1 Cupcakes, Lies, and Dead Guys

by Pamela DuMond

  “After right now there is no Mike Piccolino,” Grady said. “There was a complete jerk you used to be involved with whose claim to fame was one national Family Values pickle commercial, but he's history.”

  Julia chimed in, “Pickles. You should definitely call him Pickles. At least until you figure out if you want a divorce.”

  Annie frowned. “I can’t deal with the D word tonight.”

  Grady raised his Bombshell. “Come on. A toast. To Pickles, formerly known as Mike. May he rest in peace.” Grady and Julia toasted and slugged their Bombshells.

  Annie slurped the remaining contents from the bottom of her mug. “Oh, I wouldn’t say, rest in peace. No. I’d say, ‘To Pickles. May he end up sliced, diced and smothered in ketchup under a stale bun on top of a burger made from a very old, stringy, depressed cow. Then whoever ordered that burger hates pickles and not only pushes him to the side, but dumps him into that germ infested trash bucket outside the Grade C fast food place in a skivvy part of town.’ Hah! Much better toast.”

  “Glad you don’t hold grudges for very long,” Grady said and shivered.

  Julia shook her head, “You don’t know the name of this stadium, honey, let alone the game that’s played in it. Watch, takes notes and learn.”

  Teddy the cat launched from a pile of books and landed on Grady’s head. He hollered and tried to grab him. Unfortunately, this only scared Teddy who instinctively dug his claws further into Grady’s scalp before he pivoted and catapulted into a box. He clutched his head and grimaced as a trickle of blood seeped down his forehead. “I might need antibiotics.”

  Annie grabbed a spatula and shook it at Teddy. “Theodore von Pumpernickel! Stop scaring the humans. Now!”

  Teddy glowered, raced off and disappeared into the nearest closet.

  Annie poured vodka on a paper towel and dabbed Grady’s punctured head. “I’m sorry, sweetie. Cats are super sensitive. Teddy picks up on the emotional landscape and right now he’s freaked. Which does not excuse his behavior or my responsibility. Anything you need, it’s my dime.”

  “Which, if you get divorced, is basically all you’ll have.” Julia gathered the fallen books.

  “Does Mike even know you filed for separation?” Grady asked.

  “Oh, he knows. I had my attorney call him. Mike argued. Said we needed to talk. He’ll be served in the next couple of days. By then I’ll be safely moved into my new apartment with my new cell phone with its ultra secret phone number.” She rubbed her head. “Shit, it all happened so quickly. I can’t quite remember exactly where I’m moving.”

  “You’re moving to the ’hood,” Julia said. “I saw the flier in your purse. Great kitchen. But you’re in the ’hood. Welcome to Crack-Ville.”

  “I know why I’m bitchy. But why are you so crabby, tonight?” Annie glared at Julia.

  “I’m having a problem with your choice in legal representation.”

  “No, Julia,” Annie said. “You’re having a problem with me.”

  “I’m a lawyer,” Julia said. “You walked out of Dr. Terrible’s office and tripped into the first door you saw that had Family Law stenciled on it. What were you thinking?”

  “That you’d spend hours trying to ensure every document was filled out perfectly and then forget to charge me. You just passed the bar. This is your time to build a practice.”

  “I’m a public defender. I work with the poor. I am the poor.”

  “It’s a start. Pay off the mind-boggling student loan you took out when you quit the safe teaching job and went to law school. I picked a different lawyer 'cause I love you,” she said, put her arms around Julia and hugged her tight. A couple of tears trickled down their cheeks.

  Grady sniffled in the background.

  “Besides, you know me and my family,” Annie said. “Somewhere down the line someone will snap and then need a lawyer for something more important.” She slapped Julia on the back. “I’d like to save you, Missy Big Guns, for the important battles.”

  “Like what?” Julia asked. “What’s bigger than your beloved Mike exchanging spit with someone who isn’t you?”

  Annie's attention was drawn to a live feed playing on the TV. Chaotic cell phone images of a metro guy on a stage backing up. Another guy in the audience section of a ballroom pointed a very shaky gun at the guy on stage. The ticker that ran on the bottom of the screen read HOSTAGE CRISIS AT…

  “Something like that.” She pointed.

  “Yay! I love this stuff!” Grady exclaimed. “Need to turn up the volume. Where’s the remote?”

