More Muffia (The Muffia Book 2) Page 11

  The process of finding love indeed seemed overwhelming, but I was determined to remain, at least in the short term, undaunted by the challenges. And it was amazing what shopping for a guy was doing for my self-esteem. There were hundreds of men in my inbox every day to choose from. Even if 80% of the guys who had written to me weren’t worth the bother, the mere fact they’d contacted me felt good.

  I slathered an age-defying, detoxifying mask on my freshly-scrubbed face, poured another small glass of wine, and sat back down in front of the computer to assess my choices—determined to find at least one man, out of the thousands out there in cyberspace, looking for love, with whom I might go on a date. I only needed one. And I had to believe he was out there.

  CHAPTER 11

  Despite Picturegate hanging over me, the days seemed to whip by, and today was no exception. I still hadn’t been able to scope out Titania’s desk thoroughly, but I’d decided if I couldn’t do it soon, I would have to confront her, one way or another. This decision coincided with Lauren finally leaving a voice mail saying she’d call me at lunch. Apparently she had good news about the matter she’d brought up at Firefly—something she said might help me get to the bottom of who was trying to sabotage me.

  Until she called, I busied myself with two conference calls and finalized terms of a contract between P. Diddy and Toys R Us for the new P. Diddy Doll. Fortunately for all parties concerned, I was not in charge of marketing the new toy because the only tag line I could think of was, “You’ll have hours of fun diddling your Diddy.” Though this was infinitely better than diddling your “Daddy,” it wasn’t likely to fly with the advertisers. The marketplace, however, would probably love it, just as they had the stuffed, trash-talking Honey Badger.

  And speaking of diddling, if our online repartee was any indication, let’s just say I was looking forward to meeting someone I’d “met” online: JohnV202. If his picture was any indication—did I dare hope?—he had masses of dark hair and a style that might belong to a doctor or the owner of a small artisanal Bourbon distillery. According to his profile, he was in information technology— I.T.—but beyond that, the subject remained vague as I.T. always does. I hadn’t pressed him, figuring it was tacky to be overly concerned with what people do, rather than who they are.

  From his first direct message, he demonstrated that he was smart, witty, and that he had read my profile. What an enticing combo after the earlier lazy creeps. John and I took up an easy correspondence over the following few days, with the time between missives shrinking and the content of those missives getting more and more revelatory.

  And with no additional threats from Jamie for the time being, I eagerly accepted his invitation to dinner. And so, per Muff edict, it was time to tell the girls about my upcoming date.

  From:cunningquinn@Talentpartners.com

  To: Muffgroup

  Subject: Date night

  Dear Muffs, I have been warned by a couple of our esteemed body that I am to inform you when I am going on an Internet date or risk flogging. So you are hereby notified of my impending date Saturday night at Boa. No need to watch from the bar. Just send out the search party if I don’t answer the phone Sunday morning. xo Q

  PS—No new news on Picturegate.

  That should cover it.

  From: vonhooter@gmail.com:

  To: Muffgroup

  Subject: Date night

  Great on the dating but bummer on the employee sabotage. Lauren filled me in. Sorry to miss you all last week. My face still looks like I got run over. You’d think I got smacked down with a frying pan rather than one fuzzy yellow ball, but doc says it’s because of where the little beasty hit me. Something about my occipital sensory apparatus going into overdrive. Pick a book, Quinn!!!

  Oh, right. The book.

  From: cunningquinn@Talentpartners.com

  To: Muffgroup

  Subject: The book

  Will pick book by the weekend, or you can shoot me.

  Jelicka wasn’t done with date night.

  From: MissJelickaG@aol.com:

  To: cunningquinn@Talentpartners.com

  Subject: Date night

  Saturday night? Sorry to crash idea of steak dinner at upscale, trendy, expensive restaurant, but shouldn’t you start with coffee on a weekday afternoon? He’s probably going to expect a quid pro quo. And what’s going on with Titanic Titania’s desk? I stand ready to help sink that ship when called upon. BTW—Speaking of shooting—next week at the range. Who’s in?

  So far, no emails from Muffs declaring their irrepressible desire to shoot guns, but everyone did have something to say by way of support for my upcoming date—the Muffs are my girls, after all. Jelicka wasn’t the only one to warn me about the dangers of scheduling a first date on a Saturday night. Obviously, I just didn’t realize how sacrosanct that particular night of the week was for some people.

  Madelyn, who’d done a bit of Internet dating herself, said she knew of three studies that determined there was far more pressure for a date to succeed on Saturday than any other night, and one of those studies even suggested there was increased incidence of suicide if a date didn’t work out. For my part, it had been years since I’d gone out, alone with a man, on a Saturday night, and I was just being practical. It was the only night of the entire week that I didn’t have to either recover from the workweek or prepare for the one ahead. It was the only day I could wake up late and go to bed late and have enough time to take a pole dancing class and get a manicure—all without rushing like the fiend I am the rest of the time.

  So despite all the prognostications and potential dire consequences, both known and unknown, I was going ahead with my plan. Most of the time, I create so many reasons why not to do something, maybe going out on a Saturday night would make me try harder.

