Damage Control: A Novel

by Denise Hamilton

  “The schools are getting worse, the police force is being slashed, everyone’s out of work, no one’s got medical insurance. And it’s gridlock twenty-four hours a day.”

  I nodded. “For me, L.A. is like a bad boyfriend I can’t break free of. Every time I start packing, it lures me back, promising it will try harder this time.” I sighed. “When it gets miserably hot like this, I remind myself what temperate winters we have.”

  “That’s working real good for you. Is that sweat beading on your upper lip?” Tyler said.

  He’d been looking at my lips.

  “It’s not just me, everyone’s hot and miserable today,” I said, “but they’re out there hustling. They know the government’s not going to bail them out. So they’re going to roast a goat in a pit and sell some dang tasty birria tacos on the corner until the health department shuts them down.”

  “Stop it,” Tyler moaned. “I’m hungry and you’re torturing me.”

  We were due downtown at the office of Paxton’s lawyer at two p.m. and had decided to grab lunch first at a food mall near Grand and 36th called Mercado la Paloma that was short on ambience, long on taste, and easy on the pocketbook.

  Settling on a Peruvian eatery called Mo-Chica, we slaked our thirst with exotic drinks that we got from huge glass bottles on the counter.

  I chose a violently purple drink made of Inca corn. Tyler got a sunshine yellow passion fruit liquado. As the sweat dried on our skin, a Japanese waitress took our order in Spanish-accented English.

  Outside Mercado la Paloma, the streets were a wasteland of mirage-inducing heat, trash, pawnshops, strip malls, and greasy smells from fast-food joints. Inside, it was cool and clean and industrious and humming with the homey, satisfying vibe of people chowing down.

  “I wish they could clone Mercado la Paloma and put one in every neighborhood,” I said, between bites of a dish made of chicken, walnuts, egg, and potatoes.

  Tyler chewed in ecstasy, swallowed, and shook his head. “You think these mom-and-pop places could afford the rent in West L.A.? Uh-uh. That’s why they’re here.”

  After lunch, we walked to the next stall and bought nieves, ice cream studded with swirly chunks of guayanaba and coco.

  In the parking lot, Tyler called over a guy pushing a beat-up cart and bought a baggie full of mango slices and chili salt, joking all the while in his fluid, colloquial Spanish.

  The seller, a small, bowlegged man with deep creases in his face, waited hopefully to see if I’d buy one too, then accepted his dollar, tipped his hat, and rolled off, ringing his bell in search of more customers.

  * * *

  At two p.m., we waited in Harvey Lambert’s immaculate office while police detectives interviewed Henry Paxton for the second time. The detectives wouldn’t say what new information they’d learned to prompt this meeting.

  The senator walked in to debrief, looking shaky. He said, “They found Emily’s purse in a Dumpster about a mile from her apartment. No cash or cards. That’s all they told me.”

  * * *

  Faraday asked me to ride back to West L.A. with him.

  We had a new case, a pro athlete named Artemio “Art” Salazar who’d been accused of rape. My first task was to set up a meeting with the athlete, his manager, and his attorney.

  I called from the car.

  Salazar’s manager told me the athlete was in Amarillo visiting his mother and would be back in two days. Salazar’s attorney said his client was at a training facility in Denver. I suggested they get their stories straight, explaining why Salazar had to tell his story before anyone else did. The attorney promised he’d talk to his client and brief us at two o’clock the following day in his office.

  Faraday, who was listening in, looked unhappy.

  My old-school boss liked to sit down with clients.

  If they were good speakers, if they were sincere and sympathetic, we trotted them out before the cameras like prize ponies. If not, we coached them, then set up limited press. Everyone has a narrative, they just need to learn their story arc.

  Face-to-face meetings with clients also allowed us to probe more deeply, gathering information to construct a better defense. In some cases, we told the lawyers that unsavory facts should be admitted and dealt with up front because they’d eventually leak out, making the client look sneaky and deceitful.

  But we didn’t always get the access we wanted. Some clients were too distracted or messed up or checked out. In those cases we met with their lawyers and managers, who told us only what they wanted us to know. It looked like Art Salazar was going to be one of those.

