Unplugged

by Lois Greiman

  “La Pyramide Hotel and Casino. How may I assist you?” The woman on the other end of the line sounded genuinely thrilled that I had called, not at all like she was promoting virtual bestiality and plain dumb-ass porn on a stage probably not a hundred yards from where she sat in air-conditioned comfort.

  “I sure hope so,” I said. “I’m trying to get ahold of Menke.”

  There was a pause. “Menke?”

  “Yeah, the Mystical Menke.”

  “Oh.” Her voice had gotten a little frosty around the edges. It’s probably near impossible to act high-class in Las Vegas, but she was giving it the old college try. “Menkaura Qufti, the magician here at La Pyramide?”

  “Yeah. That’s ’im.”

  “I’m sorry, he’s not here at the moment, but you could leave a message if you like.”

  “Not there?” I said, as though baffled that the man might be mystical and mobile.

  “No. I’m afraid not.”

  “Oh, crapski. Well, tell ’im to call Pinky, will ya?”

  Another pause. “Certainly Ms. . . . Pinky. Can I get a phone number?”

  “Sure.” I gave her my number. “And tell ’im I’m looking for a job, will ya?”

  “Of course.”

  “And tell ’im, too, that I’m built like a cello, but I can fit into a medicine cabinet if I gotta.”

  She didn’t have much to say to that. I hung up.

  By then it was time for supper. I looked in my fridge. Even the cheese was gone. Damn Rivera.

  It was a ten-minute drive to Vons, where I buy my groceries. Elaine won’t shop anywhere but Whole Foods, where there’s a circus atmosphere on sample day and lines queue up a week in advance.

  As for me, I used to make sure my milk came from cows not treated with rbST. I’d later learned that one of the suspected side effects of hormones was increased breast size. I’m not quite so fussy anymore.

  It didn’t take me long to unpack my groceries. It wasn’t as if I intended to cook—or was able to. But if the SWAT team muscled its way into my kitchen, they’d have enough staples to make us all a nice omelet or something.

  Sometime around nine o’clock, still not certain which direction would actually lead to Solberg, I checked into Hilary Pershing’s professional life again on the Internet. I didn’t learn much. I hopped around from site to site, and although there were a few mentions of her work at NeoTech, her life in the cat show circuit seemed to be her obsession. She had five adult felines listed. None of them had names like Oscar or Scruffy. Hilary tended to lean toward the dramatic—Fyrelight’s Silver Onyx, that sort of thing.

  She should probably get together with the Mystical Menkaura, I thought, and wondered groggily if she had Solberg locked up in a cat cage in her basement.

  Despite my world-class abilities, I didn’t sleep well that night. I had dark dreams involving men with severe halitosis and nasty-looking weaponry.

  On Sunday, I considered going for a run, but the nightmares—and the waking reality—convinced me it was too risky. Always nice to find the silver lining.

  In the afternoon I took my place on the ridge above Solberg’s neighborhood. It would probably have been smarter to try to track down information on the men who had abducted me, as Rivera hadn’t been very forthcoming about information regarding them. But I returned to the one place I was certain Solberg would eventually return.

  Unfortunately, he didn’t show up. But at two-thirteen, the Georges’ garage door opened and a BMW backed out. I snapped up my binoculars, focused quickly, and discovered that Tiffany was alone in the car. The garage was empty. Which meant that either the Georges only had one vehicle, which seemed unlikely in a neighborhood where gasoline consumption outshone the national debt, or Mr. Georges was gone . . . again.

  I drove down the hill, parked in their driveway, and hardly felt at all nervous about knocking on their door. No one answered. I tried their doorbell. Nothing. I leaned on their doorbell. Still nothing. Either Mr. Georges was deaf or the house was empty.

  Glancing around, I skirted their garage and headed into their backyard. My heart was pounding. Despite my actions of the past week, I still found it intimidating to be trespassing.

  But the sight of the pit halted all other thoughts. It was six feet long, a good four feet deep, and lay directly beside a filled-in area that looked like it had boasted the same dimensions.

  A noise sounded from Amsonia Lane, jump-starting me back into motion.