  Bill the heckler aimed his gun at Derrick’s innards and wiped the sweat from his dripping brow. “I never meant it to come to this. I called your manager, Dr. Fuller. I called your publisher. Your editor. I e-mailed your website.”

  Derrick slowly edged backwards toward the stage curtain. “No phone calls from you, Bill. No e-mails. Nothing from my agent, manager, or editor.”

  “My wife and I talked to the police multiple times,” Bill said. “We took out a second on our house, cashed in IRAs and hired a P.I. to find Sienna. No one got back to us. Not one single person got back to us. How can your own flesh and blood disappear, and not one single person takes the time to call you back?”

  “The police never contacted me, Bill. Neither did any private investigators. Think about this, sir. It’s the power of intention,” Derrick said.

  Grady sat cross-legged, leaning forward, with eyes wide, three feet from the TV, trained on the hostage crisis playing out.

  Julia was absorbed in a book jacket on Annie’s living room floor.

  “What are you looking at?” Annie asked as she pulled some cupcakes out of the oven.

  “Dr. Derrick Fuller, author of the book I Promise -- You’re a Winner! He’s cute, a little dorky. He looks familiar,” Julia said and flipped through the book pile. There were ten books all with titles that started with, I Promise. Each featured different action shots of Derrick Fuller. She leaned in and examined one of the jackets a little closer.

  “Annie, you’re constantly picking up on what people are feeling. How come this Mike-on-the-down-low shit blind-sided you?” Grady asked without taking his eyes off the TV.

  Annie rubbed her eyes. “Because I just don’t know everything.”

  “Annie’s empathy works with other people, but it’s almost impossible for her to do it when it’s too close to her own life,” Julia replied. “Kind of like a surgeon who can’t operate on family members.”

  Julia held up an I Promise book. “Are these yours?”

  “Despite appearances, I have not had a lobotomy. Hell no, I would never buy that crap,” Annie said. “They’re Mike’s.”

  Julia looked at the book cover and shook her head. “Grady. Pass the… educational thingie.” She pointed to the envelope that contained Mike’s photos.

  He tossed it over and remained riveted to the reporter blabbing excitedly on the TV. “Anchor Jean Espinoza from WNBC in Los Angeles with breaking up-to-the-minute news. Disturbing images are being sent to WCNBC from an e-reporter indicate a possible hostage/shooting situation at the LAX Hotel and Suites. We caution you to view at your discretion as the events might contain graphic violence.”

  Julia pulled the photos from the envelope. Flipped through them. Looked at the book. Eyed Derrick Fuller’s picture on the book jacket. She gagged, shoved the photos back in the envelope, and fanned herself with them. “Grady?”

  “Not now.” Grady waved her off.

  “Here’s what we know so far,” Jean continued. “A simple Learning Annex seminar appears to be the location for tonight’s latest real-life show of violence. Dr. Derrick Fuller, best-selling author of the I Promise self-help book series was here tonight giving an inspirational lecture.” The TV news flashed a picture of one of Derrick’s book jackets, and then went back to coverage. “Things seemed to have gone terribly wrong…”

  Grady sat up very straight. “Shit. Julia. Pass me back that… educational thingie. Please.”


  Julia scooted next to him and mouthed, “It’s him!”

  Grady ripped out the pictures and held up one up next to the TV screen. His eyes grew huge. “Dear lordie. It’s him.”

  “Him who?” Annie asked as she banged around in the kitchen.

  “Nobody!” Julia and Grady shouted in unison. Grady shoved the photo back into the envelope.

  Annie turned and stared at the TV. “Hey. Why’s that guy on the stage look familiar?”

  “I don’t have a clue as to what you are talking about.” Julia said. “I think you’re more than a little tipsy and hallucinating. Grady, change the channel to Dancing With The Stars.”

  Annie frowned as they watched the guy on stage back up. “No, don’t. I’ve definitely seen that man before.”

  Derrick turned and bolted for the stage curtain. Bill the heckler jumped, tripped and fell. His gun fired somewhere in the vicinity of the stage. Derrick screamed as he fell to the floor.

  An athletic guy with a camera vaulted over several chairs and tackled Bill. The gun dislodged and skated across the floor away from their reach.

  Going down, Bill cried, “I didn’t mean to shoot! It’s not even my gun!”

