More Muffia (The Muffia Book 2)

by Nicholas, Ann Royal

  “Ahh, I usually get the salad.”

  “The salads are good, too, but I find they’re really just like the bowls except with more lettuce.” Enough with the mundanities. “How did you get the pictures?”

  Again she gave me the vacant, “Whaaa...t?”

  “You know ‘what.’ The pictures,” I said again. “And just in case you send pictures to a lot of people, I’m talking about the ones you sent to Jamie.”

  She stopped for a second, me a beat later, and said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Then she started off again.

  Of course she’s going to say that. I knew she was going to say that but stupidly held out a misplaced hope she’d own up to sending them.

  “Are you denying you sent Jamie pictures?”

  “Ahhh… ”

  “So you admit it?”

  “What pictures are we talking about?”

  “The pictures of me.”

  That seemed to get her. “Where would I have gotten these pictures of you that you think I sent to Jamie?” Now she was defiant.

  You’re not handling this right, Quinn. She should be cowering by now. Let me just say, I don’t like conflict. For all my snarking, I generally avoid ever having to directly confront the source of my snarkiness. But this was my career on the line, and I really didn’t want to be—nor was I qualified to do—anything other than a talent agent. If I was to hold on to my job, that meant conflict. Muff Maddie the Mediator told me just to keep my voice steady and take long, slow breaths, just as I do when I say my aphorisms. Yes, yes, yes...

  “That’s part of what I wanted to talk to you about,” I said calmly.

  “I did not send any pictures of you because I did not have any pictures of you to send,” she said in a clipped voice.

  “But you’re saying you did send pictures to Jamie.”

  “Yes, but… ”

  “Ah-ha!” I said victoriously, remembering too late that was precisely how Maddie told me not to behave.

  “The pictures I sent to Jamie were not of you!”

  “So you had someone else send those pictures,” I said. Very clever.

  “What pictures?” She appeared now to think I was certifiably insane.

  “Of course you can’t admit it; I get it.”

  A cute guy with a nice build entered my field of vision. “Hi, Titania,” he said, pulling his Don Draper shades low onto his nose and smiling appraisingly. Though I was not on a first name basis with him, I recognized him as one of ours; I’d seen him at the last company barbecue. But to him, I wasn’t even there. Such are the young and beautiful.

  “Oh, hello, Sam!” said Titania, sounding very girly and sexy all of a sudden, in contrast to how she was talking to me. I could tell just how much of Titania was put on and artificial; it seemed like a rather large percentage.

  “Are you really gay?” I asked her once Sam was out of earshot.

  She swung around to face me and I recognized an expression of—horror, maybe?

  “I mean, it’s just that you don’t really seem gay to me,” I continued, “what with all the men and everything.”

  “Sam and I are just friends.” She resumed her march to Chipotle.

  “That’s good, because otherwise, the guy you perform regular body locks with might get upset.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” This time she said these words with more vocal power than I’d heard up to this point.

  “You seem more ‘bi’ to me,” I said. “No judgment, of course; just sayin’… ”

  She stopped again and turned on me. “Who told you this?”

  “An itty bitty birdie. I don’t know what kind.”

  “You’re making up lies because Jamie is going to fire you.”

  Oops. I do not believe she meant to say that.

  So...Jamie had let it slip; a faux pas, to be sure, but it probably wasn’t actionable. Meanwhile, I could see a noticeable frisson developing in her girlfriend’s demeanor—tiny glimmers of fear were detectable in Titania’s eyes and voice, but she hadn’t yet cracked.

  She looked away from me. Then, as if suddenly realizing where she was, she led us into the closest open building, through a glass door. Once again, I found myself in the make-up department at Barney’s. Excellent. I needed lip liner and had more than enough room on credit after returning the Natacha Marros.

  “You have no proof,” she whispered, as we approached the currently unattended Jo Malone display.

  How presumptuous to think I’d make any accusation without the ability to back it up.

