Bruja Brouhaha

by Rochelle Staab

  The letter was signed by the lease company and dated two days ago.

  I was getting evicted in six weeks.

  Chapter Six

  I leaned back into the sofa cushions with the phone to my ear. Everything in my living room was the same—the calming milk white walls and furniture, the brick fireplace I burned in autumn and winter, the towering orchid in the center of the pine coffee table, and Erzulie curled at my side. But I felt different, a stranger.

  Mom stopped chattering. “Liz? Did you hear me? Elizabeth, what is wrong?”

  “I’m losing the town house, Mom. I have to move. The lease company sent me a letter. The owners are moving back in at the end of May.” Saying the words out loud made the reality worse. This wasn’t my home anymore.

  “I told you not to lease that place. If you’d just tried to work things out with Jarret, you could still be living in that nice big house in Royal Oaks right now.”

  “We did work things out. We got divorced.” I couldn’t stop myself from snapping at her. Mom ignored the opposing directions Jarret and I took toward the end of our marriage: I focused on my career; he dallied with flings and booze.

  “You’re upset, dear. I meant you could have kept the house but you insisted on leaving,” Mom said.

  “I hated that house. I like where I am now.”

  “So buy your own house. You have the money.”

  For once, Mom made sense. Fifteen years of marriage to a major league baseball pitcher left me with a generous divorce settlement. My leased town house was supposed to be a temporary stopover until I decided where I wanted to live. Temporary turned into almost four years in Studio City, a charming community of upscale professionals, artisans, and studio workers centralized to Hollywood and the San Fernando Valley. I liked the convenience and the people. I had even considered making an offer to buy my town house.

  “I’ll call Dilly Silva tonight and tell her to pull some listings,” Mom said, referring to her fellow Cherry Twist, a Realtor. “She’ll find you a nice place to buy.”

  “Dilly sells real estate in Encino. No offense, Mom, but I don’t want to live in Encino.”

  “She has contacts all over the city. She rented the Mayfair Hotel ballroom downtown at half the rate for the fund-raiser. Tell Dilly where you want to live and she’ll find you a deal. I’ll help her search.”

  Mom house shopping for me? Double shudders. “Please wait. I don’t know what I want to do yet.”

  “No time to wait, dear. This is a big deal. We’ll start—” Mom gasped. “It just dawned on me. You were hexed. Were you standing in Lucia’s way today?”

  Logic only lasted so long in Vivian Gordon’s world.

  * * *

  At twelve thirty on Thursday I said good-bye to my last client, freshened my red lipstick, and drove from my courtyard office on Ventura Boulevard to meet Nick at my town house. I found him parked in front, fresh from his last class at NoHo Community College and looking professorial in a navy sport coat and Ivy League blue button-down shirt.

  His smile made me smile. I hopped into his SUV. “Were your students smart enough for you this morning, Professor?”

  “Never. But they try. Were your clients crazy enough for you?”

  I smoothed the skirt of my beige linen dress and buckled my seat belt. “Not crazy. A little neurotic, maybe. Distressed. But nothing fatal.”

  Nick drove down the hill toward Ventura Boulevard and CBS Studio Center. My phone rang.

  “The hex struck again,” Mom said. “Carmen is in the hospital.”

  “What? What happened? Is she all right?” I put my smartphone on speaker.

  “She woke up in the middle of the night with horrible stomach pain and drove herself to the hospital,” Mom said. “Her doctor did emergency gallbladder surgery on her at ten this morning. I’m at Good Samaritan now, waiting for her to come out of the recovery room.”

  “Is Victor with you? He must be wild with worry.”

  “He doesn’t know yet. Carmen didn’t want to upset him.”

  “You have to call and tell him, Viv,” Nick said.

  “Carmen asked me to wait until she got back to her room, so she could tell him herself.”

  “But Carmen told Victor not to go to work today. What about her clinic patients? We’re on our way there now. What if he decided to go in?” I said.

  “I’m sure she contacted someone at the clinic before she went into surgery. You know Carmen—Park Clinic comes first. Don’t say anything when you get there. And don’t call Victor. Let Carmen do this her way. Promise, dear?”

