More Muffia (The Muffia Book 2)
Page 19
“Of course,” I said, and meant it. Boris was cute and everything, but the only use I had for the pictures was to prove to Titania that I could hurt her if she didn’t come clean.
He turned his face to glance at the passenger rearview mirror. “It’s better we keep moving,” he said, disturbing my daydream in which Jamie tossed Titania out on her ass.
“I was headed home.” I put the car back in drive and pulled out into the steady stream of cars on Robertson Avenue. “And after that, to dance class.”
“As you wish,” he said, after which the conversation summarily died. After going several long city blocks without a peep, I decided to continue on by myself.
“How is that going, the pole dancing?” I asked myself. “It’s going very well, thanks for asking,” I responded. “How long have you been dancing, Ms. Cunningham?” “Oh, about two years, and please, call me Quinn.” “What is it you like best about pole dancing, Quinn?” “Well, let’s see...I really like the platform shoes, plus it’s great exercise—not to mention a terrific stress reducer while also being a very expressive form of dance.” “Wow, that’s amazing. You must be…”
“Okay, that’s enough,” said Frank. “I’m not much of a conversationalist.”
“Do ya think?” I said, teasing.
“When I’m on the job, I’m thinking about a lot of other stuff, not small talk.”
This comment begged two questions: What was the other stuff? And how would he be at conversing off the job? I found myself interested in both.
We continued along in silence for another couple of blocks. “Think you’ll ever do anything with it—the pole dancing, I mean?”
So he could make conversation! “Like what?” I asked, encouraging him.
“What do other women do with it?”
“Some dance for their boyfriends or husbands. Others work at strip clubs. Too bad I’m over thirty. It might have been something to explore if I get fired.”
He cleared his throat. “That won’t happen.”
Did I detect in his voice more concern about my future than he perhaps intended? Or was I just wishing I had. I glanced over at him. He was facing forward, lips—nice lips—tight. If only I’d been able to see what his eyes were doing behind those lenses, it would make it a whole lot easier to know how to behave.
“I hope you’re right. I’d sure miss the employee insurance plan,” I said, as we passed by the trendy shops north of West Third. “Do you want me to drive you back? We’re going to be so far from your car. How will you...?”
“I’ll get myself back.”
He was so damned capable, which reminded me of Vicki’s comment about finding a guy to get her through an apocalypse. Frank seemed like a great candidate for the job. But he was so stingy with words, it would be awfully quiet before the apocalypse arrived. Maybe if I kissed him, his lips would loosen up and stimulate another form of lip loosening.
Turning onto Melrose, I realized I was now driving aimlessly and would have to turn around to get to my apartment. I wasn’t sure why he thought it was better to keep moving. Besides, he’d already moved me a little just sitting in a parked car, and he hadn’t even touched me. Certainly, my little problem at work did not rise to the level where someone would hire another someone to tail me. So why were we driving around? I had an ah-ha moment—someone might not be tailing me but might be tailing my private investigator.
“Frank?”
“Yes?”
“What’s the real reason you have me driving us around? What aren’t you telling me?”
As it was rush hour and the car was moving, I couldn’t turn to look at him, but I felt his body flinch.
“Is the reason you just show up all the time and you won’t let me call you because you’re involved in something other than my little problem?” If Frank was a full-time employee of a corporate espionage company, which he was, there probably was something else afoot.
“No,” said Frank, offering nothing more.
“Is it a girlfriend?” I asked, getting an idea. “I know! In an ironic twist, you have a girlfriend who’s having you tailed, in which case, what must she think!”
“No, Ms. Cunningham. There’s no girlfriend.”
There was another pause, again with no additional information. I was concentrating so hard on a way to get a rise out of him—to find out what else might be going on—that I ran a red light.
“Please concentrate on the road, Ms. Cunningham. In fact,” he was once more checking the rearview, “pull over when you can.”
“My name is Quinn!” I said, angry that I couldn’t seem to penetrate his tough exterior.