  She stared at me in horror as I picked up a bottle of Mimosa & Cardamom and sprayed some on my neck. “Actually, that’s inaccurate,” I said, sotto voce, continuing to spray the cologne the length of my forearm. “We do have proof. Mmmm, that smells good. Doesn’t that smell good?” I said, offering my wrist.

  “We?” Her face went blank—an expression I hadn’t seen in all the sucking up she did around the office. She appeared to be suffering from incomprehension disorder, and the puzzling thing was, it seemed real. Did she really not know what I was talking about?

  “It doesn’t matter who we are,” I said. “We just want to know what it is you want.”

  The thing about being around actors as long as I have is you learn to spot the real from the fake pretty quickly. In the business of show business, the real and the fake are on display, side by side, all the time. So if Titania was acting, it was an Oscar-worthy performance.

  “Please don’t tell Jamie,” she implored. “I need this job.”

  “Funny you say that, Titania, because I need my job, too, and I’m not going to let you take it from me.” Maddie probably would not have recommended that I said that, either. Too sarcastic; too argumentative. I put the cologne down.

  “You’re not going to tell Jamie, are you? Please don’t, please—” She was really scared now.

  “I don’t have to tell her if you tell her that sending those pictures was just a joke.”

  “But I didn’t send her any pictures!” she protested. “Can I ask what they were of? I mean, what you were doing in them?”

  “It’s not important,” I said. “Let’s do this—I won’t say anything to Jamie about your boyfriend and you somehow get her to believe those pictures will never hit the Internet.”

  “But I don’t know… ” She took a big gulp of air—a sort of pre-sob. Now she was in Jennifer Lawrence territory with the acting chops. Tears were forming at the corners of her perfectly made up eyes. Hopefully that mascara was waterproof. “I’ll do anything; I’ll do whatever you say,” she begged.

  I don’t think anyone has ever begged me for anything—maybe an actor begged me to get him an audition for a Christopher Nolan movie once, but nothing like this. I tried to figure out what to do next, scrutinizing Titania until a Barney’s fragrance specialist appeared, bearing down on us in pursuit of a sale.

  “We’re sampling,” I said as we moved away from the counter, heading in the general direction of handbags.

  Was it possible Titania had not been the one who sent the pictures of me purportedly threatening the Hello Kitty conventioneers? Leaving aside the question of who, if not Titania, had sent them, this smoldering Moldovan with the big dreams whimpering in front of me clearly felt threatened by what I knew about her and sexy Mr. No Clothes. It sounded like she was willing to do anything I asked to prevent my intel from getting leaked to the wrong people—namely Jamie Harris, our mutual boss. Maybe we could make a deal.

  I found myself in a situation that was new to me—I was a blackmailer. I might get in trouble for this, I thought suddenly. But was it really blackmail? Even if all I was doing was scaring Titania into thinking I might reveal what I knew to Jamie? Even if what I’d be sharing was simply that Titania was not, in fact, gay but had a boyfriend? That’s not blackmail—I don’t think. In any event, I’d made no direct threat.

  Instead—oh my God—instead, maybe I should be worried that Titania would
try to hurt me! Really hurt me, I mean, as in physical pain. My brain started racing.

  Titania might be part of some Moldovan Mafia, able to put out a hit for less of a reason than the one she had for getting rid of me, which was no less than her livelihood and the MM’s access into the Hollywood machine.

  But that would be dumb, wouldn’t it? Of course it would. After all, I had said we had proof of her non-gayness. That meant not just me. So if she had me snuffed out, the proof would still exist, along with the threat. Even with me gone, Frank and The Muffia—just as powerful a force as the Moldovan Mafia, for sure—would come down hard on her and her associates. I decided I was safe and turned back.

  “We’re cool for now,” I said. “I’m not going to say anything to Jamie. But I’ll remember what you said—about how you’ll do whatever I ask. So just remember you said it.”