  Onstage, Derrick crawled toward the curtain and collapsed. A smudge of fresh red blood lay on the floor next to him. Sirens rang in the near distance. Derrick couldn’t even muster a frown as he moaned, “I always thought it would be light. But it’s dark. It’s so dark.”

  The Sliding Toboggan

  Category: Hot chocolate with alcohol.

  Ingredients: Warm fresh 2% milk slowly in small saucepan. Gently stir in cocoa. Add sugar to taste. Pour into thermos. (Leave enough room to spike with vodka to top of thermos line.) Stir thoroughly. Sprinkle marshmallows (miniature seem to work best) on top of liquid concoction. Screw on thermos top.

  Appropriate Occasions: Teenage angst. Wishing one’s parent was more radical. Unconscious need to add to Major Life Debacle’s list.

  Best Served With: Teenage delusions. When no one got tipsy on the punch at the family Easter party—Summer Bible Camp—five days a week, ten hours a day for ten weeks.

  Four

  Hussy Sucks

  Only in L.A. would the guy in a shoot-out aired on TV be the hussy sucking on his friend’s husband’s face in revealing photos. Grady shook his head in disbelief as he compared the saucy Mike glossies to the book jackets, and back to the ongoing, unrelenting TV coverage of the shooting of Dr. Derrick Fuller. Apparently the shooter had been restrained and Fuller was hospitalized. No medical update had been released.

  Julia grabbed his ear and whispered into it, “Who do you think sent her the photos?”

  “Ow. Someone trying to be helpful.”

  “It wasn’t me,” she said, and her eyes narrowed.

  He caught the look. “Don’t you give me suspicious lawyer eyes. In the long run whoever it was did her a favor.”

  Julia nodded. “Should we tell her tonight?”

  “Tough call.” Grady grabbed a pad of paper and started making notes.

  “Rock the boat. Don’t tip the boat over. Rock the boat. Oooh. Wa Waaaah…” Annie disco danced through her kitchen holding a popsicle that doubled as a microphone.

  Grady watched her. He turned and looked at the sliding glass doors. They were fifteen floors up from the warm hard concrete ground where Prada paraded and parasites puked. That would so not be a good landing. “Does Annie still sleepwalk?”

  “Only when she’s super stressed and drunk.”

  “You know, I live in a first floor unit,” he said.

  Julia shook her head. “She’d throw up in your car.”

  “Your car. My car is new.”

  “No-no. I just had my car detailed. What if we tell her tomorrow? Is that being a bad friend?” she asked and pushed back tears.

  “I think that would be a very good friend, kind of thing. We could barricade the balcony door and tuck her in safely.”

  The most interior part of Annie and Mike’s apartment housed a small laundry room. It had no windows, balconies, or ledges. But it did feature a washer and dryer as well as Out-Doors Fresh All Natural detergent and fabric softener perched on a shelf on the wall. The floor was filled with a ton of blankets and pillows. Grady gently lowered raggedy Annie onto the fluffy makeshift floor bed. “Nighty night, pumpkin.”

  Julia, a stern look on her face, covered her with a comforter and neatly tucked her in with hospital corners.

  Righteously drunk and legally drugged, Annie laid on her back on the floor next to the washer and dryer. She kicked open the hospital corners, inhaled deeply and smiled. “Smell mountain air. Bitchin’! Yeah there! Skiing tomorrow.”

  Julia’s stern look melted. “No skiing, sweetie. We figured out who Mike was involved with. His name is Dr. Derrick Fuller.”

  Grady pinched Julia’s arm. She swatted him back. “I thought we weren’t going to tell her tonight?”

  “She won’t remember.”

  “Oh, so you’re covering your best-friend ass?”

  “No. I’m a lawyer. I have ethics. By the way, you call her Mom and tell her we figured out Mike’s slut is the über popular, Dr. Derrick Fuller.”

  “Why don’t you call her?” Grady asked.

  “For some reason Nancy thinks I’m a bit of a tulip,” Julia said.

  “Trollop,” he replied.

  Teddy strutted into the room, regarded Annie on the floor and on his level. He circled, laid down and snuggled his hairy behind next to her face.

  “Black diamond run. I’ll beat you to the bottom. Hah hah!” Annie giggled.