  I was breathing hard by the time I reached the Saturn. My imagination was running rampant.

  She’d dug graves in her backyard. Tiffany Georges had dug graves. For her husband? For Solberg? For both?

  Fueled with the certainty that I was on to something, I climbed back up to my perch above her house.

  By five o’clock I was bored out of my mind. By midnight I was certifiable.

  Mr. Georges still hadn’t arrived and Tiffany hadn’t returned.

  I had sat there long enough to think about the crazy things that happen. I knew from a million years of school, and a millennium of waitressing, that people sometimes just flip out and kill people. Hell, I’d considered killing Rivera just yesterday, and I wasn’t even married to the guy.

  Wasn’t it possible that little Tiffany had wigged out and murdered her husband? Wasn’t it also possible that Solberg had found out about the crime and met the same fate? Although, that didn’t really account for the strange phone call and the guy with the gun who had chased me across the turf.

  Life, I reflected when I was safe at home once again, was just as messy as hell.

  I saw three clients before noon on Monday. The first two seemed considerably more lucid than myself. I did a lot of ummm-humming and sent them on their way.

  My third client was Howard Lepinski.

  I’d been seeing him for obsessive-compulsive disorder and a shitload of other problems for almost six months. He mostly talked about nothing more consequential than his luncheon options. My own sanity looked pretty solid in comparison.

  “Do you think I should use whole grain bread?” he asked. “I mean, studies show that fiber can be advantageous for your colon, but white bread is lower in calories. And—”

  “Mr. Lepinski . . .” I interrupted ever so gently, though my nerves were tapping like castanets. “You do realize you’re discussing your lunch menu again, don’t you?”

  He stared at me from behind thick, round glasses. He was a small, thin man with an excellent ability to look offended.

  I gave him my professional smile. “I had hoped we were beyond that at this point.”

  His mustache twitched. There had been a time when I had compared him rather unfavorably to the client whose session followed his. That client’s name was Andrew Bomstad. Andy was a certified hotty . . . and rich. Mr. Lepinski hadn’t stacked up very well, until Andrew had revealed his true nature and his engorged penis all in one fell swoop. A few weeks and a murder investigation later, I had learned to reserve judgment.

  I’m trying to be more tolerant these days.

  “Diet is important,” he said. His tone was disapproving. “You are what you eat. Haven’t you ever heard that?”

  I nodded. I had. But so far I didn’t much resemble a caramel-coated peanut. Call me a doubter.

  “I’ve been considering the Atkins diet,” he said.

  I have to say I was surprised. I mean, I knew Atkins was the latest nutritional craze, but Mr. Lepinski was only marginally wider than my spleen.

  “Not to lose weight,” he explained. “To bulk up.” He lifted a scrawny arm and made a muscle. Maybe. “High protein. You know.” He flicked his eyes toward my door and back. “You think I’d be more attractive if I were buff?”

  The idea of putting “Mr. Lepinski” and “buff” in the same sentence made my brain rattle inside my skull, but I held tight to my game face. “Do you feel a need to be more attractive, Mr. Lepinski?”

  “Well . . .” He shrugged and looked defensive. Some people are li
ke that about self-improvement. I think it’s the fact that we’re fed, from infancy, the line that we are, each of us, spectacular, and shouldn’t change a thing. Which is a bunch of hooey as far as I’m concerned. Most of us are as loopy as corkscrews and any kind of self-improvement is worth a shot.

  But despite the fact that Lepinski often irritated the hell out of me, deep down I thought he was a pretty good egg.

  “No,” he said, then “I don’t know.” He paused, looking worried. “It couldn’t hurt, I suppose.”

  There was something in his tone—a wistfulness, maybe, that intrigued me. I tilted my head and poked gently. “How does your wife feel about your interest in fitness?”

  “Sheila?”

  I nodded. He didn’t look like the polygamist type, thus the question seemed supercilious, but I managed to keep my musings to myself.

  He glanced toward the door and back again. Toward the door and back. I waited. He shifted restlessly, but his knees remained perfectly locked and his shoes, brown leather wing-tips, were aligned with martial precision.

  His knobby knuckles were white against his skinny thighs.