  She nodded, regaining some of her characteristically cool demeanor. I smiled and made a beeline for the Armani counter. Lunch hour was fast disappearing, and there was still lip liner to buy and a steak bowl to eat. But as we parted company, a chill ran over me—like I’d stepped from a warm taxi onto a New York City street in January. If Titania was telling the truth about the pictures, then someone else sent them, and I was back to wondering who.

  There had to be someone who, up to that point, had remained silent—someone I might not have even met but who would like nothing better than to see me fall.

  CHAPTER 22

  Later that day, Frank Sexton was sitting on an orange and pink cushion in the reception area at S-Factor waiting for me. I walked out of Studio One after a mind-blowing hour of pole jockeying during which I helicoptered to the sounds of Nicki Minaj’s “Out of my Mind” and the classic, “Love is a Battlefield” by Pat Benatar, and there he was, looking so out of place I did a double-take. Twice in one week he’d sought me out—and I was very happy to see him.

  It wasn’t that his being there was unexpected because his sudden appearance into my life was always unexpected. No, the reason it was odd was that men rarely come into S-Factor, no matter how much they might want to—whether their interest is borne of curiosity or prurience. It’s as if they believe that inside the place, women are concocting a witchy brew that is equal parts magical, enticing, and terrifying. They desperately want to partake of what’s getting cooked up but they fear it could well be their undoing. Even if a man isn’t afraid of a spell overtaking him, he might stay away just because he doesn’t want to know how the tricks and treats a woman bestows on a man get to his table. He wants the mystery.

  Knowing what little I did of him, Frank probably couldn’t care from witches’ brews anyway and, glancing out the window, I could see it had been raining, which went a long way toward explaining why he had chosen to wait inside.

  K-Love, coming out of the studio behind me, saw Frank and quickly stepped between us. Clearly, she’d recognized him from our encounter a week or so earlier and smelled trouble.

  “Can I help you?” she said as he stood. “You don’t look like the type who’s here for dance class.”

  “You never know,” said Frank, with a smile. “But I’m here to see Ms. Cunningham.” This guy was really growing on me.

  “It’s okay,” I said, though K-Love looked none too sure.

  She raised an eyebrow, curious about what was happening between Frank and me. Then she flipped her hair, like I’d seen her demonstrate countless times in class when she’s stickin’ it to the pole, and moved back to rejoin my classmates still coming out of the studio.

  I turned to Frank and found him looking down at my shoes. Still sporting my pink bling Bordello platforms, I had a couple inches on him, and I don’t think he liked it.

  “Are those comfortable?” He glanced up and met my gaze.

  “Depends on what you do in them, I guess.” Sheesh—I hadn’t meant to sound so provocative.

  In my defense, an empowering ninety minutes on the pole has been known to make a lioness of even the most timid pussycat. The whole idea is for a woman to learn how to unleash the creature within when she’s in a safe space so that she can do it any time she wants. I was still a work in progress.

  Watching his reaction, I realized Frank might actually be a little afraid of me, which took me aback. That couldn’t be why he kept his distance, could it? I realized it could.

  He cleared his throat. “I need to speak to you about a new development in the case.” That sounded ominous.

  “Can you give me a minute?”

  He nodded and turned to the door. “I’ll be outside.”

  “Frank?” I called after him, remembering I hadn’t told him about my conversation with Titania. “I have something to tell you, too.”

  He nodded and I watched him step outside, where it appeared to have stopped raining.

  I took off the Bordellos and put each into its own pink satin bag. I said my goodbyes, assuring K-Love that I could handle the man who’d again shown up unannounced and left.

  “How do you dance in those shoes?” Frank asked when I came through the door. A few drops of rain dripped onto my face from the wisteria wound around the archway over our heads.

  “Waltzing or tango shoes, they are not. But they’re built pretty well for pole dancing shoes. They wouldn’t have fallen apart running for a plane, I’ll say that much for them.” I wiped away the drops, his eyes not leaving my face.

