by Lois Greiman
“Who else?” My tone may have been less than congenial, but my impotent client had been screwing my classiest employee! And I was hearing the news from a vertically challenged techno geek with displaced pubic hair.
“He had a couple of regulars. Sort of on-and-off-again affairs.”
“You know their names?”
“I think there was a Sheri. No. Sheila?” He shook his head. “Might have been a Kayla.”
God help me.
“Who else?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Anyone with tits. There were two high-school chicks. Apparently their parents weren’t amused.”
“They press charges?” I began to eat methodically. It seemed wrong to let it go to waste.
“I didn’t see nothing about that. Got the idea there may have been a little payola going down.”
Which might account for the reason I hadn’t heard anything about it in the news.
“Who was his doctor?” I asked.
He had returned to his martini and glanced up. “Doctor?”
“Who prescribed the Viagra?”
He grinned with sharklike intensity. “You living under a rock, babekins? You want Viagra I coulda had it for you yesterday.”
Of course. He was right. The little blue pill with the gigantic results. The thought of Bomstad’s staring eyes and open pants made me feel queasy, but not queasy enough to quit eating.
“Was he seeing anyone else I should know about?” I asked.
“Seeing anyone?” He leaned across the table toward me. “You are one classy broad, babalita. Always was. Even at the Hog.”
Yep, there’s nothing classier than cutoff overalls and gingham shirts showing bushels of cleavage, but I let it go and slurped down the last of my lobster before starting on my potato. I like to give full attention to one detail at a time.
“Who else?” I asked.
“Well, there was some bad blood between him and some of his jock buddies. Think there might have been some Humpty Dumpty going on with the Bomb and their wives.”
“Really?” I managed to glance up from my potato. “Which ones?”
“Do I look like a guy who follows football, babe?”
He didn’t even look like a guy who’d heard of football, but then he didn’t look like a millionaire, either. Life was damned near hilarious.
“But you could find the information again?” I asked, feeling better for the meal and those tantalizing tidbits of knowledge.
He snorted and motioned for another drink. It appeared in seconds, and he started in on it immediately. He hadn’t gotten far on his meal, but he was a martini’s worst nightmare.
“There was one name I remember though,” he said.
I finished off my potato and sat back. My waistband felt tight, as did my shirt. I wriggled a little, hoping to dislodge my under-wire from between my ribs, but Solberg was already staring at my chest, so I settled back and let it dig its way into my lungs “Who’s that?” I asked.
He grinned, then shifted his gaze to my face before dropping it back to my boobs. “What’ll you give me if I tell you?”
A reprieve from the kick in the groin you deserve, I thought. But I needed info and I needed it badly, so I propped my elbows on the table and gave him a sultry glance. Or maybe it was a post-consumption glare. My seduction skills had never been stellar and had pretty much rusted into nonexistence during my post-secondary education, but I thought I remembered something about men and breasts, so I squeezed my arms against them and felt my bosom swell forward. I should have been ashamed, but the ploy was so horrifically successful I couldn’t quite manage it. In fact, I might have experienced a shameful little puff of pride when his eyes started to bug out of their sockets.
“Tell me her name and . . .” I fluttered my lashes like a llama with a retinal problem, but it was wasted effort. His eyeballs were still glued south of my chin. “I’ll accompany you to your house,” I crooned.
“Stephanie Meyers!”
It took me a moment to realize what he was saying, but when the truth struck home, my elbows bumped from the table and my own jaw dropped. “Stephanie Meyers!” She had been a rising starlet of sorts. But she’d OD’d on amphetamines some six months before. Not a huge shock to a community as self-involved as the actors’ guild, but it had still made the news. “The actress?” I asked, but Solberg was already motioning rather wildly for the bill.
“Wait a minute,” I said and, glancing around for a way to stall, snatched up my glass. It was still half full, but the ice had melted. Can’t have that. “I need a fresh one.”
He was already rising to his feet, albeit a bit wobbly. “Got a full bar at home.”
