Good as Dead(3)

“Tarzana Presbyterian,” she replied, then asked me something that caught me off guard. “You want to ride along?”

The question was so unexpected I almost flubbed it. “No, I’ll follow in my car,” I said, riding her assumption that I knew the victim.

“You want to take this for her?” She reached under the sheet and produced something so miraculous, if there were such a thing as angels, I was sure they would be singing.

“Yes, thank you,” I said. I held out my hand, and in the most glorious stroke of stupidity she handed me the woman’s purse.

And my first problem was solved.





CHAPTER 2


“I took the liberty of having it furnished,” I told Holly as I handed her the key. “I wasn’t sure if what you had would work in the space.” I felt nervous, but I had no idea why. In my ten years working for Jack, I’d hosted senators and movie stars and even a crown prince—people with much more discerning palates than Holly Kendrick. Yet it felt like someone was pounding a drum between my ears.

“Did you decorate it yourself?” she asked without looking at me. The question struck me as strange.

“No,” I said. Of course it was a lie. I didn’t want her to know I spent hours at Ethan Allen, comparing fabric samples, opening and closing dresser drawers to make sure they felt good in your hand. She already thought I was a pussy, I didn’t want to make it worse.

“Can I go look around?” she asked.

“Of course. It’s your house.” I could have left it at that, but I added, “If you like it, that is.” I had no doubt she would like it. Why wouldn’t she? It was in the heart of the fancy Calabasas neighborhood she requested, on one of the best streets. Compared to the sad little apartment she was coming from, this was frickin’ Buckingham Palace. Still, I wanted her to feel like she had some choice in the matter, that if she didn’t like this one, we could just go out and get her a different one. Which we could.

She stepped up to the candy-apple-red front door and put the key to the lock. Her silhouette—tiny waist with sumptuous, perfectly round hips—was from a different generation. Born fifty years earlier, she could have been a pinup girl. From the front her heavy makeup and dark roots around her hairline made her look trashy, but from the back those bleached-blonde waves completed the fantasy—a fantasy I had to force myself to push away.

“I’ll wait outside,” I said to the silhouette. I wanted to go with her, watch her run her fingers over the polished stone counters and gleaming stainless steel. See her face light up knowing it was hers, all hers. Mostly I wanted to see her smile. In the three months I had known her, she had never cracked a smile. At least not for me.

“Take as long as you need,” I said to the back of her head. The door closed behind her with a decisive thump.

It was a glorious summer day. Bright sunshine with a crisp breeze. Growing up in New Hampshire, days like this were so rare that if we got one, we would beg our teachers to have class outside. They were so starved for sunshine they often would oblige.

I didn’t go back to New Hampshire anymore. Nothing and no one to go back to. Which was fine. I found my own version of family here in sunny SoCal. The Beach Boys were right about California girls. It had taken me a while to accept a sports bra as a top you can wear out on its own, but now I just said thank you.

I sat down on the wooden bench I bought for ninety-nine dollars at Home Depot and immediately realized why it was so inexpensive. I silently chided myself. Usually I’m much more discerning. And I settled in to wait.

Across the street a man worked in his garage. In his saggy Levi’s and vintage Chuck Taylors, I took him immediately for a movie industry guy. This neighborhood was full of them. Men who never grew up. Call me old-fashioned, but I can’t relate to a man whose idea of work attire consists of a rock band T-shirt and sneakers unfit for any type of athletic activity. He saw me staring and waved. It felt wrong to wave back, but I did. He’d find out soon enough that I didn’t live here. Hopefully that’s all he’d find out.

I startled when the door opened. I’d expected her to take longer, to savor the details. I couldn’t help but feel disappointed.

“Please tell whoever decorated the place they did a good job,” Holly said without the slightest hint of a smile. I was sure she had a beautiful smile. I doubted she’d ever show it to me.

She walked toward the car. I noticed she was limping.

And suddenly I knew no matter what we did, it would never be enough.





ANDY


Three months ago

Fuck, fuck, fuck! Why didn’t I leave earlier? I know why. Because an hour should be enough time to go sixteen fucking miles. But this is LA, where driving sixteen miles can take longer than traversing the face of the moon. And I’m a stubborn ass who refuses to accept that.

I took my anger out on the steering wheel, squeezing it until my knuckles turned white. I could feel sweat trickling down my vertebrae, bumping its way toward the crack of my ass. I hadn’t moved more than ten feet in the last ten minutes. Even in an apocalypse, with everyone taking to the streets at the exact same time, a log jam like this would seem hyperbolic. And yet here I was.

I looked at the clock, did a quick calculation. If I get off at the next exit and take surface streets, I’ll probably add five miles to the drive, but at least I won’t be just sitting here, marinating in my own body fluids.