More Muffia (The Muffia Book 2)

by Nicholas, Ann Royal

  There was a pause. Finally, she sighed.

  “Websites charge a lot of money, and it pisses me off. They should do more for their customers. Did you know there are computer algorithms now that can tell online shoppers when stuff for sale has been stolen?”

  “Really? No… ”

  “Yes, there are. And if they can do that, they can tell female shoppers when a guy is already married, don’t you think? Or when he’s a conniving, lying, duplicitous dick.”

  “I’d settle for knowing even one of those things,” I said. “But Rachel… ”

  “We’re better than that, Quinn!” She was ranting. “We deserve better. I mean, I know you want to be with somebody; we all want to be with somebody who loves us. Who doesn’t?”

  It seemed to me now that her last break-up had been more devastating than she’d let on at book club.

  “It’s a scam!” she shrieked. “I mean, Maddie told me about that creep you went out with. If you want to go out with somebody so badly, let us find you someone.”

  “You know what, Rachel?” I said, calmly, trying to talk her down. “I get your point, but there’s no reason for you to lose it on NowLove.com.”

  She just kept going. “Did you know that ItsJustLunch sends friends of friends of friends of management to go on fake “dates” just so they don’t get sued by all the lonely women who’ve signed up believing the ads! It’s true; check “The Haggler!”

  Notwithstanding the fact I didn’t know who The Haggler was, it was quite clear Rachel felt wronged by the dating industry. Or maybe it was just men she had a problem with. But since my date with John, I had a different perspective on the whole process. Like the virgin who just wants to get the first time over with, now that I’d been officially deflowered of my first-timer online dater status, I was okay with whatever course my dating life took and however long it took.

  The culmination of my soul-searching and self-analysis at this pivotal moment in my life, with my career threatened by persons unknown, was that finding a partner wasn’t worth worrying about—certainly not worth spending hours online looking. If it was meant to be, it would happen eventually. But the process of being online and having exchanges with a few guys had yielded one giant benefit: I no longer felt that Steven was the only man for me; I felt cured of him and almost hopeful. That alone had been worth the price of admission.

  “You don’t have to find me anybody,” I said. “I’m good. I realized that yesterday. If I meet someone, great; if I don’t, I’m not going to force it.”

  “Okay, good. I’m probably not the best person to help with dating advice anyway.”

  “Are you giving me the reason behind your ‘Nude Men Without Faces’ series?” I asked. “I never would have guessed. But if selling out is any indication, you’ve struck a nerve.”

  “Yeah, lucked out there.” She laughed, one big, ironic outburst.

  “You want to talk about it?” I asked. “You haven’t given us many of the details about your last breakup. I’m happy to listen. Unless, of course, you need to remain pissed off and miserable for the sake of ‘Nude Men Without Faces II.’ ”

  She laughed again. “He’s not worth discussing. But thanks anyway.”

  “Well, if you ever want to, I promise it will stay between us.” I waited another beat to see if she’d change her mind, then thanked her again for looking out for me. One thing I could always count on was a Muff watching another Muff’s back.

  CHAPTER 17

  Four days later, with still no update from Frank—where-the-bleep-was-he?—Sexton, I joined Jelicka, Maddie, and Rachel on a drive to Jelicka’s favorite shooting range up the coast in Oxnard. Paige had also been invited—Jelicka telling her that having a stalker mandated knowing how to protect herself—but she claimed to have a previous commitment, which Jel took to mean her plastic surgery scars hadn’t healed.

  The plan, as Jelicka described it, was to go to the firing range and shoot at paper cut outs of “evil, horrible, terrible” men, aiming for their hearts, so that we’d be prepared if ever we were confronted by the real thing. According to her, one afternoon spent with her, and we’d all know how to shut such a guy down. Of course, Jelicka was the only one of us who owned a gun, so I don’t know how ready we’d be, but at least she felt she was giving us the mental ammunition to defend ourselves.