  Back at the office, I read up on our new client.

  Salazar was a Mexican-born, Texas-raised pitching phenomenon who’d signed with the Dodgers last year in a $60 million deal. He hadn’t talked to anyone since a waitress at a Cleveland hotel had accused him of luring her up to his room under false pretenses and raping her. A tall, sinewy athlete with green eyes, café-au-lait skin, and a soft-spoken manner, Salazar had dated Britney Spears and a long string of Hollywood “it” girls. Last year, he’d set the celebrity world agog and stoked the hopes of regular girls everywhere when he married his high school sweetheart from Amarillo, a pretty, lynx-eyed teenager who still lived at home. They’d recently become the parents of triplets.

  After doing my homework, I made a few calls to Mom’s insurance company and her doctors. I also scoured the Internet for any upcoming medical trials for promising new breast cancer drugs. Plan for the worst, hope for the best, that’s my motto.

  When I headed out for my date that evening, Faraday was in his office, talking into his Bluetooth. He gave me an inquisitive look and glanced at his watch, as if to say, “I have seen you and taken note of the fact that you’re leaving the office so early.”

  Only in the Blair universe was nine p.m. considered early.

  I drove east with the windows down, enjoying the evening breeze on my bare skin. But by the time I hit La Cienega, I was sweating. Reluctantly, I raised the window and put on the air. I wasn’t in coastal L.A. anymore, where ocean tradewinds cooled the land. Five miles inland, a different L.A. began. The inhabitants here also looked to the Pacific for inspiration. But against their backs, they felt the hot dragon breath of the desert sprawling sixty miles to the east.

  Soon I hit the Pico-Union district, an old, densely populated barrio south of MacArthur Park where Central Americans and Koreans jostled for space.

  I was headed to a homey Cuban place called El Colmao. Like so many of L.A.’s best ethnic restaurants, its substantial delights hid behind a no-frills strip mall in a graffiti-plagued downmarket neighborhood. These places had to be good—there was just too much competition.

  In front, vendors with pushcarts roamed the sidewalks, selling tacos, paletas, and fresh papaya on a stick.

  Illuminated in the sodium light of the streetlamps, they looked like a tableau out of a nineteenth-century Jacob Riis photo of New York’s Lower East Side, where peddlers and ragpickers roamed the streets, selling everything but WASP forebearers.

  I’d initially suggested a tapas bar, but I was happy that Dr. Turcotte preferred the garlicky juices of El Colmao. The guy had a Beverly Hills practice but his heart was with la gente in the barrio. Already I could see us trekking through the jungles of El Salvador, packs strapped across our backs, as we made our way to the remote village where he’d tend to the sick while I would . . . I wasn’t sure what I’d do, but I loved the idea of such an adventure.

  It was easy to spot him amid the crammed booths and tables. He was the only blond.

  “Hi.” I slipped into the red booth across from him, my palms suddenly slick with sweat.

  “You made it!” said Rob.

  “I’m sorry about last time.”

  “No worries. Don’t you love it here? I think I could live off the smells alone. And the chicken is extraordinary. With moros y Cristianos y plátanos.”

  “Yum,” I said, noting how the Spanish flowed off his tongue. Fo
r some reason, that reminded me of Tyler. Firmly, I pushed my colleague to the back of my head and concentrated on admiring Rob’s tan, muscular forearms. His face was open and pleasant and symmetrical, the skin smooth and ruddy. I wondered if he’d had any work done, and if I’d ever know him well enough to ask.

  It occurred to me that Rob and I were polar opposites. He was all about using cutting-edge technology to create a beautiful exterior while I’d embraced smart drugs to tweak and improve my cognitive function on the inside, where no one could see. Cosmetic neurology.

  The waitress came and we both ordered Jamaica, a purple drink made of boiled flower petals.

  “Rough day?” he asked, giving me a pensive look.

  “We’ve got a couple of big cases and I’m a little stressed.”

  “Anyone I’d recognize?”

  “I’m not supposed to talk about it.” I smiled apologetically. “Violating client confidentiality, all that.”

