“Which is?”
“Which is that I won’t have to much longer.”
“Why?”
“I’ve received a scholarship and I’m going back to school to get my master’s degree.”
The moment I get home, I type out my invoices on the slim chance that I’ll actually get paid. To Lucy, I also submit my six-hundred-dollar phone bill that’s been outstanding for a while. Thank God her business office gave me her credit cards to pay for hotels, flights and per diem, otherwise I’d be out way more cash than I already am. Within five minutes of faxing my invoices, I get a call from Debbie, who pays Lucy’s bills. She is sorry to tell me this, but she has been given specific instructions not to pay any of my invoices.
That bitch!
So, not only am I out my six hundred for the phone bill, but two weeks’ worth of pay. I’m fuming. An hour later, I get a call from Harvey, who pays Tommy Ray’s bills.
Same thing.
I pace my living room, trying to figure out a way to get the money that is owed to me. Finally, my neighbor calls to ask what I’m doing up there. Trying to wear a path in the hardwood floors? And why is the front yard flooded?
I explain the situation. “Are those the same folks you just moved into that place in Beverly Hills?” she asks.
“Yep.”
“Sounds like you need to go on a ‘shopping spree’ and get what’s due you.”
Hmmmm. Interesting perspective. I lie in bed and think some more. I don’t realize I’m asleep until the phone wakes me.
“Hello,” I say, groggily.
“Corki Brown?” a male voice asks.
“Yes?”
“Bob Caplan, National Enquirer,” he states. “Looks like you might be out of a job, huh?”
“What?”
“Judging from the cover of Peo—”
“Yes, I saw the cover,” I say.
“Have you seen the layout?”
I sit up in bed.
“No, just the cover.”
“Well, it’s just on the newsstands this morning. You were caught, on film, being . . . well, it looks like, assaulted by Lucy Bennett.”
“No!” I say in disbelief.
“Yes, that’s what it looks like.” Bob is quiet for a moment. “I hope you have a nest egg.”
“Why?”
“Well, the cover and inside story is all speculation. To be frank, Corki, I’d pay dearly for the whole story told from your perspective.”
“I’m sure you would, Bob. But I can’t do that. You know I can’t.” If I talk, I know I’ll never be hired as a personal assistant again. I suddenly wonder if he’s taping the conversation.
“It could be worth twenty-five thousand dollars, especially with pictures,” he says, tempting me to forget my morals.
“Bob . . .”
“Thirty. I could go up to thirty if it’s juicy. It looks very juicy. Do you have any bruises or anything like that? If it’s visible, I might even be able to squeeze out thirty-five.”
I’m silent as I think of the money owed me.
“Listen, Corki, all this will be forgotten when the next scandal hits the papers. Lucy and Tommy will find solace in someone new, and you’ll have a little nest egg for yourself.”
I feel as if my soul is up for auction.
“Bob, I’m sleeping. Can you call me another time?”
I gently hang up, knowing good and well that I just openly invited him to figure out what my soul is worth.
I cogitate on the stories I have sewn up inside of me: Jock and his proclivities—all of them—young girls, guns, child porn passed off as art, secret rooms; Lucy and her endless fodder for front-page stories—the sex pictures, the romps, the wedding fiasco, her secret code to the panic room, her past affairs with married men, her attempts at purchasing people—her punching and scratching and lies and deceit.
I have to call Bob back and tell him that he should never, ever call me again. I pick up the phone and it is dead. I call the phone company from my cell and am told that my phone has been cut off for nonpayment of $633.19—the $633.19 I spent arranging the wedding—Lucy’s wedding.
Chapter Twenty-Six
“Corki, it’s Veronique. I tried calling you at home, but . . .”
“It’s been cut off,” I say into my cell phone.
I explain what happened with being refused payment for all my services rendered.
“I’m on an express train to ruin.”
“Stop it! You are not. Look, we’re home in L.A. Would you like to come over for dinner? Say about seven?”