“You won’t regret it,” I crooned.
He shot two half bent fingers into the air and the waiter disappeared, buying me a few more seconds of relative peace.
“You’re sure?” I asked, my mind spinning. “About Meyers?”
He grinned sloppily. “The Geekster’s always sure, babeta.”
“How long were they seeing each other before she died?”
He broadened his grin, but only one corner of his mouth lifted. I was running out of coherency time. “That’d take more . . .” He eyed my chest and leaned closer. “Investigation,” he said. “But I’m game if you are.”
Our drinks arrived. I reached for mine and held it between us like a shield. But Solberg had already turned his attention to his. World class.
“What do you know about her death?” I asked, sipping sparingly.
“Offed herself, I think.”
“Do you know why?”
He shrugged. “I wasn’t the one doin’ her. Course maybe that’s reason enough,” he said, then fired his fingers at his head and brayed like an ass.
“Yeah,” I agreed, “probably.”
“Time to go,” he muttered and, finishing off his drink, struggled to his feet. Judging by the way he swayed, I believed he was right. If I didn’t want to have to toss him over my shoulder and cart him out like a bag of turnips, we’d best hit the road. I led the way, but when I glanced back I saw he was having some sort of confrontation with the furniture. It refused to move, and he seemed unable to compensate. Tricky thing, those tables. I returned to his side, grasped his arm, and steered. The stairs were almost his undoing, but after a few close calls we managed to reach the sidewalk. The valet looked a little dubious as he trotted off, but he was back shortly and handing over the keys. I snatched them up first.
“Hey!” There is no one who can sound as offended as a sloppy drunk. “What you doing?”
“Driving,” I said and got behind the wheel.
“This is my car.”
I showed a little leg and leaned forward. From his vantage point, he’d have a bird’s eye view. “I thought you were in a hurry to get home,” I cooed.
He made it into the passenger seat with Road Runner speed and Wile E. accuracy, nearly slamming his foot in the door.
The engine hummed to reverberating life. I sighed at the throbbing horsepower and maneuvered onto Beverly Glen. Palm trees cast top-heavy shadows across the boulevard. The western sky glowed with gold. If one didn’t venture too far into the heart of L.A., one could almost believe in the City of Angels scenario. As it was, the battle between good and evil seemed to be something of a draw.
“Where’s home?” I asked.
He gave me the address, and sure enough, unless he was lying outright it was a posh part of town. I took a right onto Sunset Boulevard and headed west.
“Do you think you could learn more about Meyers?” I asked, picking up speed and sighing mentally at the rev of the motor. The Saturn could squeeze a good forty miles out of a gallon of petrol. But you didn’t want to have to be anywhere too fast, or need to impress anybody while getting there.
Solberg mumbled something, but his voice was starting to slur in earnest. “. . . panties.”
“What?”
“Can get you the color of her panties,” he muttered.
&nb
sp; Yeah, well, if I were a perverted little techno geek that might come in handy, but . . . “Can you find out who’s investigating her death?” I asked. My mind was cranking along again. Could Meyers’s suicide have anything to do with Rivera’s reasons for hounding me? It was a huge long shot, but at this point any shot was a worthy one so long as it was pointed in the dark lieutenant’s general direction.
“Easy as an East Side hooker.”
I glanced at him from the corner of my eye. “Could I get info about the officer in charge?”
“Right down to the soles on his flat feet.”
My heart was bumping along at a good clip. Solberg was staring at my chest again, but his head drooped against his seat which made him seem fairly harmless, if not comatose.
“How would I do it?” I asked, letting him stare.
The following dialogue was such discombobulated mumbo jumbo I was sure it was the booze talking. But I could have been wrong. Technospeak always sounds that way to me.
“How much did you say you charge by the hour?” I asked. Not that I was doubting my ability as a hacker, but . . .
“For you, babe?” he slurred and slumped messily toward me. I prodded him back toward the door with a stiff arm.