  I wasn’t happy about it but I promised. “When Carmen wakes up, tell her Nick and I are thinking about her.” I hung up the phone and turned to Nick. “What else could happen?”

  “I wouldn’t ask, Liz. When I do, fate makes a point of showing me.” He squeezed my hand. “At least we’re okay.”

  “You are. Me? Not so much. Yesterday I received a letter telling me I have to move in six weeks. The owners want my town house back.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “I don’t know.”

  He turned left onto Vineland Avenue, passed the Beverly Garland hotel, and made another left onto the 101 Freeway toward downtown. We sped through North Hollywood and past the Hollywood Bowl in silence.

  As we neared the Sunset Boulevard overpass, Nick said, “Move in with me.”

  My jaw dropped. My heart did a happy flip then caution smacked it midair. Was he serious? I was tempted. Nick made me happy. He made me laugh. He was easy to be with. The sex was great. And he was so good to curl up with in bed. But I relished my freedom, too. I came and went as I pleased, didn’t answer to anyone, had control of my remote and my refrigerator. Could roam around makeup-free in sweats if I felt like it. Leave the TV on all night if I wanted to. Eat all the chocolate in the house by myself.

  I opened the car window a crack. Too noisy. Closed it again and said, “No. I mean, no thank you.”

  His face slackened. “No?”

  “Living together is a big commitment. It’s too soon.”

  “Move in until you find a place. Stay as long as you like. I want to make your life easy and I’d love to have you there. Take some time, and think about it.”

  “I will.” I couldn’t argue with sweet and irresistible, but Nick had to know that if I moved in with him temporarily, leaving would be difficult. “I have six weeks to worry. Between Paco’s murder, Lucia’s state of mind, Carmen’s surgery, and the fund-raiser, I don’t want to think about moving anywhere right now. I’m concerned for Lucia. She’s all alone.”

  “She’s not alone. Cruz is there. Teresa is down the hall. Victor will make certain Lucia is safe in her building,” he said. “And she has us.”

  “Yes. She does have us. Nick, didn’t Paco tell us they would never sell the building?”

  “Right. Victor confirmed at the wake that Paco and Lucia were committed to staying in the neighborhood.” Nick cracked a curious smile. “Why do you ask? Are you thinking about buying it?”

  “No, I wouldn’t displace Lucia. I asked because there were two real estate agents at the wake. I overheard one tell his wife he was warming up Paco to sell before he died.”

  “I wouldn’t believe him. Paco mentioned a few brokers tried, and he turned them down cold. The building has been in Paco’s family since the nineteen thirties.”

  Nick’s car phone rang as he eased into the right lane toward the Alvarado Street exit. He pressed a button on his steering wheel to answer. My brother’s voice boomed through the speaker.

  “Hey, it’s me. Busy?” Dave said.

  “On our way downtown,” Nick said. “Any word on José Saldivar’s background yet?”

  “Some. Saldivar was a twenty-year-old Boyle Heights gang member who spent some time in juvie for B&E. The coroner’s report listed a knife and five hundred in cash in his pocket—a lot of money for a kid to carry on the streets. He might have been dealing.”

  Nick frowned.
“What the hell would a Boyle Heights drug dealer be doing in Westlake with the wife of a rival gang member?”

  “Find the answer to that, and we’d have motive.”

  “Any other witnesses on the car or the shooter?”

  “No one on the street will talk. Typical. Forensics confirmed the bullets came from a shotgun, probably at the bottom of MacArthur Park Lake by now. That’s all I know,” Dave said.

  “It’s more information than we got from Bailey. I wish you were involved in the investigation.”

  “Sorry. I know Rojas was a friend, but unless the shooting blows up into a high-profile murder investigation and RHD gets involved, I can’t interfere. It’s Bailey’s case. If he asks for my help, I’ll do whatever I can.”

  “Thanks, pal,” Nick said. “I hoped I could give the widow some kind of news. She’s in pretty bad shape.”

  “Yeah, I heard she snapped and did a hex at the wake. Scared the hell out of everyone. But that’s not why I called. Did you hear the news? Lizzie was kicked out of her town house. Lock your doors. She needs a place to live.”