  On our way back to L.A., after shooting up a box or two of ammo, we planned to stop at Kiki’s to see just how we might help with the problem occupants in the house next door. Jel was hoping that if we were riled up enough, we might storm the place and catch the neighbors in the act of shooting porn. Not gonna happen, I thought. Not with me, anyway. The last thing I needed was more compromising pictures.

  Oxnard is a small seaside city with agricultural roots—it’s known for the freshest strawberries on the south central coast. If you’ve ever had reason to be driving the north-south route in the westernmost part of California north of L.A. known as “The 101”—we Californians being notorious for putting a “the” in front of any freeway number—you’ll likely have seen the miles and miles of strawberry fields that stretch across Ventura County. And if you drive through at harvest time, you can see hundreds of migrant workers, many of whom are illegal, out in the fields picking them.

  Personally, I have no problem with this—people want strawberries, farmers grow strawberries. When the strawberries need to be picked, the only folks who’ll pick them for what the strawberry farmer will pay are illegal immigrants. What’s a farmer to do?

  We need undocumented workers in America, no matter what Texas says. That’s why I find it ironic that the state of Texas, with all its bluster about shutting down immigration, sends its prize football team, the Dallas Cowboys, to Oxnard, California, the heart of illegal immigrant strawberry picking for summer training.

  Oxnard is also home to an inordinate amount of shooting ranges per capita. With a population of 200,000 as of the last census, there are five shooting ranges within city limits. Perhaps not as many as in, say, Oklahoma City, but it’s still one shooting range per 40,000 people. Compare that to the city of Los Angeles where the population is almost four million and the total number of shooting ranges numbers sixteen; that’s 250,000 people per shooting range. People can say L.A. has a high crime rate, but chances are Angelenos aren’t learning how to shoot a gun in L.A. At least we weren’t. We were on our way to Oxnard, an hour north past the strawberries, the migrant workers, and the outlet center at Camarillo to get to Shooter’s Paradise. It was a dive of a place through a small, desolate warehouse district and down a back alley lined with abandoned pickups—trucks, that is, not hookers—though a few of those might have been nearby, too.

  You might ask why, given all the mass shootings that have taken place in schools, movie theatres, and shopping malls in recent years, members of The Muffia—a sophisticated (arguably) group of women who should know better—were going to a shooting range when we might be fighting to get guns off the streets. So let me address that.

  We are working to get guns off the streets. It’s not just political, but when you see some of the people who hang out on the streets of Southern California, you don’t want them anywhere near a gun; they can’t even walk straight. So the Muffs go to rallies and send money to lobby for greater background checks and mental health reform. We have been known to argue with many a blithe and blind espouser of Second Amendment hyperbole.

  The second thing is, getting comfortable with guns—granted, this might never be possible—comes under the heading of common sense capability, right up there with knowing how to swim, drive a stick shift, and ride a horse. Now numbering in the billions, guns are not going to be wiped from the face of the earth unless there really is an apocalypse, in which case all of us—believers and non-believers alike—will get wiped out just like T-Rex and the Brachiosaurus. Knowing how to use a gun does not make a Muff an NRA member.

  The third reason we were headed to Oxnard is, well, Jelicka finally wore us down with
promises of a group ammo discount from her buddies at Shooter’s Paradise, along with a cushy drive up in her Audi A8—the one luxury item she’d held onto in her divorce settlement—and a box of red-velvet cupcakes from Sprinkles.

  “What’s going on with the Titty-tranny?” said Jelicka, once we were on our way.

  “Who?” asked Rachel.

  “That little two-timing, bisexual Slovakian conniver.”

  “She’s from Moldova,” I corrected.

  “Still—former Soviet bloc borscht eaters. They’re all the same.”

  “Come on, you eat borscht,” Maddie said.

  “All the time; that’s how I know,” Jelicka retorted.

  Maddie, sitting in the front, turned around to look at me. “Did you leave that picture button you found somewhere Jamie could find it yet?”

  “There are problems with that,” I said. “I know it’s Titania in the picture, but it was taken at such an angle that reasonable minds might legitimately differ. And Jamie, with her unreasonable mind, well, who knows what she’d say? I need more proof.”