“Listen,” I said. I was in dismissive mode again, but I was a little softer now. It’s difficult to be really hard-nosed when you know the guy is going to spend the next few hours with his head in a toilet bowl. “I’ll go home with you like I promised. I mean, I don’t want to see you wrapped around a light post on the five o’clock news or anything. But let’s face it, I’m not your type, Solberg.” I couldn’t quite force myself to look at him. “You deserve someone . . .” I searched for a kind euphemism. “Brilliant. Like yourself. Not me.”
He whimpered and I winced. Breaking hearts was never easy, but I forced myself to be strong, to turn and look him square in the eye.
Unfortunately, his eyes had rolled back in his head. And the whimper I thought I’d heard was actually a snore. His fuzzy head lay half cocked against the rest behind him and his mouth was open and drooling.
Wouldn’t you know it? I couldn’t even keep the Geek God awake. Which was fine. I mean, it wasn’t like my ego needed stroking or anything. Still, I have to admit, for just a moment I fantasized about reaching across the leather seat and twisting his nipple until he screamed.
But I was generally against torturing unconscious men, so I just skimmed the Porsche’s sleek panels, pushing buttons until I found his GPS.
The drive was easy as pie then. I zoomed up the 405, zipped along the 101, and wheeled into Solberg’s driveway like 007 on speed. We came to a shuddering halt in front of his three-car garage, where I turned off the engine and waited for him to be jolted into awareness. It only took a moment.
“Whir im I?” he grumbled, his head doing asymmetrical circles on his wobbly neck.
“Time to get out.”
“I don’t feel great.”
“Really?” I said and hardly even grinned.
“Think I might be sick.”
Panic struck. “Not in the Porsche,” I rasped. The car and I had bonded. Lunging outside, I sprinted around the sleek grille, hauled open the passenger door, and yanked him out, but apparently the jerky movement didn’t do much to settle his stomach, because in a moment he was ralphing into the azaleas.
I turned my back and tried not to follow suit. Finally Solberg moaned. I heard him flop down on the walkway beside the shrubbery and chanced a glance in his direction. “Maybe I shouldn’t a had them shots before I picked you up.”
I believe it’s generally accepted that geniuses are the stupidest people on earth. “Come on. Let’s get you inside,” I said, trying to keep my eyes averted from the azaleas, but he had already slipped over onto his side.
I stared at him a moment, cursed in silence, and glanced around. It was a good neighborhood and a nice warm night. He’d probably be fine right where he was, I told myself. But my brother Pete had once passed out in my mother’s peonies. I had spotted him beside the shrine of the Virgin Mary when I’d peeked out to see if anyone was necking in the backyard and I’d thought it an okay place for him to spend the night.
Mom had emphatically disagreed, and my bottom still remembered the lesson. In the McMullen clan, it’s acceptable to drink yourself into oblivion but criminal to leave your brother facedown for the neighbors to gossip over in the morning. The irony didn’t elude me then or now, and yet I still felt a need to haul the ragged-assed little geek to his feet.
“Come on,” I said, dragging him along with an arm around his waist. “Wake up. I need your security code.”
He just managed to mumble the numbers before his head slumped against my breast. I considered dropping him onto the concrete to make sure it wasn’t intentional, but he seemed to be staring into the interior of his cranium, so I let it pass and pushed the door open with my foot. A chrome-and-crystal chandelier blazed in the gargantuan foyer. The house ran off in monochromatic sterility in every direction, not a couch or a blanket in sight.
“Where’s your bedroom?” I asked.
He didn’t answer. I gave him a little jiggle.
“Bedroom,” I repeated. The word seemed to bump a few frazzled neurons together.
“Up,” he croaked, and I stared up the mountainous steps and began to climb. By the time I’d reached the top I was breathless despite Solberg’s minuscule weight and my own extraordinary fitness.
As I shuffled him down the hall, I noticed that only one of his feet was paddling. The other dragged behind him like a dead duck. I shoved open the bedroom door and tossed him onto the mattress.