  Jamie and Titania left early for lunch, acting as normal as any other gay female couple in Hollywood—which is to say, rather unusual—but there were still too many people on the floor to make it possible for me to conduct another search of Titania’s desk.

  I made a few calls—one to Kiki to find out what was happening at the house next door and to ask when the Muffs might come over to help catch the neighbors in the midst of a porn shoot. I also called to check in on Vicki and, though she was happy I’d found somebody to go out with, she was still reluctant to join me online. The girl she was mentoring was turning out to be more than she’d bargained for.

  “Solange’s foster father is a pig so she did a little time, but she’s a really sweet kid.”

  “Hold on. She’s an ex-con?”

  “Not really. Her foster father was a scumbag.”

  “Was?”

  “He’s alive but see, he tried to rape her, so she defended herself—hit him with a football helmet and he lost an eye.”

  “Yeow.”

  “She should have gotten off completely, though. I bet Maddie could have gotten her off. The Public Defender was terrible. Anyway, I volunteered to help her, you know, to get on a better track.”

  “That’s so generous, Vicki. I really applaud you. Be careful, though—what if One-Eye finds out where she is and comes after her, and you?”

  “Restraining order—I’ll be fine.”

  Despite being concerned for her, what I mostly felt was envious. Because in addition to trying to become a better person—I’m destined for great things—one of my other un-acted upon resolutions was to get involved in a cause, or some worthy charitable group. My excuses for not having done so thus far were lame and included the idea that there were so many worthy causes that I couldn’t choose; either that or I’d talked myself out of each of them. I’d considered working to preserve land for animals and birds, but if the human population kept growing, all that protected land would eventually get taken over by people anyway, with the excuse that people are more important than animals, even though people got us into the whole mess in the first place.

  I could work to stop global warming, and even though I was willing to drive
an electric car—that is, if I could afford one—the planet was still doomed because of all the rich people who run the world and won’t turn the lights and air conditioning off in their high-rise office towers and refuse to give up their private jets. The rich have a far greater carbon footprint than some poor illegal immigrant who drives an inefficient truck. How could I make them stop?

  The American Cancer Society or some other organization aimed at curing a dreadful disease was a possibility—like Lauren and her Alzheimer’s foundation. After all, curing disease is a noble goal, but do we really need more people living beyond the age of 95? Just think of all the carbon-exuding activities needed to keep blind, brain-addled, methane- spewing, bedridden people breathing through tubes until they finally, one day, drift off to the next world costing their families and society hundreds of thousands of dollars. No, that didn’t seem sensible.

  This kind of reasoning got me thinking about stopping unwanted pregnancies, which was not exactly politically correct and, therefore, verboten for any employee at Talent Partners to get involved in. Maybe I could work to preserve historical buildings…that probably wouldn’t offend anyone.

  Meanwhile, my friends were out making a difference in the world. I felt like a slacker. “You’re out saving souls, if not lives, and I’m worried about Internet dating!”

  “You can date and save the world,” Vicki suggested.

  “You just got through telling me you can’t date and save one girl. How am I supposed to date and save the world? I can’t even save my job. I don’t even know how to date anymore.”

  “You’re right,” she said. “Just do what you can.”

  After we hung up, I realized Lauren still hadn’t called, and I was beginning to think she’d forgotten about me. I had probably invested too much hope in thinking she could fix my problems at work, but that was only because I was short on ideas about how to fix them myself. It looks like I’m going to have to spend some money to dig into the matter—money I’d probably have to borrow. Big inhale: yes, yes, yes, yes; and exhale: thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you. Just do what you can.

  Opening my eyes, I glanced around and lo and behold, it looked like Daniel was the only other person still on the floor. And he was clear across at reception busy with his takeout salad. Hmmm… Did I dare? With the droning purr of the HVAC creating white noise all around me, I stood up and walked to the break room. Again, surprisingly empty. I strolled back toward my cubiffice, encountering no one, and made a beeline for Titania’s desk. With luck, she’d left some drawers open.

  Yes! First try—center drawer, unlocked. Slowly, I eased it open, but there was nothing in there other than pens and blank Post-it notes—useful, I suspected, for jotting down all those chores Jamie wanted her to take care of. I pushed it shut, listened, scanned the floor again, then ducked down behind the desk where I’d only be spotted if someone came out of Jamie’s office, which I was sure wouldn’t happen with the lovebirds out at lunch.

  I rifled through a bunch of papers lined up in one of the compartments—nothing but gym and yoga schedules, menus from different restaurants, and brochures from waxing salons and lash extension offers—better to bat her baby blues at Jamie with.

  I put that stack back and moved on to another cubby. More mish-mash, but not the mish-mash I sought. If only people kept incriminating photos around. But these days, people keep their pictures on their phones. I briefly allowed myself the thought that if the planet suddenly stopped, and all Internet server farms ceased to function, any future civilization would assume we all died off in the 1990s, or else they’d wonder why we suddenly stopped taking pictures of each other.