I saw an empty spot and swerved into it without slowing, which made him reach for the handle above the door to steady himself. He had the good sense not to complain about my driving, as he faced me and removed his sunglasses.
“I have told you what I intended to. However, before I get out of the car, I want you to tell me all about your boyfriend, Steven.”
CHAPTER 20
Though I immediately felt the absence of Frank’s solid and comforting presence once he got out of the car, I also felt lighter than I had in awhile, knowing I could now prove what I had suspected about the self-serving, two-timing Titania. And notwithstanding Frank’s request that I dredge up my relationship with Steven—the details of which I would have preferred to keep buried—part of me hoped it was Frank’s romantic speculation about me that made him ask. That said, he refused to tell me his reasons unless and until he discovered something legitimate that related to my case.
I was also sad to see him walk away because, in my mind, he’d solved the case and now he might not have reason to make an appearance ever again. I realized I would be very happy to have him around, even if his part in the proceedings was over. Unlike on TV, I come to find out, a private detective doesn’t bust down doors and make arrests unless he or she is pushing the limits of his or her authority. A P.I. finds out things his or her client wants to know and turns that information over to the client to do with as he or she sees fit.
Frank had found out that Titania was a switch hitter. Now it was up to me to go to Titania and, depending on how that went, to Jamie. The piece of the puzzle I did not yet have, which Frank said he’d continue to work on, was connecting Titania to the pictures that were sent to Jamie. So far he hadn’t been able to gain access to the database that would tell him. So there was still hope I might see him again.
After an invigorating dance class, I stopped at Whole Paycheck to spend a good portion of it picking up nuts, gluten-free bread, yoghurt, and local organic produce and had the thought that, considering all the money I spent in the place on a weekly basis, maybe I shouldn’t have been so quick to dismiss Dateafarmer.com. A non-stop supply of organic produce, though boring as an all-day-slash-everyday solution to hunger, would still be great if I lost my job. And it was superior to becoming a bag lady, that’s for sure.
I returned home and poured a glass of Pinot Noir made from grapes grown in the Santa Rita foothills. That might sound hoity-toity, but it’s actually the only bit of impressive wine trivia I know. Someone told me once that any Pinot Noir from the Santa Rita foothills region of Santa Barbara County was a sure thing and, so far, that piece of advice has held true.
After a few savoring sips, I set about preparing a beet salad with walnuts and goat cheese, which I ate while catching up on unanswered emails and planning my strategy for exoneration the following day.
My personal email box was stuffed with missives of all kinds. Frank’s pictures were there, along with Muffia emails and action requests sent by every environmental, animal, and political group I’d ever heard of. There were also at least forty emails sent by NowLove alerting me to prospective matches: “ClassyChassis sent you a wink,” and “Pantheon wants to meet you,” they beckoned cheerily. The handles of these heartthrobs ranged from QuasiCoachPotato and JohnGaltWasHere to Bioforce—all of which I deleted for sounding either too lazy or too egotistica
l. There were also a few emails from a guy named Gary, aka ManforYou, whom I’d been corresponding with before my date with John. Curious, I clicked on the most recent.
To: Miss_Quinn@thecloud.com
From: GBLevchenko@yahoo.com
Subject: Us
Where’d you go? I thought we were having a good time.
If tossing sexy bon mots back and forth constituted a good time, we’d been having a ball, but did I want to get back into that game? I found myself thinking about Frank as I took another sip of wine. Frank didn’t seem interested so, why not?
To: GBLevchenko@yahoo.com
From: Miss_Quinn@thecloud.com
Subject: Us
Hi Gary, how goes the dating?
I hit send and clicked over to my main email account to read one of numerous emails from members of The Muffia—this one the first in a thread started by Jelicka.