Unfortunately, he dragged me with him, and with a drunk’s unerring accuracy, landed with his hand on my right boob.
“Babe,” he mumbled, squeezing.
My breath came back in a rush. I shot to my feet, and it could be I kicked him in the shin, but I’d hauled his bony ass all the way upstairs without so much as a word of thanks.
Grumbling to myself, I found a phone on his glass bedstead and picked up the receiver, intending to call a cab, but from that vantage point I could see his Porsche far below. It gleamed cobalt blue in the overhead lights, looking sexy and ultraelegant. But didn’t it look a little lonely, too? Forsaken? Maybe I should take it home. Of course, if I did, Solberg would eventually show up to retrieve it, which meant another encounter of the weirdest kind.
On the other hand, I mused, if I had possession of his car, he could probably be convinced to do more investigating, despite the fact that I hadn’t exactly lived up to his fantasies thus far.
Truth was, I was in deep shit. Rivera was heading up a lynch mob and I had no intention of being at the end of the rope when it swung. The more information I had, the better off I’d be, and if that meant I had to take a Porsche home for a visit . . . well, so be it.
5
Men are like beer. Some are bold and some are smooth. But every damn one of ’em has a big-ass head full of air.
—Lily Schultz,
owner of the Warthog, after her husband’s third arrest for indecent exposure
MONDAY WAS A BITCH. Although I’d mostly agreed with David’s advice to take the day off, I managed to force myself into a relatively dignified ensemble and drop the Saturn off at the dealership for a six-month-late tune-up. I took a cab home; then, after a few seconds of intense soul-searching, I fired up Solberg’s Porsche and cruised to the office.
Elaine was there, fielding phone calls and rescheduling appointments, but she was wide-eyed and craning her neck at the parking lot when I walked in.
“Wow!” she mouthed, though she never quit her sympathetic um-huming into the receiver. Elaine is the kind of person who can write a dissertation while simultaneously finding the antiderivative of a polynomial expression. Unfortunately for the cerebral community, she has boobs big enough to ski on and eyes that scream bedroom in five different languages. She has a sultry voice, a nonexistent waist, and an ass that would make J.Lo cr
y. It was that lethal combination that had convinced her to head to fame and fortune in La La Land. I had no burning excuse to accompany her, except that I had received my Ph.D. while concurrently discovering my latest beau flagrante delicto with my ex-roommate. And seeing as how Schaumburg, Illinois, didn’t seem particularly appreciative of my stellar qualities anyway, I’d packed my bags and headed to Hollywood, where everyone needs a shrink.
“Holy fuck!” she said, punctuating the words with the click of the receiver into the cradle. I stared at her. Elaine’s father was a Methodist minister which had, heretofore, prompted her to confine her expletives to things like “ah, shucks” and “that’s a darn shame.” I could only assume she was practicing for one of the many roles she would never get. Elaine couldn’t act worth a damn. “What the hell is that?”
“Oh.” I’m pretty sure I had the good grace to look sheepish. “I’m just borrowing it.”
She gave me a look as she hustled around the end of her desk. “Someone lent you his rocket ship?”
I may have grinned just a little, but I’m sure I was deeply ashamed of myself. “It’s a Porsche.”
“No shit! Was it the Bomb’s?”
“What? No! Why would I be driving a client’s car?”
“I thought maybe the rumors were true and you really were doing him.”
“If your father heard you he’d turn over in his grave,” I told her.
“He’s not dead.”
“Well, this would kill him. What kind of role are you up for?”
“One that pays,” she said and turned toward me with a lusty sigh. When she did that around men, they slobbered like Pavlov’s dog. “I need to get a decent . . .” she began, but just then the phone chimed up.
She answered it on the second ring. “L.A. Counseling.”
I could hear the roar on the other end of the line quite clearly, and though the words were indistinct, the tone was self-explanatory. The caller seemed to be experiencing a high level of frustration. In other words, he was pissed as hell.