by Julia Dumont
“Oh, sure. It’ll be fun,” said Lolita, looking in the mirror, holding the phone under her neck and adjusting both breasts with her hands. She was trying to decide whether the dress would be better braless.
T-Bone slid over the edge of the couch like a snake slithering toward a runaway mouse. Tanya stuck her arm in T-Bone’s face again, her arm pretty much blocking her view of him. She felt his cheeks brushing against her thighs. He pushed harder against her hand, persistently advancing on his prey, the two of them locked in isometric tension.
“Okay, Lolita,” she said, her hand now jammed against T-Bone’s nose, his tongue out, tasting air. “I’ve really gotta go. I’m tired and have to get some sleep if I’m going to be at my best in the morning.”
“Yes, yes, that’s good,” replied Lolita, seemingly impressed by her employee’s dedication. “I’ll let you go then. I still have to pack anyway. Bye-bye.”
Tanya released T-Bone’s face from her grip and his tongue reached home as they both finally landed on the colorful coil rug, wedged between the couch and coffee table.
“Number one: do not ever do that again!” she said, breathing harder. “Number two: I thought she’d never get off the freaking phone! And three: get your face out of there and make me really happy!! Now!”
That was just fine with Dr. T-Bone, who was about to explode unassisted. He scrambled up her body like an excited lizard, stopping ever-so-briefly at her small, perfect breasts_____God, I love you, he said to them, but there’s no time right now_____before plowing her into the coffee table, sending one half-bottle of Merlot, two glasses, two plates and three containers of Chinese take-out_____all that and a bag of chips, literally a bag of chips_____onto the floor.
“Good God, yes, yes, yes, motherfucker, holy, yes, goddamn! ARRRGGGHHHH!” said Tanya and T-Bone.
Actually, it was hard to tell who said what. At least it was for Lolita, who hadn’t hung up because she was fully aware of what had been going on the entire time and just sort of wanted to listen in. Well, not sort of. She was touching her breasts in the mirror the whole time. Somehow her dress ended up scrunched up above her waist, and her underwear, which she had kicked off, landed on Wilfredo’s head. He and the other dogs were confused.
What’s up with Mommy?
“So sue me,” she said.
She gently pressed End Call.
Chapter 26
FRIDAY EVENING
“Okay, then,” said Max, “Call me as soon as you know.”
He’d been talking to his business associates in Dublin on the phone, and speaking very loudly too, but no one cared much because the Coral Tree Cafe on San Vicente was much noisier than a normal coffee shop. It was a surprisingly funky, sprawling space for tony Brentwood. It seemed like a throwback to the hippy days. Nowadays, a patron or two might exude a certain soupçon of ex-hippy, but they’d be as filthy rich as everybody else in there. Max liked it because he could eat, drink coffee, work, and, yes, talk above a whisper on the phone.
He was on the verge of the biggest deal of his life. Max had never really had trouble making money. He had a lot of specialized skills and a head for business and he hardly ever worked terribly hard. But this was different. If this thing went through he’d never need to work again. He could dedicate himself fulltime to the life of leisure he so richly deserved. He merely wanted to retire early to a civilized existence full of two deadly sins: Lust and Sloth. Was this too much to ask?
“Hi,” said Max to the adorable hipster girl behind the counter. “Can I get another refill?”
“Of course, honey pie,” she said with a sly smile. “How ‘bout another donut with your Joe?”
This twenty-something seemed to have made peace with her minimum wage job by wholly embracing a persona modeled on her idea of a 1950s waitress.
“Is your name Doris? Or Mabel?” asked Max.
“No, sweetie,” she giggled, filling up his cup, “the name’s Summer Starlight Friedman. I know. My parents were total hippies. I’m going to change it as soon as I leave home. Maybe the next time you see me I will be Mabel.”
“Ha. You really should have a pack of cigarettes rolled up in your sleeve, you know,” he said, taking his coffee and blowing on it.
“Yeah, I know, but I don’t smoke. That’s where I draw the…the…”
Suddenly she was staring into space. She’d lost her train of thought.