To: TheMuffia
From: MissJelickaG@aol.com
Subject: Shut ’em down
Thanks, Kiki, for a scrumptious lunch on Saturday. For those who couldn’t make it (missed you), K laid out a spread and served up some tasty Sangria (recipe pls), while showing us what she’s dealing with at the house next door. Oy, she wasn’t kidding about the cement animals. We noshed on garlic shrimp while listening to the owner planning his porn shoot—which M says is illegal without a permit (not to mention tacky in a residential neighborhood), so we’re going to shut ’em down, ladies. Who’s in?
Before I could continue reading the multiple responses in the thread, Ding—another email from Gary hit my “dating” box. He must be up late trolling, too.
To: Miss_Quinn@thecloud.com
From: GBLevchenko@yahoo.com
Subject: Us
I was hoping to meet you then you disappeared. What are you doing now? Wanna Skype?
I’d already taken off the make-up, and my hair was in a knot on top of my head, so there’d be no Skyping for me tonight. We didn’t know each other well enough for him to see me like that anyway. Hell, I’m not sure I want someone to ever see me like that.
To: GBLevchenko@yahoo.com
From: Miss_Quinn@thecloud.com
Subject: Us
No can do, but I’m ready to talk on the phone, tomorrow maybe?
Hitting send, I clicked on a response from Maddie to Jelicka’s email:
To: TheMuffia
From: MSC@MSCMediate.com
Subject: re: Shut ’em down
Pending no school functions, I’m there. BTW, K, I found a slew of businesses linked to that address, including a sports drink, a DVD workout program, a Twitter follower generator, and yes, porn. There were also job postings on Craigslist linking to that address. Anyway, you look at it; they shouldn’t be doing what they’re doing, so we WILL shut ’em down!
Pretty much everyone said they wanted to be there, which meant that when the time came for the bust, half of us would actually show. A couple of Muffs commented on liking When Will There Be Good News?, which was gratifying, and three or four mentioned their dresses for the upcoming benefit. All of them had something to say about my online dating pursuits when Ding—another email from Gary popped into my box.
To: Miss_Quinn@thecloud.com
From: GBLevchenko@yahoo.com
Subject: Skype
Come on, just for a little bit? I’d like to see you. It’ll be fun.
Fun? I didn’t think so. The answer was still no, but apparently he wasn’t getting it.
To: GBLevchenko@yahoo.com
From: Miss_Quinn@thecloud.com
Subject: Skype
Some other time, Gary. I’m not much of a Skyper.
I hit send, clicked back into the Muff thread, when Ding—Gary sent another email.
To: Miss_Quinn@thecloud.com
From: GBLevchenko@yahoo.com
Subject: Skype
Come on. We can watch each other.
If I hadn’t known it before, I now had a firm grasp of what he meant by fun. Well, it was time to put an end to the euphemism.
To: GBLevchenko@yahoo.com
From: Miss_Quinn@thecloud.com
Subject: Skype
I’m not getting naked on camera, Gary.
Ding—
To: Miss_Quinn@thecloud.com
From: GBLevchenko@yahoo.com
Subject: Skype
You might really like it.
Ding—
To: GBLevchenko@yahoo.com
From: Miss_Quinn@thecloud.com
Subject: Us
I might. But I’m not doing it.
Ding—
To: Miss_Quinn@thecloud.com
From: GBLevchenko@yahoo.com
Subject: Skype
Money back guarantee.
Sheesh, he was persistent. Before I had a chance to think about how to respond, Ding—he emails me again.
To: Miss_Quinn@thecloud.com
From: GBLevchenko@yahoo.com
Subject: Skype
Or you can send me a sexy picture and just watch me. It would make me very happy.
I knew I shouldn’t have answered that email. There’d been a reason why I’d gone on a date with John over Gary—though at present I couldn’t remember the reason—when the reality was neither of them was a good fit. In fact, they were both the lowest of the low hanging fruit—so low as to be already on the ground. And it was my own fault. All my life it seems, most of the guys who come on to me are the ones I don’t want. I was kidding myself if I thought it would be any different now that the meat market has moved online. The nice guys—the handsome, smart, quiet guys who had it all going on—didn’t need to expend energy getting a date. Women found them. So if I wanted one for myself, I would need to expend more energy than I was currently exerting to get one. For now, though, I just needed to shut Gary down and explain why.
