Unplugged

by Lois Greiman

  Yuck. “Uh-huh,” I said.

  “And then . . . nothing.” She shrugged, glanced at the desk, and shuffled a few papers around. “I don’t even know if he won the Lightbulb.”

  “The what?”

  “It’s an industry award. He was really jazzed about being nominated when he left, but now . . .” She cleared her throat. “I think he met someone else.”

  I blinked. “Solberg?”

  “He was in Las Vegas,” she said, as if that explained everything. It didn’t. She continued as if she were lecturing a retarded duckling. “There are more beautiful women per capita in Vegas than in any other city in the world.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  She scowled a little. Somehow it didn’t create a single wrinkle in her rice-paper complexion. I would hate her if I didn’t love her to distraction. “It’s tough to compete with a hundred topless girls juggling armadillos and breathing fire.”

  “Armadillos?” I asked. I couldn’t help but be impressed. Those armadillos are tough.

  “He’s got a lot going for him, Mac,” she said.

  I kept my face perfectly expressionless, waiting for the punch line. It didn’t come. “Have you heard him laugh?” I asked.

  She gave me a sloppy little grin. “He sounds like a donkey on speed.”

  “Whew,” I said. “Then we are talking about the same guy.”

  She tilted her head in a kind of unspoken censor. “I’ve dated a lot since moving out here, you know.”

  I couldn’t argue with that. Laney got marriage proposals from guys who hadn’t yet exited the womb.

  “But Jeen . . .” She paused. I didn’t like the dreamy look in her eye. “He never once bragged about how many push-ups he can do or how fast he can run a mile.”

  “Well, that’s probably because he can’t do—”

  She stopped me with a glance, which was probably just as well. Sometimes tact isn’t my number one attribute. I’ll let you know when I figure out what is.

  “I don’t even know his astronomical sign,” she said.

  “He’s a Scorpio.”

  “You know?”

  Sadly, I did.

  “Laney,” I said, taking her hand and trying to think of a nice way to inform her that her boyfriend was a doofus, “I know you like him and everything. But really—”

  “He’s never tried to get me into bed.”

  My mouth opened. Solberg had propositioned me approximately two and a half seconds after I’d first met him. I would like to think that’s because I’m sexier than Elaine, but apparently I’m not brain-dead, despite the five days and twenty hours since my last cigarette.

  “You’re kidding,” I said.

  “No.”

  “Does he call you Babe-a-buns?”

  “No.”

  “Stare at your chest till his eyes water?”

  “No.”

  “Pretend he stumbled and grab your boobs?”

  “No!”

  “Wow.”

  She nodded. “I thought he really cared about me. But . . .” She laughed a little, seemingly at her own foolishness. “I guess he just wasn’t interested. You know . . . that way.”

  I raised a brow. Just one. I reserve two for purple extraterrestrials with wildly groping appendages. “We’re still talking about Solberg, right?”

  She scowled.

  “Geeky little guy? Has a nose like an albatross?”

  Now she just looked sad, which made me kind of ashamed of myself, but really, the whole situation was ridiculous. Solberg would sell his soul for a quick glimpse of an anemic flasher. He’d probably auction off his personal computer to hold hands with a woman of Elaine’s caliber. And she actually liked him. What were the odds?

  “Listen, Laney, I’m sorry. But really, you don’t have to worry. Just call him. Tell him you . . .” I took a deep breath and tried to be selfless. “Tell him you miss him.”

  “I did call him. In Vegas.”

  It was my turn to scowl. Laney generally doesn’t call guys. All she has to do is play the eeney-meany-miny-mo game and snatch a suitor off her roof. “No answer?” I asked.

  She cleared her throat. Emotion clouded her eyes.

  “Laney?” I said.

  “A woman answered.”

  “A woman? Like . . .” It was inconceivable. “Someone like one of us?” I motioned between us. “Human?”

  She wasn’t amused.

  “Well . . .” I chortled. “It was probably housekeeping.”

  “Housekeeping?”