  “Annie,” Julia said. “Dr. Fuller’s the best-selling author of the I Promise book series. Sadly, someone shot him tonight. So between your move and the marital separation shit, tomorrow’s going to be a big day for you. I had to tell you tonight, because even though you might try to demote me, I’m still your best friend.”

  “I’m a best friend, too.” Grady slapped a new nicotine patch on Annie’s arm.

  Annie smiled. “Hot chocolate, marshmallows. My sec ingreeee-di—yum!” she mumbled, flipped onto her stomach. Her head dropped and she snored.

  The late morning sun burnt through the remnants of L.A. beach fog and illuminated a large two story modern McMansion. Dr. Derrick Fuller’s estate was landscaped to the elevens. Whatever was in style, it was here. Statues of Buddhas and multiple artistic renditions of Jesus and saints peppered the corners of the estate. Tall expensive trees rimmed the property’s perimeter. Exquisite Mediterranean tiles and flowing fountains complemented views of the house and the Santa Monica Mountains in the near distance. All these treasures surrounded the crown jewel: the infinity pool that faced the Pacific Ocean with a view that made an asthmatic grasp his inhaler.

  God it’s good to be alive, Derrick thought as he surveyed his celebrity compound. He laid on his stomach on a cushy chaise lounge facing his pool. He was naked except for his silver metallic Pucci thong and a small gauze band-aid taped to the middle of his right derriere. He talked quietly into his cell. “No, silly. Could have been more serious but I got lucky. Top of the line surgeons. Maybe I need a little more of your very special medical TLC when I’m out of the woods. Mmm. Would you wear the outfit? Of course I remember. I promised you. No, I don’t forget my promises...” Beep!

  Call Annoying. Derrick checked the incoming number and sighed. “I’ll call you back. I promise. No. I promise.” But the whining continued over the phone. “That other time doesn’t count.” More whining. He sighed again. He’d just been shot. Could he catch a break? “No. That doesn’t count either because I left the country for an emergency meeting with a volatile Middle Eastern politician who needed urgent advice. I’ll call you back.”

  He clicked over. “Yes, Barry I got your get well basket. Thank you. Loved the …” Derrick thought for a second. What was always in those gourmet baskets? “Chocolate covered strawberries. Oh, from Country March Deli. That’s right. Awesome choice. You rock. Did Mad
ison Morgan call you? He will. No, I didn’t get the other package you sent.”

  Derrick’s short middle-aged uniformed maid walked slowly toward him carrying a small tray that held one tall drink. She quietly placed the fancy fruity libation on the tiny table next to him.

  Loud squawking emanated from the phone and Derrick held it far away from his ear. He whispered, “Thanks, Theresita. A little snack for this hacienda’s head honcho, per favore. Ooh, one of those scrumptious cupcakes I love.”

  The maid sighed and looked at her feet. “Sí, Dr. Fuller. But I am not Theresita. I work for you for five years now. Remember? My name is Concha.”

  “Yes, Consuela. Grazie.” Derrick gave her a big thumbs up.

  Concha sighed and trudged back toward the house.

  “I know the last two books didn’t meet your expectations, Barry.” Derrick turned and stared over his shoulder at the small bandage on his butt. Itchy! He reached, tried to scratch it, but his hand and butt couldn’t quite connect. “Yes, I know sales dropped a little. And seminar numbers went down.” The blabbing on the other end of the phone grew louder. His butt cheek felt like monster mosquitoes were sucking on it. “No, not like the Titanic. Frankly, Barry, losing it only makes you a loser.” He grabbed the straw from his fruity drink, reached back and, hello, made contact. He scratched up and down, back and forth. Aah, a little slice of heaven.

  He smiled, relieved. Because now there was just one more ass to wipe. “You will always have a special place in my heart, Barry Cooperman. But Madison Morgan’s the right manager for me to grow with now. I believe our relationship has run its course. I will cherish you, always. Ciao-Ciao.” He clicked off and punched the appropriate numbers to block Barry from ever calling him again.

  A MasterCard bounced off his good butt cheek, sailed through the air and landed in the pool. He winced and yelped.

  A husky female voice asked, “But Derrick, will you always cherish me?”

  Derrick reached for his cocktail and took a long sip before answering. “You know I had a rough time last night, Tawny. Why’d you do that?”