  “I think you should get Titania alone and confront her. Say you have more on her than you do, and watch her body language,” said Rachel. “Maybe she won’t have time to come up with some lame excuse, you know?”

  “I agree,” said Jelicka.

  “Just be careful,” Maddie chimed in. “I’ve been thinking about it, and it could backfire if she calls your bluff.”

  Jelicka was undaunted. “You want her on notice and worried about her own job. Tell her you suspect she’s keeping secrets from Jamie, and you know what they are.”

  “Yeah, that’ll get her,” Rachel agreed.

  I gazed wistfully as we drove by the Camarillo Outlet center, wishing I had five-hundred bucks to drop on clothes. A little retail therapy never hurt anyone—until the bill arrived. Where was Frank Sexton, and what had he found out so far? That’s what I really wanted.

  “You’re not acting all that concerned,” said Jelicka. “What aren’t you telling us?”

  There’s not much that goes unnoticed with these women. I decided it couldn’t hurt to tell them.

  “Well, in an interesting turn of events, there’s somebody helping me—or at least I thought there was. There isn’t much time left to prove to Jamie that the damaging pictures will be contained. Whoever sent them is out to get me fired and ruin my reputation, but he or she is waiting for something—who knows what? —before they make good on the threat and put the pics online. So if we can find out who sent them and why, we might be able to keep that from happening.”

  “It is you in the pictures,” Rachel verified.

  “Unfortunately, yes. But no Hello Kitty girl was ever in any danger.”

  “God forbid the world loses any Hello Kitty fans,” said Jelicka.

  “If you want, I could arrange for one of the guys who pose for me to make a pass at Titania,” Rachel offered. “You might get some more pictures of her you can use.”

  I kind of liked that idea, especially if Frank didn’t come up with anything soon. “I’ll let you know,” I told her.

  “So who’s helping you?” Maddie asked.

  I couldn’t remember if I’d promised Lauren that I wouldn’t tell any of the Muffs about Frank or just about the free ticket to her Alzheimer’s benefit.

  “It better not be ‘married guy,’ ” Jelicka said.

  “Don’t worry. Steven and I are completely done this time. By the way, Maddie, he claimed he didn’t know anything about someone following me.”

  “What are you guys talking about?” Rachel asked.

  I filled her in, and Jelicka doubled down on the need for self-protection.

  “Are you going to tell us about this helper?” repeated Maddie.

  I decided Lauren had meant the ticket and so plowed ahead with the explanation. “He’s this undercover guy from George’s dad’s company who’s on loan until we figure out why someone’s trying to sabotage me. But like I said, there isn’t much time.”

  “Really? A private investigator?” Jelicka was thrilled. “Do you think he’d talk to me about his experiences? Because you know, that’s one of the areas I’m considering going into.”

  “I can ask,” I said. “He might—but probably not until this is over.”

  “What’s he like?” asked Maddie. “Must be kind of weird having someone following you.”

  “Yeah, how is that?” Jelicka asked, checking the rearview mirrors.

  “I don’t really know what it’s like,” I said. “To tell you the truth, I might have imagined the whole thing. He accosted me at the dance studio after class one evening, and since then, he hasn’t really ‘reported in’ or whatever it’s called.”

  Jelicka checked her rearview again. “So you think he’s following you now?”

  “I don’t think he’s following me; I think he’s supposed to be following the people who might be trying to get me fired. But it feels kind of nice knowing there’s somebody out there watching over me, you know?”

  “That does sound nice,” said Maddie.

  Rachel groaned. “Please...if being looked after means having a guy who takes your money and spends most of his days watching porn, I think we’re better off without one.”

  “They don’t all watch porn,” Maddie pointed out.

  As I’d suspected, and what had been made clear during the webinar, Rachel’s last couple of break-ups—first the gaffer and, after him, the rebound Greek—had been ugly, but she hadn’t said just how ugly. She’d been with women, but bottom line, she preferred men. She liked the cock. But now, having made the choice, she was embittered by her bad relationships and was taking it out on all men in her work. What was good and bad was that she’d found success (good) for her latest series of paintings depicting naked men with no faces, but she’d also found validation for some pretty negative feelings (bad). I wanted to tell her, “You’ll get over these guys,” or “This too will pass,” or some other tired bromide people say at times like this when they don’t know what else to say. But I said nothing. She knew I was there if she wanted to talk.