  “Or . . .” I was floundering badly, but my faith in Elaine was undaunted. “Maybe it was . . . his great-aunt come to visit her favorite . . . nerd nephew.”

  She looked away. Were there tears in her eyes? Oh, crap! If there were tears in her eyes I was going to have to find Solberg and kill him.

  “Did you ask who you were speaking to?” I asked.

  “No. I . . .” She shook her head. “I was so surprised. You know. I just asked if he was there.”

  “And?”

  “She said no.”

  “That’s it?”

  “I was . . . I don’t know.” She shrugged, looking unsettled as she chased a few more papers across the desk. “I called back later.”

  “Yeah?”

  “No answer.”

  “Did you leave a message?”

  “On his cell and his home phone.” She glanced at the desktop again. “A couple of times.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, reeking sincerity. “But I’m afraid the answer is obvious.” She raised her gaze to mine. “Our dear little geek friend is dead.”

  “Mac!”

  I couldn’t help but laugh. “Listen, Laney,” I said, squeezing her hand, “you’re being ridiculous. Solberg is wild about you. He probably just got delayed in Vegas.”

  “He probably got laid in Vegas.”

  I stared. Elaine Butterfield never uses such trashy language.

  “Maybe I should have . . .” She paused. “Do you think I should have slept with him?”

  I refrained from telling her that would have been a sin of biblical proportions. There’s a little thing called bestiality. I was sure even Jerry Falwell would think it made homosexuality look like petty theft by comparison.

  “Elaine, relax,” I said. “I’m sure he’ll be back in a couple days. He’ll bring you tulips and call you Snuggle Bumpkins and Sugar Socks and all those other disgusting names he comes up with.”

  “Angel Eyes,” she said.

  “What?”

  “He calls me Angel Eyes.” She raised the aforementioned orbs toward me. “Because I saved him.”

  “From what?” I hated to ask.

  “From being a jerk.”

  Holy crap. If I had never met this guy I might actually like him. “He’ll be back, Laney,” I said.

  She drew a careful breath. “I don’t think so, Mac. I really don’t.”

  I laughed. “You’re Brainy Laney Butterfield.”

  “I’m trying to be practical about this.”

  “Elaine Sugarcane. No Pain Elaine. The Sane Lane.”

  She gave me a look.

  “Butterfeel?” I suggested. “Nutterbutter?”

  “I hated the last one most,” she said.

  “Yeah.” Middle school had been a challenge. “Simons was a creep of major proportions.”

  She nodded distractedly. “He could rhyme, though. Which is about all you can ask of—”

  “A WASP whose brain is bigger than his balls,” I finished for her. It was a direct quote from my brother Pete. I’ve always been afraid he meant it as an insult.

  Elaine only managed a weak smile.

  “Listen, Laney.” I sighed. Twelve years at Holy Name Catholic School had taught me a lot of things. Mostly how to sneak boys into the rectory for a little uninterrupted heavy breathing. But I hadn’t known until that moment that I’d learned to be a martyr. “I’m going to find Solberg for you.”

  She shook her head, but I hurried on.
>
  “Because I know . . . I’m positive he’s just been delayed.”

  “Mac, I appreciate your faith in my appeal. Really.” She squeezed my hand. “But not every man thinks I’m God’s answer—”

  “Don’t say it,” I warned, and backed away. “I don’t want to hear any self-effacing crap coming out of your mouth.”

  “I’m not—”

  “Quit it,” I warned again. “If you say one negative thing about yourself, I’m going to blame it on Solberg. And then . . .” I dipped into my office and grabbed my purse from beneath the table by the Ansel Adams print. “When I find him, I’m going to kick his skinny little ass into the next solar system.”

  “Mac, you can’t blame him just because he doesn’t find me attractive.”

  “You shut your dirty little mouth.”

  “He dumped me.”

  I turned toward her with a snap. “He did not dump you!”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Listen!” I pulled open the front door. “He might be a stunted little wart, but there’s no reason to think he’s gone totally insane. Well . . .” I corrected, “there’s not conclusive evidence that he’s gone totally insane.”

  “Chrissy—”

  “I’m going to go find him,” I said.