  “Will I read your name in the paper or see you interviewed on TV?”

  “You might. What about you? Operated on any movie stars lately?”

  “Touché.” He grinned.

  Even though we were white-collar professionals, we were still in the service industry.

  The chips and salsas arrived—an emerald green tomatillo, a chunky tomato one, and a smoky, brickred one with charred chipotles.

  “So tell me about your next medical mission,” I said between bites. “I want to live vicariously.”

  He was planning a trip to a refugee camp on the Thai-Burmese border. Malaria was rampant. Snakebite was a constant problem. Malnutrition. Infant mortality. There was almost no prenatal care; folic acid supplements were unheard of, so cleft palates were a problem. There were plenty of wounds to sew up as well.

  Rob was enthusiastic about his work and damn sexy, with that explorer’s tan. He was flirting with me.

  “I almost gave up on you, Maggie. Figured you were just shining me on. I mean, we’re both busy, but sometimes you just have to make time. Or it sends the wrong signal, you know?”

  “I’m sorry. But I cleared the decks this evening. We can eat in peace.”

  “I don’t believe it. Maybe you should turn off your phone.”

  “I’ll put it on vibrate.”

  The food arrived and we tucked in. The chicken was all lime, vinegar, and garlic juice goodness. The plantains were hot. The yucca, which is often too starchy for me, was tasty. The moros y Cristianos an inspired blend.

  I was on my fifth bite when I heard buzzing. My phone skittered across the table.

  I looked down. It wasn’t the office, I saw with relief.

  “Whoever it is can wait,” I said as the phone finally went quiet.

  But the call had killed our relaxed mood. We made desultory small talk, both of us avoiding looking at the phone that sat on the table like a little black bomb about to go off.

  “Oh, hell,” I said, reaching for it. “I’ll put it away.”

  Just then it vibrated in my hand and automatically I answered.

  And immediately realized what I’d done.

  I glanced up at Rob. His brow furrowed and his eyes darkened like a tropical sky before a storm.

  “Hello,” said a voice in my ear. “My lawyer said to call you. So I can tell you what happened.” The voice had a lilt not unlike the restaurant patrons of El Colmao.

  My heart thrummed, then sank.

  “Sure,” I said. “Thanks for calling. Is this Arte . . .” I glanced up at Rob’s stormy eyes and remembered about confidentiality. “Who’s calling please?”

  “Art Salazar. I’m on my way to my lawyer’s office. Meet me there in twenty minutes.”

  I took a deep breath. “I thought you were in Amarillo. Or Denver.”

  “No, I’m right here. Okay. You have the address?”

  “I know where he is,” I said.

  I made one last attempt to salvage my romantic summer evening. “I thought we were going to meet your attorney tomorrow at two?”

  “This is getting done now.” The phone in my ear clicked off.

  Rob put down his fork.

  “Um,” I said. “That was a very important client.”

  The doctor’s eyes narrowed. “Aren’t they all very important clients.”

  “Some clients are more important than others.”

  “You can deal with it tomorrow, right?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t. I have to be at a lawyer’s office in twenty minutes.”

  Quickly, greedily, I shoveled in another three bites.

  Rob wore a look of disbelief. “You’re kidding.”

  “No. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s almost ten.”

  “The news cycle runs twenty-four hours.”

  I put my napkin on the table.

  “I don’t like this any more than you do,” I said. “But I have to go. I have this all-consuming, high-pressure job and basically I’m on call all the time if something breaks. And this is a big one. It’s something you’ve seen on ESPN, in the paper.”

  I hated the pompous way I sounded. Important, high-pressure job. As if his wasn’t.

  “This is it, Maggie. I’ve given you three chances.”

  “I know. And I’ve already apologized profusely. Maybe we could have another meal next week, when this case is under control,” I said.

  “Why bother? By then you’ll have a new emergency. And our meal would end the same way.”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “Don’t kid yourself. You’re a slave to your job. You’re on this ridiculous treadmill and life’s passing you by.”

  “Thanks for the lecture, Doc, but right now, I’ve got exactly fifteen minutes to get downtown.” I got a twenty-dollar bill out of my purse. “Let me give you some money toward the meal.”