  In the end, most of us have been through bad break-ups and heartache, yet we usually recover and try again for love. What else can we do? I put my hand over hers and gave it a squeeze. I think she got it.

  Jelicka stood at the front of the shooting stall, earmuffed and begoggled, her gun arm extended toward the target. “Your stance can either be open or like this.”

  She shifted easily from facing the paper target with her body—her legs parted slightly wider than her hips, straight but not locked—to having her right foot positioned behind the left with her left side facing the target. For Maddie and me, this was a review; I’d seen both stances on a previous visit to Shooter’s Paradise. For Rachel, it was brand new.”

  “I prefer this stance myself,” Jelicka said. “It just feels more solid, especially if your gun has a kick on discharge.”

  Rachel seemed twitchy. “You okay?” I asked her as quietly as I could, given our earmuffs and the sound of guns going off in the neighboring stalls.

  “Oh, yeah.” Her eyes glowed through the scratched lenses of her goggles. “I think I’m going to enjoy this.”

  I smiled. “Easy, pardner.”

  For Rachel, this could go one of two ways, I thought. Either shooting at drawings of men on paper targets would help her banish the demons and give her new and better ideas of things to paint, or she could become totally unhinged.

  Meanwhile, Jelicka continued with her instructions. “You can hold the gun in one hand, but I recommend supporting the shooting hand with the non-shooting one like this. Being women we’re—duh— not as physically strong as the other sex.”

  She suddenly changed her tone to that of a non-threatening Southerner: “I do declare, women are delicate flowers, meant to—shit!” She clutched her hand.

  “What is it?” Maddie asked.

  “Broke a nail,” said Jelicka. “Ouch—down to the quick, too.
” She examined the damage. “Screw it.”

  She faced the target—a life-sized drawing of a mustachioed man wearing a balaclava and holding his victim in a headlock—released the safety and let go two rounds from her Glock. She then put the safety back on, placed the gun down, and flipped a switch that brought the paper target closer so we could examine the damage.

  “Oh my goodness, look at that—the delicate flower killed the big, bad rapist,” Jelicka said, admiring her handiwork.

  The guy, had he been real, would most certainly have been dead. She’d nailed him twice, right between the eyes.

  “I hope my aim is better than the first time we did this,” Maddie said. “This flower had no power.”

  Jelicka picked the gun up again and sent the target out a few feet. “Don’t worry, you’ll get it. How do we get to Carnegie Hall, ladies?”

  “Practice, practice, practice!” the rest of us said in unison, causing a couple of the tattooed guys in the next stall to glance over. All of us were wearing fitted jeans designed to flatter. Rachel was even showing some skin at the belly. The poor boys; we must have been distracting them from making a bullseye.

  “I still can’t believe I let you talk me into going to Nissim’s house to look for evidence and you pulled out that gun. That gun,” Maddie continued.

  All of us had heard about Jelicka and Maddie’s illegal search of Udi’s friend’s house after Udi had “died.” They’d turned up nothing, and the escapade could have landed them in jail—or even dead—had Nissim not been so forgiving.

  “I want to try,” Rachel said.

  “Let’s do it,” said Jelicka. She placed the Glock on the shelf and maneuvered Rachel into position at the front of the stall facing the rapist. Rachel claimed never to have shot a pistol in her life, but you’d never have guessed. She assumed the stance and positioned the gun like a seasoned pro. Surprisingly, most of her shots found the target—or at least the paper the target was on.

  After she’d fired out the clip, she stood taller. That’s the strange thing about guns. Even if you hate them, or are scared of them and think they should all be banned for fear they could end up in the hands of a psyche patient off his meds, holding and firing one gives a person a sense of power and control in a world where we truly have very little of either. But the power isn’t real, and we’d be wise to remember that.