“You’re cooking?” I ask, surprised. She never cooks.
“Believe it or not, yes. Roberto will be helping, though.”
“I would love to.”
I drop off Blaise at Shelly’s house with his strict promise, made in writing, that he will not start any fires or do anything destructive. Blaise even offers, with a mischievous smirk, that he will be happy to sign it in blood.
He kisses me goodbye and I drive from Baldwin Hills to the Hollywood Hills, giving myself a stern lecture about honor and values and morals—all of which are teetering dangerously on the verge of destruction. I can’t help considering Bob Caplan’s offer. Thirty-five thousand dollars could last me to the end of the year, even if I had no work whatsoever. Then, if I add in the porno pictures of Lucy, Tommy Ray and the girls in their romp, that could bring in even more money—maybe another thirty or forty. Even more.
I park in front of Veronique’s house and sit in my car for a moment trying to remember who I am. I’m not Hubert, willing to take advantage of someone’s lack of character. I’m not . . . or am I?
I knock on Veronique’s door and she opens it with a big hug.
“You look better, Corki,” she says, examining my face. “At least you can open your eye now.”
“I feel better.”
She takes my hand and leads me through her home, which is decorated with antique Italian, French, Mexican and Spanish crucifixes adorning the walls. Religious figurines, saints and icons compete for space with petite brass bells and Buddhist gongs. Smoky incense fills the air.
We cross the room to her outdoor balcony overlooking the hills and canyons. Roberto joins us and we drink Italian wine and watch the last of the sun dipping down into the Pacific Ocean. In the distance, coyotes start their nightly ritual of howling to one another, readying themselves for their dinner hunt. Through the back door, we hear a kitchen timer ring.
“Roberto?” she asks, “can you get that?”
“Most certainly.”
· · ·
We eat a dinner of pan-seared scallops with pasta and spinach out on the Mexican-tiled deck of Veronique’s four-bedroom, four-and-a-half-bathroom home. In the distance, over the din of the Hollywood freeway traffic, we can hear the heavy clanging of church bells striking eight times.
“So, Corki,” Roberto says with that roll of the r, “what now?”
“Well, quite frankly, I don’t know.”
“Are you tied to Los Angeles or will you be looking for work elsewhere?” he inquires.
“I’ve been an assistant for twenty years. It’s the only thing I’m qualified to do, and L.A. is the only place I could do it. There’s New York, but I don’t know the city well enough to start up a business there. I’m not qualified to do any other type of work. I suppose I’d better start looking for other clients, but I’m not sure that’s what I want.”
“I see.” Roberto leans back, retrieves a cigarette out of his pocket and lights it. He offers one to me and I kindly refuse. We sit in silence, mosquitoes buzzing us, for a while longer.
“You can cook,” he offers.
“That’s true, but I don’t know of anyone who’s going to pay me to consistently cook for them. I’m not exactly a trained professional.”
“What is the largest number of people you’ve cooked for at one time?” he asks.
I look over at Veronique, pondering the question.
“Was it
the time you did my Oscar party?” she asks.
“Yeah, I was thinking about that. How many were there?”
“At least a hundred. Probably more.”
“I think that’s the tops. We’ll call it one hundred.”
“Can you do it again?” he asks.
“If it pays the bills, I could do it every night.”
“That was what I was thinking.” Roberto leans back and balances carefully on the two back legs of his chair.
“I’m sorry, I missed it. What were you were thinking?”
“Cooking for a group of people. Have you ever been to St. Bart’s?” he asks.
“Oh yes, years ago. In fact, I went with yours truly!” I say, pointing to Veronique. We laugh at the memories.
“I was shooting a Dutch film in St. Martin with Rutger Hauer,” Veronique says, “and Corki and I went to spend the two days we had off from shooting in St. Bart’s. It was gorgeous, but the flight over was harrowing.”