  “No.”

  I laid it on the table. “Then please buy some refugee kid a dose of antibiotics when you get to Myanmar.”

  He looked at me for a long moment. Then he shook his head.

  “I like you, Maggie. But I can’t live this way.”

  “You don’t have to be so mean, I’m just trying to make a living.”

  My phone chirped, and despite myself, I glanced down. “HOPE YR ON WAY TO AS LAW OFFICE,” Faraday texted.

  “See,” said Rob Turcotte. “Even now, when I’m trying to have a serious conversation with you, you can’t focus.”

  “I’m a horrible person. It was nice knowing you.”

  I shouldered my purse and made my way blindly through the Formica tables filled with families relaxing over late-night dinners.

  From behind me, Rob yelled, “Call me if you get downsized and decide you’re ready to get a life.”

  * * *

  It was after midnight and Mom was asleep by the time I got home, so I went out back and sat in the glider, rocking pensively. A head poked through the backyard fence, followed by a pair of shoulders. Then Earlyn crawled through the hole and advanced toward me. She held something in her arms.

  “I thought I heard you come in,” said Earlyn triumphantly. “Look what I’ve got.”

  The thing in her arms squirmed and I realized it was alive. She sat down, pulling it into her lap. It was a cat. A very large cat. Tawny and luxuriously furred. It had large tufted ears, a ruff of fur around its neck, large whisker pads, and a long fluffy plume of a tail. And large green eyes that regarded me with solemn intelligence.

  “Jesus Christ, Earlyn, have you captured a bobcat?”

  “This is Smokey,” Earlyn said. “I got him at the Maine coon rescue.”

  “Hello, Smokey,” I said, petting him. His fur was soft and thick and his motor started up immediately.

  “He’s a love,” I said. “Yes, he is,” Earlyn said. “I’ve been scouring the Internet, looking for one of these guys. Got him off a family in Artesia. They’re moving to Singapore and can’t take him. And when I got home with him tonight, there was a message on my machine about another one. So I’m driving up to Ve
ntura tomorrow. I’d like Smokey to have a companion.”

  “What you gonna call the second one?”

  “Bandit. Get it?”

  An image of Burt Reynolds flashed through my head. “Smokey and the Bandit.”

  Earlyn nodded. “I can’t believe it. Two cats in one day. When it rains, it pours.”

  “That is so true. With men as well, I think. I’ve gone months without anyone so much as looking at me, and now there may be several possibilities on the horizon,” I said, suddenly feeling the need to confide in someone.

  “Your mother will be thrilled.”

  “It’s like they can smell that someone else is interested. The first is a doctor, but he wants someone who can give him undivided attention, and my work gets in the way. The second is a colleague who’s been throwing some interesting vibes my way.”

  I made a face. “But I don’t trust him. He’s too much of a wheeler-dealer.” I hesitated. “And there’s a third guy. He’s lemon meringue pie-in-the-sky à la mode gorgeous and I’ve had a terrible crush on him since high school. Tall, blond, tanned lawyer surfer. Wonderful family.” I paused. “At least I used to think so. They’ve been having troubles lately.”

  “Date them all, honey. Enjoy yourself. You’re young.”

  “Only from your perspective, Earlyn. I’m thirty-three.”

  “What I wouldn’t give to be thirty-three again. You know, I feel younger now than I did at fifty-three and even thirty-three, when I was so preoccupied with raising my family. But this old body . . .”

  “You’re young at heart, Earlyn.”

  When I tiptoed down the hallway twenty minutes later, Mom’s reading light was back on. She was in bed, a Charlaine Harris book propped on her chest. Mom had always been an insomniac and a reader. Now she was bingeing on vampires.

  She wore a frilly cotton nightgown and I couldn’t believe how young she looked. She was sixty. By my ripe old age of thirty-three, she was already married, a mother, and working two jobs.

  Now she scooted over and patted the covers. “Come here and tell me about your day.”

  Soon I was nestled in the warm hollow where her body had just lain.

  I figured she’d bring up her illness when she was ready.

  “Got a new case today, Mom. Art Salazar.”