  And when I did, I was either going to whack him upside the head . . . or give him a nice Irish wake.

  2

  If money don’t buy happiness, what the hell does?

  —Glen McMullen,

  father, husband, and homespun philosopher

  S OLBERG LIVED IN La Canada in a sterile, New Age kind of mansion that overlooked San Gabriel’s grandeur to the north and Pasadena’s flashy wealth to the south. I knew, because I had driven him home not three months earlier. He’d been drunk and gropey. I’d dumped him on his bed, kicked him in the shins, and borrowed his Porsche to get myself home. Well, maybe “borrowed” isn’t quite the right term, but my point is, I knew how to get to his place. I can’t cook worth refried beans, but I have a kick-ass sense of direction.

  According to the digital clock on my dashboard, I arrived at his house at 10:17. I was working on the maxim that there’s no time like the present. Maybe there isn’t, but the present was damned dark and kind of stormy. If I was one of those girls who had watched horror flicks as a kid, I would have been spooked. Unfortunately, I was. I’d seen A Nightmare on Elm Street three times and ralphed four.

  But I was all grown up now, with a Ph.D. and enough panting credit cards to prove it, so I parked in front of Solberg’s three-car garage and got out. My little Saturn dinged at my exit. It’s kind of paranoid about having its keys left in its ignition, but I figured it wasn’t in much danger of being jacked in a neighborhood where residents pay more for their cars than I had for my education. Besides, the LAPD likes to hide out in that part of town. There was probably a cop in every donut shop between Montrose and Glendale.

  Still, I felt a little breathless as I strode up the inclined concrete and glanced to my right. The sprinklers were sprinkling, sweeping an arc across the smooth expanse of Solberg’s immaculate lawn. Illumined by his security lights, it looked to me like it had been mowed recently, but I suspected that was no clue to its owner’s present whereabouts. He probably had a posse of twelve come every Wednesday and Friday to prevent crabgrass from making a move on his pedigreed turf. Over in Sunland, where I call home, I would have welcomed crabgrass with open arms and three-in-one fertilizer. Almost anything is preferable to thistle and dust.

  I rang the doorbell. It played a tinny techno song inside the bowels of his house. I waited. No one answered. I tried again. The same tune played. Glancing around once more, I placed the edge of my hand against my brow and peered through the window beside the door. The foyer was lit by a gigantic chandelier made of dangling bits of rectangular pieces of glass. The entrance marched off in monochromatic sterility in every direction. There was not a wall within thirty feet. Neither was there a scrawny little geek nerd.

  Wading through his prickly shrubbery, I checked the next window. The view was pretty much the same, but darker. Traipsing along the side of the house while trying to avoid his overzealous sprinklers, I checked every possible architectural orifice. Not a door had been left open or a window unlatched. Hmmf.

  By the time I’d reached the far side of his house I was perplexed. Where was the little weasel? It seemed to me he’d been breathlessly waiting his entire pathetic life for a woman who didn’t want to exterminate him, and when such a girl comes along—voilà! All of a sudden, he’s gone.

  Of course, Elaine’s father is a minister, I mused. Maybe he’d heard all about Solberg and had been praying on his daughter’s behalf. Maybe Solberg had been sent straight to purgatory without passing Go. Maybe the Methodists had more pull than the Catholics. According to my mother, she’d prayed for her offspring every single night since our conception. Judging by the current state of her progeny, I figured Mom better stay on her knees, because my nicotine habit was one of the lesser evils in a clan that accumulates DUI citations like other folks collect coins.

  I’d reached the front door again and I was out of ideas.

  Scowling through the darkness, I spotted Solberg’s mailbox at the end of the drive and eyed my surroundings. All remained quiet, and I figured, Why not.

  It was a ridiculously long walk. At my house, I can reach out my window and fetch my morning paper. Holding my breath, lest Krueger be lurking in the bougainvillea and hear me wheezing like a fat guy on a stress test, I glanced down the street again. No one appeared to be lurking, so I opened the box with slow uncertainty. It was crammed to overflowing. I took out the contents, closed the lid, and marched nonchalantly up the drive.