  I waited some more.

  “I think she’s having an affair,” he rasped finally.

  I felt drained and beaten by the time he left my office. Drained, beaten, and useless. The poor guy’s wife was stepping out on him and all I could come up with was, “How do you feel about that?”

  I slumped behind my desk. The past couple weeks had been hell. First Solberg’s disappearance, then being attacked by thugs, then Rivera. I’d almost preferred the thugs.

  At least they hadn’t doubted that I’d had a date. At least they hadn’t made me say stupid-ass things like “He’s taller than you.” Or “He’ll probably make more than Solberg in a couple years,” or . . .

  My mind stuttered to a halt. Good God. I’d mentioned Solberg and Ross in the same breath. What if Rivera put two and two together? What if he called NeoTech and found out Ross worked there? What if I was a total moron?

  My hands shook as I dialed the number for NeoTech. Someone with a nasal twang patched me through to Ross’s office without delay.

  “Bennet here.”

  I swallowed a lump the size of a Schaumburg cockroach. “Ross?”

  “Yes?”

  “This is . . .” I took a deep breath. “This is . . . umm . . .” Now was not the time to forget my name.

  “Chris.” His voice was warm. “Hi. How are you?”

  “Fine. I’m . . . umm . . . fine.” I had a stranglehold on the telephone cord.

  “And your friend? Elaine, wasn’t it? How’s she?”

  It took me a moment to remember my fabricated reason for leaving him high and dry at the Safari. “Oh, yes.” I cleared my throat, fighting my conscience. I had bigger problems. My waning sanity, for instance. “She’s fine.”

  “Good.”

  The phone went silent.

  “Listen, ummm, Ross, I’m calling to ask for a favor.”

  “Shoot.”

  I winced. I’d never been such a stickler about phrase-ology. “I’m in a little bit of trouble. With the police. Nothing big,” I hurried to add. “Just, you know . . .” I tried a laugh. Yikes. “A misunderstanding. Unpaid parking tickets, that sort of thing.” Stupid, stupid, stupid. “Well, not . . .” I laughed again. It sounded worse than the first time. There was a little squeaky noise at the end of it, like a dog that had gotten hold of a chew toy. I was going to have to quit that. “Not parking tickets exactly.” If Rivera contacted Ross, how much would he tell him? Probably not much. He was the crown prince of antisocial behavior. I was banking on the dark lieutenant’s aversion to communication. “There was a little vehicular incident Friday night. Someone crashed into someone and someone thought it was my car. But it wasn’t. In fact—”

  “Does this have anything to do with a . . .” He paused as if checking his notes. “Lieutenant Rivera?”

  My mouth dropped open and stayed open. My mind spun to a halt, like a Maytag on spin dry.

  “Hello?”

  I blinked. “You’ve already spoken to him?”

  “Well, no.” He paused. “But he called. A couple times. I was out, though, and this morning’s been crazy. I haven’t had a chance to get back to him.”

  “Ohhh . . .” I felt like I’d been overcooked and left in the strainer too long. “Well, I . . .” I inhaled carefully, lest my lungs explode. “I was wondering if you could do me a favor.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “I’d, ummm . . . I’d, ummm . . .” Just say it, God damn it! “I’d like you to tell Rivera we were together all night,” I spurted, then bit my lip and squeezed my eyes shut. “At my house.”

  He was silent for what seemed forever, then, “Was it as good for you as it was for me?”

  The air escaped my lungs in a hiss. My shoulders drooped like yesterday’s lettuce. “I didn’t do anything wrong, Ross. I swear to God. I swear it on my grandfather’s grave.”

  He was silent again.

  “I loved my grandfather,” I said into the abyss.

  He laughed. “All right.”

  “You’ll do it?” I whispered.

  “Yes. But you’ll owe me.”

  “What?”

  He delayed a moment. “Dinner? Your place?”

  Damn it, I’d rather give him my firstborn. Or sex. What was wrong with sex? Didn’t anyone blackmail people with sex anymore?

  “Okay.”

  “All right, then. How about Friday night?”

  We settled on a time, after which point I filled him in on how we’d spent our time together. He sounded surprised, but not disappointed.