“To put it lightly,” I say, and we both laugh again as we remember the scariest flight of our lives. “Over the open sea, in a nine-seater, a red light started flashing in the cockpit, followed by a loud buzzer. Everyone in the plane looked at each other as if knowing it would be one of our last moments alive. Veronique even screamed, which scared the pilot more than the buzzer!”
“I own beach property over there,” Roberto says quietly.
“Nice,” I say, fantasizing about asking him if he wouldn’t mind loaning me that someday. If it’s as big as his “small apartment” in Portofino, I’d be a very content vacationer.
“It was a waste of space when I purchased it,” he says, shaking his head. “It had an auto repair shop on it. Can you imagine that on the beach?”
“Sort of bizarre!” I agree.
“Very close to the Hotel Eden Roc. You know it? Lovely beach, shallow for swimming and close to the airport.”
“We stayed at Eden Roc,” Veronique announces.
“What kind of home did you build on it? Is it gorgeous?” I ask, readying myself to ask to borrow it.
“I didn’t. I bought it twelve years ago and have done absolutely nothing with it.”
So much for my vacation dreams.
“So, what do you think, Corki?”
I couldn’t afford the ticket anyway.
“About what?” I ask.
“It’s a prime piece of property.”
“Um, okay,” I say, still not sure what he’s getting at.
“I’m an investor. I have a spectacular property in one of the best locations on the island. It’s being wasted as a garage. I am willing to put money into fixing it up to be something of better use, but it would have to be executed quickly because I lose money in downtime. Renovation would be downtime,” he says thoughtfully.
“What are you going to build, a small hotel?” I ask. Maybe Blaise and I can get a discount at the place if we know the owner.
“Yes. Seven beachfront rooms and a small, forty-seat restaurant. I could invest the capital to get the place renovated and in working order. I could also invest two years’ worth of what would be rent for the converted structure,” he says.
“It sounds lovely,” I say dreamily.
“Corki, for you!” Veronique says, incredulously. “You open the restaurant. Your menu, your ideas, your future. This is what you’re qualified to do, not slave away for us for the rest of your life. And the parts you aren’t qualified to do, you do your research and get qualified for.”
My mind is spinning.
“It will be more work than you think,” Roberto goes on. “But if you’re as smart about money, cooking and business as Veronique makes you out to be, you could make some very good money in that location,” he says, shaking another cigarette out of his pocket and lighting it.
“I don’t have any formal training. I just cook what I like and what I think other people will like.”
“I very much enjoyed your cooking,” Roberto says calmly, inhaling deeply, then blowing out billows of smoke into the air. “I’m not doing this just for you, Corki. If this is done properly—and I suspect it would be—I stand to make money, too, you know.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
I notify all the clients I still work for—Liam, Esther and Jock, although he’s questionable—that I’m done. It’s a bit of a laugh, but I give my two-week notice.
Esther says now that Atom’s well, she’ll take Bella and use it as a third car to drive to their beach house in San Diego. She plans on taking Atom on more mini-vacations where they can relax and get away from all the stress of renovating their new home.
There has been no response from Jock. Figures. I haven’t heard from him since the day I put myself on the line. I called and told him that Hubert and the Brothers Grimm were arrested and I had possession of his DVDs, which I subsequently destroyed. I also told him that I returned the one hundred thousand dollars to his safe.
Not one call.
I know he’s still alive and thriving, because I read about him in the tabloids. I know he still checks his answering machine, because it takes four rings for it to pick up, which means he has listened to his messages and the machine is empty. I don’t know if he’s mad because the police got involved or because I directed it in the way that I saw fit, but as far as I’m concerned, it’s over.
I sort through what’s left in my garage of horrors. I have had two garage sales. I’m getting rid of all the stuff I don’t want anymore and, more importantly, the stuff I’ve been holding on to for “when”—when I get a house of my own, when I get nice boyfriend, when Blaise grows up, when I have company over for dinner. All the “whens” are sold and I’m going to live for the now.
