or “I might.”
“So you’re interested in medicine.”
Her hesitation was almost imperceptible. “It’s quite fascinating.”
“So are crickets.”
“What?”
I gave her a smile. This trying-to-act-intelligent stuff was already wearing on my nerves. “I’ve always thought crickets were fascinating.”
She blinked. Her hands, white-knuckled with close-cropped fingernails, were clasped atop her lap. “You’re interested in entomology?”
I didn’t try to explain my sense of humor. She wouldn’t be the first to mistake it for lunacy. “How long have you wanted to become a surgeon?”
She shook her head, an almost negligible toggle of her head. “For as long as I can remember.”
I wondered how long her parents had wanted her to become a surgeon, but I wasn’t quite ready to pose that question. “So your grades are good?”
“For the most part. I’m somewhat concerned about Physics.”
Somewhat concerned. God save the children. “Ninety-two percentile?” I guessed.
Her mouth tightened a little more. “If I receive less than a seventy-nine percent I’m in danger of an A minus.”
I nodded. There were no perfectionists in my family. In fact, there was some question regarding the actual species of a couple of my brothers, but I had seen enough self-inflicted perfectionism to recognize it when it sat on my couch and clasped its hands. “Is that why you cut yourself?”
It was all guesswork. I knew almost nothing about her, but the signs were there if anyone wanted to see them.
I wouldn’t have thought she could get any paler. Wrong again. She shifted her arms the slightest degree, but refrained from tugging down her sleeves. The epitome of self-control.
“They were only superficial incisions,” she said. “And just once.”
I nodded and settled in.
“Ms. Christina?”
I jumped, spun around, and jammed my spine up against the door of my humble domicile. Maybe that seems like dramatic behavior, but I’d had one hell of a day at the office, and sometimes I prefer to know ahead of time when people are planning to kill me on my front stoop.
In this case, however, my visitor was just my next-door neighbor, Ramla Al-Sadr. Her attire had changed somewhat in the past few years. She no longer wore the traditional robes and full-face veil. Now she favored pretty head scarves, and colorful gowns. Although, she had informed me years ago that virtually all Muslim women appreciated a nice G-string under their burka. Ramla had taught me a fair amount about Islam, but her very best attribute, in my own humble opinion, was the high unlikelihood that she would ever attempt to kill me. Still, it took some time for my heart to decide to remain in my chest.
“Yes. Hi. Ramla. Hi.” I considered trying to shuffle the bag of lo mein and fried rice into my purse hand so as to hug her, but it was too bulky. “How are you?”
She stared at me, dark eyes somber. “I am not so very well.”
“Oh?” Due to Shirley’s early-morning long john offering, I had opted to skip lunch. Hence, the smell of lo meiny goodness was all but overwhelming. “What’s wrong?”
“It is my sister.”
I frowned, trying to focus on her words instead of noodles in white sauce. “I thought you said she was doing better. That she and her husband had made amends.”
“That is what she told me.”
I sighed and lowered the bag. Lo mein goodness would have to wait. “What happened?”
“I have no word from her in two weeks of time.”
Damnit. I glanced toward her yard. It was, as always, groomed to gleaming perfection. Considering the wasteland of my own property, it was a small miracle she would even speak to me. “How often do you usually hear from her?”
“Once each week, without the exception.”
“Maybe she’s having phone difficulties.”
“Then she would write the letter.”
I was scrambling. “Maybe—” I began, but she shook her head.
“There is trouble.”
There was something about the way she said the words that made the hair prickle on the back of my neck. “What makes you so sure?”
“Aalia and I, we are more than the sisters.”
“Still—”
“She is my Elaine.”
I scowled.
“Elaine, your friend, if she were troubled, would you not know?”
In fact, we had proven that to be the case on more than one occasion. There was a weird connection between us. A closeness I sometimes thought I couldn’t live without. My soul mate of the wrong gender. “Yes,” I said, and quite miraculously, forgot about the lo mein.
6
Hard work and talent are all well and good, but don’t underestimate the power of trickery and deceit.
—Gregor Gooding, Elaine
Butterfield’s most
motivated agent
Minutes later when I stepped inside, my vestibule was dark. Which probably meant that Laney was home. She didn’t believe in wasting electricity. Which often meant that she also didn’t believe in light. Elaine is a tree-hugger down to the sap-sucking little roots of her being.