To: GBLevchenko@yahoo.com
From: Miss_Quinn@thecloud.com
Subject: Skype
Sorry, Gary, I don’t want to watch you masturbate. Maybe if I was 17 I’d be curious, but now it’s just not satisfying. I haven’t even met you, so it’s a little presumptuous of you to think I’d even want to. It’s not like you’re paying me for my time—and please don’t offer. I’d recommend videotaping yourself and putting it on the Internet. I’m sure there are millions of other women out there who’d watch you do yourself. Maybe you can even sell it. Good luck.
I left out that I knew a porn purveyor who could help with distribution. Let him figure out how to do that on his own.
Hostile? Perhaps. But was it “nice” of him to jump to masturbation? I think not. Gary was not a gentleman, nor was anyone else I’d met on the website. Frank was a gentleman, but he wasn’t interested. But could I have him wrong? Maybe he was one of those nice, handsome guys who had it going on but was used to women making passes at him. That’s it; I just hadn’t expended enough energy. Well, if I ever get another chance...
In that spirit, I deleted all the NowLove emails having to do with winks and nudges, and so-and-so-wants-to meet-yous in my inbox. And I got back to what mattered—my Muffs.
From: kookykiki@hotmail.com
To: TheMuffia
Subject: re: Shut ’em down
Dear Muffs, Thanks for all your support. As soon as I know for sure that they’re inside shooting, I’ll put out the APB on the 911 and come over asap! xxK
Closing the laptop, I sat back. Men. The whole subject was tough—organic chemistry when you’re an art major kind of tough. So tough that busting a porn ring seemed safer and easier by comparison.
CHAPTER 21
“Hi, Titania,” I said, catching up to her as she stepped off the elevator into the lobby of the Talent Partners Building at about noon the following day. She was dressed provocatively, per usual—pretty pumps, bare legs, slim leather skirt, and a crisp, white blouse unbuttoned to reveal just a hint of cleavage into which a tiny gold pendant dangled. She was a hot little number, no matter which sex she favored, and the male security guard regis
tering the building’s daily visitors gave her a flattering stare.
“Hi, Quinn,” she said, haltingly—as if she suspected I was about to give her bad news. The girl was no ninny.
It was lunchtime and we weren’t alone in the lobby.
“I wanted to talk to you about something,” I said, drawing her toward me.
Her overly-mascaraed eyelashes fluttered open and closed—a few times in succession—like a baby bird testing its wings before it actually knows they work.
“Um...okay,” she said, inching toward the building’s front entrance. I began inching along next to her.
Glancing over my shoulder, I fortunately didn’t notice any Talent Partners clients or employees—only those I presumed were affiliated with the building’s other occupants. I leaned in, not like Sheryl Sandberg recommends, but just so as not to have my voice bounce around the marble-enclosed foyer. “Are you trying to get me fired?”
She stopped, not looking at me, and opened her handbag as if searching for something. “Whaaa...t?”
Oh, come on, you heard me. We were standing just inside the building now, in front of the doors—not a great place to pause.
“Let’s keep moving, shall we?” I pushed on the revolving door, each of us in our separate glass compartment as the door spun around its center before spilling us onto Wilshire Boulevard.
“So are you?” I asked again.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She started walking, long strides now, her heels clicking on the cement sidewalk.
“Don’t let me keep you from doing whatever you were going to do. I’ll just walk alongside.”
She gave me a sideways glance. “I was going to Chipotle.”
“Me, too!” I said with glee. “Don’t you love the bowls? I prefer barbacoa myself, so was quite disappointed when the whole thing happened with the pig farmers.” I could see in her face that she thought I was nuts. It was fun.