I’m down to a sordid selection of my clients’ pasts. Liam’s guns for which he never took lessons. Liam’s gun safe to hold the guns for which he never took lessons and Liam’s ammunition that goes in the guns. I have every diary and memory of Lucy’s past that could have started a potential war under the domination of Tommy Ray. I have the wide array of liquor and wine from Lucy’s cabinets. I call Mary at Almor Liquor on Sunset. She gives me the vintages, histories and prices of all the wines and liquors I have and tells me how I can ship the load of them to the French West Indies. She says I can sell the Rémy Martin Louis XIII for $150 U.S. per shot at the restaurant’s bar.
Then there’s the matter of the sex pictures in my safe. Bob Caplan from the National Enquirer got hold of my cell phone number and calls me every day. He says we have to “strike while the iron’s hot” and if I keep stalling it will become yesterday’s news. He says that time is of the essence, but I think sex is timeless. Movie stars embroiled in foursomes will be hot forever. He’s upped the ante to forty thousand if I call back today and spill my guts.
Forty thousand could help with my moving and survival expenses immensely. Even though things are starting to turn and life is looking way, way up, I’m still tempted. I’ve started to dial Bob’s number again and again, but I’ve yet to do it. If only I was raised differently and could base my decisions on what feels good instead of on what my mother taught me. Mom always says, “Two wrongs don’t make a right.” If only I didn’t have to live with myself after I cashed that check.
I can’t even deal with the contents of the safe right now. However, there’s also the matter of Luella, who is not in my safe anymore. She’s on my fireplace mantel. How can Tommy Ray refuse to pay me when I have his mama? Did he stop caring about her because he’s found himself a new honey? Or has he forgotten all about her?
I sit at my desk, writing down notes of how to get all this stuff back to the rightful owners, when my cell phone rings.
“Cooorrrkiii, it’s Lucy! Hey, honey!”
The nerve. She sounds as if Santorini never happened. What can she possibly have to say to me?
“Yes?” I ask, cautiously.
“Corki, my dear, you must be so mad at me for my bad behavior,” she says.
“I am.”
“C
an you forgive me?”
“Why would I want to?”
“Because I love you and need you,” she says, playing the victimized child.
“Lucy, I want to be paid what I am owed, and after that I want you to pick up your stuff that’s in my garage.”
The line is silent.
“In fact, I’m calling your business office right now. I want to go get my money and then we’ll see about continuing this conversation. I’m giving you three minutes, then I’m calling Debbie.” I punch the button and hang up.
I don’t need to wait three minutes, because Debbie calls me in two.
“I have your check waiting for pickup,” she announces, as surprised as I am.
“I’ll be in the office in thirty minutes,” I say.
I throw on some clean clothes and walk out the door. As soon as I lock the door and spring down the steps toward Bella, my cell phone rings again.
“Corki, it’s Shay, Jock’s business manager,” she says jokingly, “in case you’ve forgotten.”
“Very funny. I haven’t been able to call you.”
“Don’t start lying, missy. Your fingers ain’t broke!”
“You got me. I could have called. I’ve been so involved trying to stay afloat I haven’t touched base with anyone.”
“Well, you might want to touch base now. You’re doing something right again ’cause I have another check for you,” she announces in a way that lets me know she enjoys being the deliverer of good news.
“Hallelujah! What did I do to deserve this? I haven’t heard from Mr. Straupman in so long I thought he forgot about his lowly little assistant.”
“Girl, shut up and get in here,” Shay says, laughing as she hangs up.
Two money runs in one day. Now, if I can get Tommy Ray to cough up his part, I’ll be paid up. I think once I explain to Harvey that I have Luella, Tommy will rethink his tight fist. I swing by and pick up my check from Debbie and cash it immediately before Miss Lucy changes her mind. Shay’s office is next.
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