“Draw the line?” asked Max, peering into her eyes, searching for signs of life.
“Who the heck is that?” Summer Starlight Friedman asked nobody in particular, pointing over Max’s shoulder.
Max turned around to see Molly Hannigan, ex-actress, ex-Sternberg wife, current Max Ramsey stalker, staring from twenty paces. She was holding an extra-large-head tennis racket at the ready like a gigantic fly swatter. She had on some kind of Victoria’s Secret or Frederick’s of Hollywood get-up. It was sexy, skimpy, and unbelievably pink. Hot pink doesn’t come close. More like flaming day-glow pink…a surprising look for a coffee shop.
“Hi, Molly,” said Max, “how are you?”
“Actually, Max, I’ve been better.”
“Well,” he replied, “at least you look good.”
“Thank you, Max.”
“So,” he asked, “how did you even find me here?”
“I have my ways,” she said, smacking her open palm with the racket, over and over, making a ping, ping, ping sound.
“Okay, fair enough,” said Max, looking around at the faces of the patrons and employees to gauge their level of nervousness. Okay, High Alert. Check.
Summer Starlight was frozen in her tracks, eyes wide, still holding the coffee pot. She looked remarkably like a freeze frame from Happy Days.
“So, Molly, you realize you’re violating the restraining order, right?” He immediately knew this was a mistake, because the entire room gasped.
“Max,” she replied, shaking her head, “passions do not always conform to the laws of men. Especially men like you.”
“Okay, okay…got it. So why the tennis racket? It’s no problem, just wondering, just asking questions here.”
“I guess I just wanted to get everybody’s attention.”
“Yes, well, you did that,” he said, looking around, nodding.
“You definitely have my attention,” said Summer Starlight. “Hey, by the way. Are you Molly Hannigan? Because my parents are huge fans. Do you think I could get your autograph?”
Max sighed with relief. Oh, my God. Thank you, Miss Summer Starlight Friedman.
Molly smiled. “Well, sure. I’d be delighted.”
The tension seemed to subside.
She walked over to the counter. “Calm down, Maxie. Can’t you take a joke anymore?”
Summer Starlight handed Molly a menu and a pen. “Thank you so much. Their names are Joni and Garcia. That would be great. Wow. Yeah, I’ve never really seen you in a movie, but they are so into you.”
Molly put down the racket, hunched over the counter, pen in air, and then hesitated. She seemed to be having some difficulty deciding where to sign and what to write. The menu had about a million items on it almost leaving no blank space at all. This was making Summer nervous. She kept talking.
“Yeah, so, anyway, one of these days I’m going to look up your old movies, because I’m really into vintage stuff, like clothes and stuff.”
Molly closed her eyes. So did Max.
“Okay,” said Molly, tapping the pen on the counter, “are you saying I’m vintage?”
“Oh, no,” said Summer, “not at all. I mean, I think of vintage as a good thing, anyway, you know? But no, it’s more like, you know, when you did your movies I wasn’t even born yet, so I just don’t know that much about them. You know, like, I know they’re probably totally cool and everything, like Gone with the Wind and Laurel and Hardy, stuff like that, like classic Hollywood, you know?”
“Yeah,” Molly said, “I know. I remind you of Laurel and Hardy.”
Max jumped in. �
�I think what she’s trying to say…”
But Summer interrupted.
“No, no, of course not, no, c’mon, you’re nothing like Laurel and Hardy. I mean, they’re crazy, funny guys in suits and funny hats and stuff, and, you know, they’re men. So no, they’re totally different. Totally. Jeez. I mean, they did black and white movies and you came in after color started, right? Wait, no. Were you in the black and white days? I mean I love the look of black and white. Vintage, like I said. No, I mean, you know, it’s just that you’re both, you know, old.”
Molly glared at Summer, who realized what she’d done. She was afraid to even try to say anything to fix it. “I’ve said too much.” She shut her eyes and gritted her teeth. Everyone in the room did the same. Everyone except Molly.