  I was about to give up when I noticed a small vase with a couple of artificial peonies sticking out. As I picked it up, I heard something rattle at the bottom and shook it. There was something in the vase other than the plasticene peonies. Tipping the vase, out poured the fake flowers and one of those wearable buttons you can get at a portable photo booth: Two people kissing—really kissing—and one of them was clearly Titania. The other was a guy—Titania was kissing a guy!

  Wait, Titania was gay. Or was she bisexual, only pretending to be gay so she could manipulate Jamie? Did Jamie know her girlfriend had a boyfriend?

  Maybe Jamie considered herself incredibly hip and evolved for dating a bisexual. No, that was unlikely. Based on what I’d witnessed of Jamie’s past romantic liaisons, she needed to own her lovers—including Titania—and she didn’t strike me as the type who would share, especially if her lover’s lover was a guy.

  Hmm...I just might have found something useful. If its authenticity was to be believed, this photo badge might just undermine the relationship and possibly cast suspicion on Titania’s motives. But I needed to consider just how to use it. In any event, I felt better knowing I had something on her, as I gave up on Lauren’s call and went to grab some lunch.

  CHAPTER 12

  Stepping out of the elevator, as I considered how best to use my new find, I felt my mobile vibrate, and Lauren’s name finally popped up on caller I.D.

  As much as I couldn’t wait to hear her idea about uncovering who sent the incriminating photos, I felt like I needed to wait for her to offer.

  “Hi, how goes the party planning?” I asked.

  “Today we booked the band, secured the flowers and a couple more huge auction items. Get this—a week in a villa on one of Richard Branson’s private islands.”

  “Wow!”

  “I know, and we have various people on the board drumming up money and guests for the primo tables. But I wanted to talk to you about Viggo Mortensen. You have a minute?”

  Patience… “Sure.” I crossed the lobby, dodging three lawyer types walking abreast, oblivious to the possibility that they might be blocking traffic.

  “Have any idea how he feels about Alzheimer’s disease?” she asked.

  I pushed through the revolving door and onto the street, heading for Chipotle and a steak bowl, a few blocks away. “I’ll betcha he doesn’t like it.”

  “Funny. But seriously, how do you think he’d feel about being auctioned off for the cause?”

  “Bid on Viggo and he’ll paint your kitchen?”

  “This would be more like: ‘Bid on Viggo and go on a date.’ He wouldn’t have to spend more than an hour with the highest bidder, promise,” Lauren went on, clearly trying to minimize his commitment.

  “Knowing Viggo, I think he’d rather paint a kitchen. He is an artist, you know. I’m sure he’d do an awesome job.”

  “Will you ask him? Or is it awkward? I know people must bug you all the time about your famous clients.”

  She was right; people did bug me all the time. But in this case, maybe getting Viggo on board could be my contribution to the greater good—or at least a contribution. OK, it wasn’t like going all-in and relocating to Africa to bring healthy drinking water to the indigenous populations, but if my connections and contacts might bring in dollars for a cure to Alzheimer’s, this would be a good thing.

  “I’ll ask. Want anyone else? Matthew McConaughey? Johnny Depp?”

  Suddenly, there seemed to be forty Chinese tourists on the sidewalk in front of me. They were exiting the Nike store, laden with shopping bags and bound for their limousines, impeding my progress toward Chipotle. Talk about conspicuous consumption.

  “Are you kidding—could you? They’d both be great,” Lauren was saying.

  A large panel truck rattled by, obscuring all other sounds. “What was that?”

  “I said, ‘Fantastic!’ We’d probably have to ask Johnny to leave his dead crow at home though, don’t you think? We wouldn’t get much for him with that on his head. No Captain Jack Sparrow routine, either. Oh—and he can’t bring his dogs.” Lauren bit her lip and looked at me apologetically. “Come to think of it, maybe not Johnny Depp.”

  “You’d be surprised how much you could get for Jack Sparrow, but as he’s a protected character subject to licensing fees, so leaving him at home wo
n’t be an issue. I’m happy to ask around, though, and give you some more names. I’m sure we can get an appealing group of guys to auction off.”

  “That would be amazing, and I really appreciate it. Having those handsome Hollywood hunks could bring in a lot more money.”

  “No doubt.” For a change, I wasn’t getting asked for tickets to premieres or award ceremonies—events that, granted, helped the economy but did very little for the greater good. Getting some of my celebrity clients on board for the benefit made me feel good, would surely make the guys donating themselves feel good, and would also raise cash for Lauren’s foundation—a triple “win.”

  “Would you like to come?” she asked.

  Of course I did, but she’d made it clear none of the Muffs could go for free, and the ticket price was pretty steep.

  “I want to come, sure, but... ”

  “I’m happy to comp you.”

  “Really?”

  “Only seems right, don’t you think? You’re doing all this work for us.”

  “I’d do it anyway, Lauren.”

  “I know but...just let me comp you. But please, don’t say anything to the other Muffs.”

  “Promise. Hey, if my date doesn’t work out on Saturday night, maybe at the benefit you can point out all the rich single men with Alzheimer’s to me.”

  “Are you serious? With Alzheimer’s?”

  “Kind of? No. I’m not. Anyway, I’d love to come and thank you. Besides, you’ll probably need me as celebrity wrangler if the guys say ‘yes’.”