  Oh great. Mom was already working the phone. I rolled my eyes. “I’m right here, Dave. Didn’t they teach you about speakerphones in detective school?”

  “Geez, Nick. Nice going,” Dave said. “You could have warned me.”

  “I told you we were on our way downtown. I don’t have any secrets from Liz.” Nick winked at me.

  “I do,” Dave said.

  “Like what?” I said. “Please, share. I can’t be the only news on the Gordon family hotline today. Do you have a date for the fund-raiser yet?”

  “None of your business.”

  I grinned. “So that’s a no.”

  “Whatever,” Dave said. “Where are you exactly? Out buying monogrammed towels?”

  “Yeah—F.U.,” Nick said. “We’re heading south on Alvarado toward Park Clinic on 7th.”

  “Iffy neighborhood. Don’t park your new car on the street.”

  “Great part of town. The art deco architecture and old buildings are magnificent,” Nick said.

  “With drug dealers, addicts, pimps, gangs, and prostitutes in the doorways.”

  “Old friends, Dave?” I said.

  “Some of them.”

  Chapter Seven

  Getting out of Nick’s red SUV without flashing the crowded Park Clinic lot was a challenge. No problem when I wore slacks or jeans. Big problem in my short sundress and heels. Nick lent me a hand before the guys loitering near the sidewalk caught a show.

  We strolled between the rows of cars in the L-shaped mini-mall. A Chinese-Mexican-American deli, a convenience store, and a cell phone outlet occupied the south end, off the street. The green opaque windows of the clinic spanned the entire west end.

  Nick held open the front door with the “PARK CLINIC” logo stenciled in white. I walked inside to the scent of pine and rubbing alcohol. Ivory walls trimmed in sage green displayed declarations from associations lauding the dedication of Carmen and/or Victor, Tony Torrico, and the staff of Park Clinic. Spotless gray and white linoleum flooring covered the reception area and the hall leading to the offices and exam rooms in back.

  Miguel the security guard greeted me by name with a polite smile. Nick dropped into a plastic chair by the window, a polite distance from a young Latina mother nursing her newborn. I stopped at the reception desk laden with photos of teenagers in graduation gowns, each with the same round face and broad nose of the full-figured woman in violet, smiling up at me over her nameplate: Tonia Letitia Jackson, Receptionist.

  “Hi, Jackson,” I said. “I have an appointment for my staff physical and a TB shot.”

  The corners of her mauve lips drooped as she tapped her neon yellow nails on her keyboard, clicked the computer mouse, and squinted at the screen. “Uh-uh. Huh. Uh-huh.” She looked up at me. “Dr. Morales and Dr. Perez aren’t here. Does it have to be today, hon?”

  “I promised Dr. Perez I would. What about Dr. Torrico? You know how Carmen is about rules.”

  “Don’t I.” Jackson clicked her mouse and scanned her computer screen. “Sit tight. I’ll try to squeeze you in to see Dr. Torrico between patients.”

  She dialed her phone. “Liz Cooper is here for her physical and TB shot. Can you fit her in?” After a long string of “uh-huhs,” she hung up and handed me a clipboard. “Fill this out and bring it back to me.”

  I crossed the waiting room and dropped into the chair beside Nick. “Victor isn’t here. I wonder if he heard from Carmen and went to the hospital.”

  “Or he doesn’t know about Carmen and he’s still with Lucia or home asleep. He was up for four nights in a row with her. I hope she’s better today,” Nick said.

  “You can wait for me at Lucia’s if you want. I’ll meet you there after I see Dr. Torrico.”

  “I’ll wait.” Nick folded his arms and stretched out his legs while I filled out three pages of standard medical history.

  When I returned the clipboard, Jackson peeked over my shoulder. “That your husband?”

  I glanced at Nick, slouching in his chair, and said, “My boyfriend. Cute, right?”

  “Not bad for a skinny white man,” she said. “He good to you?”

  I grinned. “He’s a keeper.”

  Helen Leonard, the clinic’s efficient head nurse, came into the waiting room. “We’re ready for you, Liz.” I followed her into the hallway past the children’s playroom, turning left at the open Dutch door to the dispensary, then to the row of exam rooms and offices. She put me inside the last exam room and said, “Everything off except for your panties. Gown opens in front.”