  I quickstepped into my Saturn and power-locked the doors. Snapping on the interior light, I creaked my neck to the rear and checked the backseat. Krueger wasn’t there, either. I took a few fortifying breaths and rummaged through Solberg’s mail.

  There was a bill from the electric company, three notes from credit card people, and several letters from environmental organizations asking him to help save everything from amoebas to sea lions.

  But not a lot of clues. And regardless how concerned I am about the plight of the sea lions—I mean, God knows we don’t want to lose a species that makes me look svelte—I was a little too curious about the whereabouts of the little geekster to give them much thought at that precise moment.

  So I flipped through the rest of his mail. There were two periodicals that looked like they came to his house whether or not he wanted them to and a postcard from his dentist, saying he was due for his semiannual checkup. Nothing too intriguing there. But the final circulator did catch my interest.

  It was a magazine called Nerd Word. I pulled it out from the bottom of the pile and stared at it agog. J. D. Solberg, hitherto and rightfully known as “the Geek,” hadn’t picked up his preferred techno mag. I knew it was his favorite because Elaine had told me he’d been featured in it on more than one occasion, and if I knew anything about J.D., which, sadly, I did, he would adore any publication that didn’t make him look like a half-witted jackass on—

  A rap sounded at my window. I shrieked like a startled spider monkey and jerked toward the noise.

  A woman stood beside the Saturn, slightly bent, just drawing her hand away. I eased my heart into a sedate gallop and wondered if it was too late to hide the mail. Stealing from the USPS is a federal offense. Isn’t it? Or maybe—

  The stranger was still standing there, but her smile was starting to droop a little and her brow beginning to furrow.

  I took a steadying breath. She was about my age, slim, and neatly dressed, and as far as I could tell, there wasn’t a single razorlike implement attached to her fingers. So far so good. Then again, she was wearing gardening gloves.

  She brightened her smile a hopeful notch and motioned for me to roll down my window.

  Polite Catholic upbringing insisted that I do so. But for all I knew,
she might be hiding a bloody trowel behind her khaki-colored capris. Then again, it seemed unlikely in this neighborhood. Anyone who could afford the house payments probably had the wherewithal to hire someone to slice unsuspecting psychologists to death for them.

  And she was still staring at me.

  After some deliberation, I pressed the window button. Nothing happened, as is always true when the car isn’t running. So I hit “Unlock” and opened the driver’s door. The Saturn dinged, its usual insecurities still intact. I pulled out the key. “Can I help you?” I asked, and managed, I thought, to imbue my tone with a nice blend of arrogance and courtesy. As if I had a God-given right to be rifling through Solberg’s mail like some weird-ass stalker.

  “Hi.” She gave me a dazzling smile. Her teeth were aligned like so many perfect little pearls. I decided then and there to try one of those over-the-counter whiteners.

  “Hello,” I said. Psychologists are paid to listen. Sparkling repartee is not my stock-in-trade.

  Her capris, I noticed, were almost big enough to fit Barbie’s best friend, Midge, and her cropped, salmon-colored top didn’t quite reach her waistband. I noticed, too, that there wasn’t an ounce of cellulite to save her from the loathing of the rest of the female populace.

  “I was working in my backyard.” She motioned vaguely toward the east. “When I saw your car in the drive.”

  “Oh.” It was the best I could come up with on such short notice. I’d only stared through the window at her for about eighteen minutes. It looks like navigating social situations might not be my forte, either.

  “Are you a friend of Jeen’s?”

  “Who? Oh! Yes. Jeen’s. Yes. I’m a friend of Jeen . . . Solberg . . . J.D. I’m a friend of his.”

  Holy crap!

  Her smile had dimmed a couple watts. “Oh, sure. I figured as much. Was he delayed?”

  I blinked at her. I was still working on the “I figured as much” statement. Was she trying to insult me? Did I look like someone who would fraternize with a stunted little techno geek with more stupid come-ons than common sense? I was still wearing my Chanel suit, for God’s sake. And . . . “Delayed?” I repeated.