  I took it as a sign of better things to come.

  15

  Celibacy sucks, no pun intended.

  —Eddie Friar,

  shortly after coming out of the closet

  T HE WHOLE WEEK was a disaster.

  Devoid of any better ideas, I had trotted Solberg’s confiscated disk over to Eddie Friar’s house. Eddie’s an ex-boyfriend. He’s also gay. I’m sorry to say that hardly qualifies our relationship as weird—in comparison to a few dozen others. In fact, Eddie’s one of the few guys with whom I still communicate. He’s articulate, good-looking, and kind. Unfortunately, his guess regarding the CD was no more educated than mine—it seemed to contain blueprints and schematics for some kind of new invention.

  I thanked him for his time and he asked if I’d like to join him for Thanksgiving dinner. The idea seemed a little pathetic—a gay guy and a raging hetero spending turkey day together—but not so pathetic as me alone with a can of Spam, so I thanked him again and went on my not-so-merry way.

  With no idea where to go or who else to trust, I let the situation simmer as I worried about more immediate problems—such as my continued survival.

  Some months ago, I had purchased a minimal security system for my modest abode. But in light of recent circumstances, I thought it might be time for an upgrade.

  The installation guys came by on Tuesday to do the work, then stood in the vestibule and looked at me as if wondering what the hell there was to steal. True, you could fit the entirety of my house in a double-wide trailer and I didn’t have so much as a single pair of matching spoons, but I thought my life was worth the cost.

  Maybe I was wrong. Their fee was tantamount to extortion. I’d have to counsel two more Peeping Toms and a schizophrenic for a year and a half to pay it.

  On Wednesday, the Vegas magician returned my call. I recognized his area code on my caller ID. Apparently I had played the dumb blonde pretty convincingly when I left my message.

  I tried to find that same platinum frame of mind as I picked up the phone.

  “Yeah?” I said.

  “Good afternoon,” he responded. His voice was lush and theatrical. I think I may actually have shifted the receiver from my ear to stare at it. “Might there be a Ms. Pinky at these premises?”

  “Yeah. This is Pinky. Who’s this?” If I had b
een chewing gum, my world would have been complete.

  “This is the Mystical Menkaura.”

  I delayed a moment, then, “Menke, hey, thanks for returning my call.” There was a good deal of noise in the background—people chattering, something being scraped across the floor. At one point I thought I heard an elephant trumpet, but that might have been my imagination. “I’m between gigs and I heard you’re short a girl.” I held my breath.

  “From whom did you hear this news?”

  “From whom?” Was this guy for real, or was there the hint of a Brooklyn accent in his sheikish voice?

  “Guy named Orlando Gonzalez.” I had seen his name on the Internet and hoped to hell Menke didn’t know him personally. “Maybe you heard of him. He’s making some splash in Dallas. Anyways, I was his box jumper for a while after one of his girls got knocked up, and he says you might be needing someone, so I took in your show last Sunday.”

  “Did you indeed?”

  “Yeah. You got yourself a winner there, Menke. And the horse . . . oooh, talk about your sexy beast.”

  “Is he not beautiful? He is Bedouin bred, the eagle of the desert sands.”

  Uh-huh. “Anyways, I thought maybe you and me could help each other out,” I said.

  He paused. I chewed my lip. Maybe I’d overplayed my hand.

  Or maybe I hadn’t played it enough. “Even though your other girls ain’t as buxom as me.”

  I might have been mistaken, but I think he was holding his breath.

  “As it happens,” he said finally, “I am in need of a new assistant.”

  “Yeah?” Him and Hugh Hefner. “That’s great. How’s ’bout I pop in and see you first part of next week?”

  “I believe I may be able to arrange that.”

  He suggested a time.

  I apologized and told him that was my full day with my personal trainer. “If your buns ain’t tight, nothing’s right,” I said, and gave him a hee-hawing laugh.

  He tried again, and we agreed.

  “Fabuloso,” I said, then, cleverly, as if it were an afterthought, “Hey, your gal, the blonde one, what’s her name? I think I may have been her double in Dallas a couple years back.”