So she was literally the only person to fully see her perfectly executed forehand drive as it sliced through the pyramid of heavy, off-white, stone-wear coffee mugs, a multi-tiered mountain of cakes and croissants, and a couple of colorful point-of-purchase displays on the counter. Shards and shrapnel ricocheted everywhere, some actually becoming deeply embedded in the walls and ceiling. Her tennis swing had really come along. The pro at the club would have been very proud.
Somebody had called the police during the opening moments of this episode of the Molly Hannigan Reality Show. Three squad cars arrived, lights flashing, sirens screaming.
Molly snuck out the side door and disappeared into the mean streets of Brentwood, using the racket to machete her way through lush hedges that protect manicured backyards…terrifying old-money, new-money, and no-money undocumented gardeners and hipster coffee pourers alike.
Max ran after her. He had to help her if he could. He knew it could be the worst possible thing…she might think that his chasing her would mean that he wanted to be with her, that things might go back to the way they were. But he did care about her and he was worried something terrible might happen.
But by the time he reached the middle of Barrington Avenue——cars honking, drivers screaming——he’d lost sight of her.
“Molly! Come on, Molly! Come back, we need to talk.”
Nothing. Max ran up the hill toward Brentwood Village, calling her name. One police car passed him, then another. But soon they circled back, obviously unable to find her. He tried her cell number, but it was out of service. He knew for a fact that they’d sold their house in the Palisades, so he couldn’t even go there and wait for her.
He wondered if he should try to get in touch with her ex-husband or estranged daughter, but he knew they’d left town. Plus they both hated him. On the wild chance that he could actually track them down, he really could not see how getting a call out of the blue from their ex-wife-mom’s despised ex-lover could possibly help anybody. He wasn’t sure what to do next.
Chapter 27
SATURDAY 10:21 AM
Cynthia loved driving on empty freeways. It could not be more pleasurable. She had never before been to the Long Beach Yacht Club, but she did love the Long Beach Harbor…partly because of how unlike L.A. it was.
She had stayed at the Queen Mary Hotel a couple of times. It really gave you an idea of what travel used to be about. Glamor, leisure, social interaction…all the things you do not find at an airport today.
The harbor was also a huge, working city unto itself, blue collar, tons of people laboring hard instead of lying around pools making phone calls or waiting for the phone to ring.
The Yacht Club was on the beach, slightly separated from the city. She pulled into the parking lot, noticing that the only non-luxury cars were pristine pick-up trucks used to tow smaller vessels.
She grabbed her suitcase and walked around to the docks, looking for Slip 225, the Radcliffe spot. She really knew nothing about sailing. She’d been a guest on a few boats, but they had been of the “sleeps-two” or “sleeps-none” variety. Walking along this network of docks, dwarfed by yacht after yacht, was like being a Lilliputian in a bathtub full of very, very expensive toy boats.
She found her way to Slip 225, where a thirteen year-old sailor was waiting next to a beautiful wooden motorboat. This was not the boat; this was the boat to get to the boat. They apparently had several of these kids ferrying guests over to the yacht, which was about two hundred yards offshore.
“Hi,” said Sailor Boy, looking up from his Mad Magazine. “Are you part of the Radcliffe party? If so, you’re too early.”
“Yes, well, not exactly. I’m Cynthia Amas. I helped Ava put this whole thing together.”
“Oh, right, yes,” he said, standing up and dropping the Mad onto the chair, “Of course. Let’s get you out there.”
He assisted her down the ladder and started the engine.
It purred. This boat was gorgeous. The rich tones of highly polished woods reminded Cynthia of a fine musical instrument--a Stradivarius or a Martin guitar. As a result, she thought of Pete, but she quickly turned to Sailor Boy, thinking that talking about something else would probably be a good thing.
“So is this what they call a Cigarette Boat?”
“Yes, that’s a loose term, but yes. They call them Rum Runners too. Go-fast Boats. They have lots of nicknames. They used to use them to smuggle all kinds of stuff in the old days. In and out of Mexico, throughout the Great Lakes to Canada, stuff like that. I think Al Capone’s guys used them to move booze in and out of Chicago and Wisconsin on Lake Michigan. Anyway, now they’re the exclusive toys of the very rich. Mrs. Radcliffe has three and she only uses them to get out to the Que Sera Sarong. Most people just use crappy dinghies for that. These things go for more than a million each. Don’t even ask what the big boat costs.”