I turned to close the door, still carefully juggling the lo mein.
“Babekins!” someone chirped.
I screamed as I spun around. And sure enough, there was Solberg. Short, balding, and barely human, he had burrowed into my home like an unwanted boll weevil.
“What are you doing here?” I was struggling to breathe normally. He was lucky my instincts were such that protecting dinner was more important than fighting intruders.
“I came to adore my stunning bride-to-be,” he said.
“Why?” I asked, and checked the side of the bag, making sure no yummy juices had spilled.
“Why?” He grinned at me. Or maybe he had colitis. I believe the results can be similar. “Because she’s the air that I breathe. The wind beneath my wings. The light of my—”
“Try not to creep me out,” I said, and pressing past him, made my way into the kitchen.
Laney was there, setting the table. It looked as if she was just recovering from laughing at my expense. “Hard day?” she asked, far too smart to admit she habitually finds my grouchiness amusing.
“I actually thought it couldn’t get any worse,” I said, and she chuckled. Somehow my aversion to her betrothed completely failed to upset her.
“Jeen just stopped by to discuss the floral arrangements.”
“Buying the tropics, are you?”
“It is getting a little out of hand,” she admitted.
“Uh-huh. So Solberg’s leaving soon?” I tried not to sound jubilant at the idea, but I’m not much of an actress. There had been a time I could have said the same of Laney. But no more. She was now the darling of Hollywood and would start filming her first motion picture soon. But that wasn’t entirely due to her thespian skills. She was built like a fairy-dusted goddess and smart as a firecracker. Not to mention she was the most adorable person on the planet.
“Sorry I can’t stay for dinner,” Solberg said, walking into the kitchen. “But I’ve got stuff to do.”
Despite my better judgment, I glanced up at his mysterious tone. “What stuff?”
His lips jerked as his colitis acted up. “Stuff I can’t talk about when Angel’s here.”
Which meant I would never know, because I wouldn’t be caught dead alone with him. I’d made that mistake before. In fact, I had dated him once. But that was before he’d caught his first glimpse of Brainy Laney. As far as I know his jaw hasn’t been located since.
“He’s buying my wedding gift,” Laney said.
“I didn’t know there were still continents for sale,” I said. Solberg was just a little bit richer than God, which, oddly enough, had absolutely nothing to do with why Laney was marrying him. It was anybody’s g
uess what her mind-boggling reasons might be. But I suspect they might have had something to do with eye of newt and possible necromancy. Voodoo is still alive and well in the greater Los Angeles area.
“I’m not buying your gift,” Solberg said.
Laney and I looked at each other. She shrugged. He grinned.
“I gotta go,” he said.
I turned away as he kissed Laney’s cheek. Why spoil my appetite now?
The door closed behind him.
“You really don’t know what he’s getting you?” I asked.
“Not a clue,” she said, and reached up to fetch the glasses from the top shelf. She was wearing green canvas shorts she had gotten from Goodwill in junior high. There was not a molecule of cellulite on her thighs. The sight made me want to eat until I was catatonic.
I opened the carton of lo mein. It was as pretty as a picture. “What did he mean by he’s not buying it?”
“Maybe he’s making me something.”
I fished out a noodle and tasted it. Asian ambrosia. “Or renting you a slave.”
“Can you do that?”
I shrugged one shoulder. The other was on sabbatical. “I’d rent myself out for the right price.”
“I’m going to have to think about that. Tell me about last night,” she said, and sat down at the table.
I did the same, then scowled as I dished up the lo mein and passed it to her.
She only took some lo.
“A client called,” I said, beginning slow.
“Here?”
I nodded and tasted the sauce. It made chocolate pale by comparison. I swear to you, I wasn’t drunk.
“How’d he get this number? You didn’t give him your home phone, did you?” she asked, and taste-tested an onion as I slurped down a skein of noodles.
“I’m not brain-dead.”
“I was wondering but I thought it would be rude to ask,” she said. “What did he want?”
I gave her a look, but the meal was singing its siren song, pulling my attention away. “He wanted me to take his son.”
She raised one brow. “Take his son or have his son?”
“Take him. Which seemed like enough of a commitment.”
“He must be pretty good-looking if you’d even consider the possibility of procreating.”