  Every examination room in every doctor’s office looked the same to me: beige walls and cabinets, steel instruments, cupboards, exam table, stool, hook to hang my clothes and purse, and magazines so ancient that Brad was still with Jen. The temperature inside was as cold as the steel wastebasket.

  I took off my dress and bra and put on the patient shamer, an open-in-the-front blue paper gown. Sitting at the edge of the exam table with my bare legs dangling, I waited for the dreaded shot, feeling nothing close to demure, comfortable, or stylish in my paper frock.

  Helen came back in, took my blood pressure, did a finger prick blood test, and then weighed me.

  “Deduct two pounds for the gown,” I said. I earned the extra grace on my weight—I wasn’t counting on a blood test, even if it was just a small pinch.

  Her eyes darted up from the clipboard, and she was still chuckling while she prepared the TB shot. After a stinging jab in my arm, I pulled my paper gown closer and tightened the plastic drawstring.

  “Dr. Torrico will be right in,” Helen said.

  “Helen, did you talk to Dr. Morales today?” I said. Vague enough to keep my promise to Mom but still digging for info—just a little.

  “No. I didn’t.” She avoided my eyes and scurried out.

  I flipped through magazines until I heard voices outside. The door opened and Tony Torrico entered.

  Even if I wasn’t hungry, a good menu was fun to read, and Tony Torrico was a good menu. Elegant in his white doctor’s coat, his eyes sparkled with charm, his demeanor light and easy. A gust of chilly air swept in as the door closed behind him. I crossed my arms over my frock, cold and embarrassed.

  He put out a manicured hand, flashing a very white smile. “Carmen told me you’d be in today, Liz. It’s good to see you again. Yesterday was a rough day for everyone. You heard the news about Carmen, yes?”

  I unwrapped an arm from my waist to return his warm handshake. “Yes, I heard on my way here. Does Victor know?”

  “I assume so, though we haven’t talked. Helen got an e-mail last night saying he wouldn’t be in. I’ve been too busy with patients to call him.” Tony glanced at the clipboard in his hand. “You haven’t had your employment physical yet?”

  “Sorry. I hate shots.” I withered in my stunning paper outfit like a self-conscious teenager.

  “Well, Carmen and Victor ar
e adamant about their rules.” He put his stethoscope around his neck. “The exam won’t take long, then we can go in my office and chat. Just lie back.”

  I doubted if Dr. Could’ve-Been-A-Model needed the stethoscope. My self-conscious heart pounded. I had to show up for a physical the day both my elderly doctor friends were away.

  “How’s your health?” Tony said.

  “Excellent.”

  “Any recent problems? Colds? Flu?” He set the stethoscope on my bare chest.

  I flinched from the icy metal. “Nothing.”

  “Do you exercise?”

  “I run a few times a week and try to stay active.” I counted gymnastics in bed with Nick as active.

  “Where did you get your PhD?”

  “University of Georgia,” I said, his neutral chitchat calming my nerves and taking my mind off his hand on my shivering body.

  “Are you from Atlanta?”

  “No, I was born here and my family lives here. I got my undergraduate degree at UI-Champaign, then earned my PhD in Atlanta when my ex-husband was pitching for the Braves.”

  “Sit up.” He moved behind me and tapped my back with a steel instrument. “You must have been a good student to jump from school to school and complete a doctorate.”

  “I was determined,” I said.

  Tony tucked the stethoscope in his pocket and picked up the clipboard. “You can get dressed, Liz. I’ll meet you in my office.”

  Happy to discard the paper robe and be in my own clothes again, I walked to Tony’s office next to Carmen’s and Victor’s offices at the top of the hall. I waited in a chair across from his desk, gazing at the photos behind him while he finished a phone call. Tony on the golf course; Tony and Victor on a dais at the Beverly Hilton Hotel; Tony with a famous actor turned politician; Tony accepting an award. Beneath the photos, two golf trophies from the Bellevue Country Club bookended stacks of paper on a credenza. Tony and more Tony. No distinguishable family or children. If he was married, he kept his personal life very personal.