As he said that, he pointed ahead into the breeze. They were fast approaching a very large, very beautiful sailboat.
“Oh, I didn’t realize Ava had money,” said Cynthia.
This made the kid laugh.
They pulled up to the larger boat and Sailor Boy followed her up the ladder with her suitcase.
“What’s your name, anyway?” she asked.
“Paul. Paul Winslow. That’s my dad, Freddy, up there on the quarterdeck. He’s the captain of this baby.”
“Oh, wow,” she said, “makes sense. Well, thanks for the ride.”
“Adios!” he said disappearing behind the gunwale as he descended.
Cynthia could not believe how beautiful this yacht was. It felt like an impeccably designed art deco house. The fact that it was floating on the ocean made it that much more incredible.
Captain Winslow came down to greet her. He looked every bit as salty as he should be in his line of work. She half expected him to say, “I’m strongs to the finish, ‘cause I eats me spinach.”
“Cynthia,” he said. “Welcome aboard.”
“Thanks…glad to be aboard.”
“I’m captain of the ship itself,” he said, “but you’re captain of everything else, as far as the eye can see.”
“As far as the ‘aye, aye’ can see!” she said with a smile that said, “Sorry about that dumb nautical joke.”
The captain rolled his eyes, but in a friendly way that said, “No problem, I’ve heard ‘em all, lady.”
He gave her a tour. There were lots of people scurrying around_____crew members, the chef and his crew, and others. Her friend Will Grover had added very little in terms of decoration, mostly tasteful touches that almost seemed integral to the yacht’s design_____such as the dining room’s table settings. The ballroom was adorned almost like a high school prom, except the materials were of the highest quality_____instead of crepe paper, cascading curtains of black velvet; instead of a glittery disco ball…a huge Swarovski crystal ball. The place was amazing. It looked like Will could have spent thousands of dollars on it, but if she knew him, it was all on loan from one of the studios. He was a wiz at getting amazing free stuff.
They entered a large common room and there, in front of a gigantic fireplace, was the most massive bear rug she had ever seen.
She gasped when she saw it.<
br />
“Not to worry,” said the captain. “I have it on good authority from your friend Will that it is 100% synthetic. I’m sure he’s right. They don’t grow bears that big.”
Cynthia realized that was true. The rug was a whole lot bigger than a bear. And she was relieved. She knew for a fact that there were at least four vegetarians in the group. She even wondered if some people would be freaked out by it anyway. But then she bent down and felt it. It was so soft and luxurious, she could totally imagine rolling around on it. Which was a good thing.
“Hey, Captain Freddy,” she said. “Where’s the nearest bathroom? Sorry. I mean, head.”
“Right this way. Just around that screen. There are ten on board. But if I’m not mistaken, your bedroom is that one right over there. Obviously, there’s a head in there too. Why don’t you take your time, freshen up, and I’ll see you around the deck.”
“Shiver me timbers, Captain,” she said.
“Hilarious, Captain,” he replied.
Her bedroom was better than her bedroom at home. A lot better. She emptied the contents of her suitcase into the small built-in art deco dresser. She did that freshening up. She looked in the mirror and fixed her face. She wondered how she had gotten herself into this. The huge payday helped, of course, but she still wondered if this was the best thing for her business and her life.
She called her mother and got voicemail.
She called Pete and got the same.
She felt a little bit stranded. So much for the information age. She was a problem solver by nature and by profession and she was feeling a bit too ineffectual for her taste.
Chapter 28
SATURDAY SOMETIME
The night before, when Max got back to the coffee shop, his briefcase and laptop were missing. Summer Starlight Friedman was gone. There was a new barista at the counter. A much more sullen coffee slinger…a bearded fellow with deep-set, heavy-lidded eyes and a permanent sneer.