  “Is that something you do?”

  “The airport?” I remind him. “The pictures? The reason I know you?”

  He studied me as though this was not at all relevant then did one of his scans of the area, presumably checking for danger signs.

  “See anything?” I asked as we started for the parking lot.

  On second thought, he wasn’t afraid of me. Instead, I got the feeling he thought I was silly.

  “The rain has stopped,” he said, announcing the obvious.

  “I meant something more significant. This new development, for example.” I stopped as my cellphone vibrated. I pulled out the device and looked at the screen. Steven. How long was he going to keep calling me before he got the clue? I dropped the phone back in my purse.

  “Can I ask you a question, Frank?”

  “You can ask another question, yes.”

  It took me a second to catch up with his humor. “You can be a real jokester, can’t you?”

  He had stopped a few steps beyond me and now came back. “Is that your question? If so, the answer is ‘not particularly.’ ”

  Why was it so hard to read him? Never mind, I already knew why, but I still wondered if I could get him to let his guard down. I bet Lauren, Jelicka, or even Sarah could have figured out how to crack his shell. At forty-two, I had the dating experience of your average twenty-year-old.

  “How do you always seem to know where I am?” I asked.

  “It’s my job.”

  “And that’s it?”

  “Yes.”

  Clearly I would not be satisfied. “Okay, so what’s the new development? Sorry, that’s four questions.”

  “That’s five questions. Do you have any more? I’ll answer them.”

  “Why don’t you have a girlfriend?”

  This question, though on my mind, just slipped onto my tongue and now it hung out there. But his expression remained unchanged.

  “Because I don’t.”

  It made me happy he didn’t have a girlfriend, but sheesh, I might as well be asking if he had a piece of gum for all the emotion he put into it. He stopped and pulled a pack of Trident from his pocket and offered me a piece.

  “No, thanks. Are we going to do this all evening? Oops—another question. How many is that?”

  “Seven.” He popped a piece of gum into his mouth.

  “By the way, I was good at math.”

  “I know.”

  “You know—?”

  He pulled his Don Johnson sunglasses from a pocket and slipped them on. Cute.

  “I looked it up,” he said. “This kind of
thing isn’t hard to find these days. Pretty much public knowledge.”

  Taking a deep breath, I willed myself to hold on to the vestiges of what had been a fantastic class. There was no end to the things he might know about me, which hardly seemed fair. If I could look him up, maybe the crush I had on him could be quashed. I took another deep breath and let it out. “You must have found something else, right? Otherwise, why are you here?”

  We were standing at the edge of the parking lot where anyone coming or going from the little shopping-cum-office complex where S-Factor and Katsu-ya are located could see us. Frank started across the lot and gestured for me to follow.

  “Steven Zucker has been sitting in his vehicle at your apartment building.”

  It sounded insane. Why would Steven be at my building? “When?” I managed to ask, trying to remain unperturbed by this information.

  I was aware of the pulsing male energy pouring out of him—thick and decisive—and I loved it.

  “Have you had any contact with him since you and I first met?” he asked.

  “No!” I said, denying vehemently the mere idea of such a thing. “I mean, he’s left a few messages, and I’ve tried calling him back a couple of times. But I haven’t actually talked to him since—well, not since I got back from Japan when we… ” Don’t be so explicit, Quinn! “I haven’t seen him since the day after I got back from Japan.”

  A piece of me wondered if Frank’s curiosity was strictly about the case, or if it was something more. Did I dare hope part of his concern might be personal?

  “You communicate through texting, leaving messages...that kind of thing?” he asked.

  “No!” I said again. “I never really even called him, unless I knew he’d pick up, because he told me not to; same with texts. He said his wife sometimes got hold of his phone and if she saw the texts or calls coming in from blocked numbers, she’d suspect something. So no, I don’t—I mean, I didn’t text or leave messages, though I confess to a few slip-ups.”