More Muffia (The Muffia Book 2) Page 12

  “Good point. Okay, new subject. Remember how I said I was going to work on that idea I had? I mean, about your situation at work?”

  “Yeah...I remember.” Ever since Jelicka had the idea to make The Muffia an ersatz amateur crime-solving entity, I’ve been wary of any Muff ideas—including my own.

  “Well, I finally pinned him down,” said Lauren.

  I came to a stop again—this time outside Barney’s—only a few doors west of Talent Partners. “Who?”

  “George’s dad, of course. George was fine with it. But Pop was out of the country, so I had to wait until he got back.”

  Rather than straining to hear over the traffic noise, I pushed through the glass door into the Barney’s make-up department—a mere thirty feet from Shoes, where I still needed to go to deal with my broken shoe.

  “Dare I ask what this idea is?” I sprayed some of the new Marc Jacobs cologne on my wrist and sniffed. Wow, that’s...floral. Hoping the sales people would ignore me, I began to stroll.

  “Okay, here we go. Even though George’s family sold the parent corporation, they’re still involved with day-to-day beer-making activities, and they keep a kind-of private investigation company on retainer for corporate espionage—to avoid the theft of beer recipes, I guess, things like that. So my thought was, maybe you could sort of borrow one of the investigators, you know? Maybe the family hasn’t met their minimum billable hours this quarter, and we could get somebody to scope out Picturegate.”

  “Do you think they’d allow that?” The idea sounded great.

  “It’s done. That’s why it took so long, but George’s dad likes you, and George loves that you’re helping with the foundation and the benefit and everything, so they want to help any way they can.”

  I hadn’t actually said I’d help until ten minutes ago, but I guess that was a minor detail. “Oh, Lauren, this is great. Really? When can he or she start?”

  “Right away. And I’m pretty sure it’s a he. All I have to do is tell them you’re game, and they assign the person officially. Whoever it is will contact you directly.”

  “Do you know what this person’s name is?”

  “No, and I won’t know. It’s all very spy novel, espionage-y, you know…on a need-to-know-basis type of thing. But he’ll be in touch, and I think you’ll know the guy when you see him.”

  I wasn’t sure what that meant, but a visual of Bradley Cooper in “American Sniper” popped into my head. If only. We ended the call, and I looked up to find a severe, overly made-up young woman with short dark hair staring at me over the Clarins counter.

  “Can I help you?”

  Though I didn’t think I’d been standing there talking on the phone for very long, apparently she thought I owed her a purchase. I like Clarins, but it’s a little pricey for my budget.

  “Not today, thanks.” I turned on my heel and walked out the way I came in, quickly covering the remaining two blocks to Chipotle where I stood in line outside the crowded restaurant. Though I wished there was no line, because I would now be late getting back to work, I was very glad I’d bought twenty shares of stock in the company.

  Scanning the street, I wondered how long it would take for the investigator to make himself known, and if—dare I hope—he might indeed be a handsome former Navy Seal or Special Ops hunk. I scrutinized the men in line with that picture in my head, but no one fit the bill. And since this was the only type of guy I was looking for, I failed to notice someone else watching me.

  CHAPTER 13

  “Any way I can convince you not to go?”

  Jelicka was on speaker as I zipped up my black pencil skirt and finished getting ready for my date with JohnV20. We had yet to meet in person—yet to even talk on the phone because he thought it was more romantic. But our email and direct message exchanges had led me to believe he might be right, and I couldn’t wait to meet him.

  “No way. I’m going, and if he turns out to be a fraud, I’ll still get a steak dinner for my efforts. He asked me, he suggested the place, and I’m not going to feel guilty if I don’t want to put out afterward.”

  She let out an audible sigh. “That’s good to hear anyway. What does he do again?”

  “He’s in I.T. I don’t know exactly what.”

  “I.T.,” she repeated. “Like the rest of us aren’t into ‘it.’ What’s with the JohnV20? Is the “v” for versus or is he on the twentieth version of his operating system?”

  “Who knows?” I said, sucking in my belly.” I’ve stopped trying to figure out their handles.”

  “What does he look like?” She was persistent.

  “Not that it’s important, but he’s good looking—dark hair and eyes, probably fifty-five—though I’m assuming he’s lying about his age, which he put at fifty. Probably also lies about his height, which he says is five-eleven.”

  “They all lie—not just about their age and height, either. Beware of all pictures on the Internet.”

  As an agent, I was all too familiar with photographs that don’t accurately represent their subjects, but right now Jelicka was just being a doomsayer. “Do you have any words of encouragement?”

  “Sorry, I’m being a witch, aren’t I?”

  “A little witchy, yes. But you sincerely care, so I can’t get too mad at you.”

  Though I was projecting, I knew Jelicka was still smarting over her divorce from Roscoe. That was why she played the part of the cougar so vociferously, hanging out with hunky young cubs and drinking a little too much. Neither the cougar nor any of her cubs took such dalliances seriously, but it also seemed a little self-destructive.

  “Sorry, Quinn. I really hope it goes well. That said, I’m organizing a search party if I don’t hear from you by midnight.”

  She made me laugh. “I’ll be fine. My plan is to park a few blocks away and take a cab to and from the restaurant—just in case he tries to follow me. I learned this technique from my friend Jelicka who was in the Israeli army.”

  “You joke, but you can’t be too careful.”

  “I’m agreeing with you!”

  “Good. And don’t forget we’re going shooting next weekend.”

  “Okay.”

  “Okay,” she repeated. “’Love you, bye.”

  No matter what happened on this date, or even at work, I would always have my Muffs.

  A giant aquarium filled with Puffer fish divided two sections of the upscale Boa, the steak house named for a snake, situated on the ground floor of a high-rise office tower at the west end of the Sunset Strip, and the aquamarine hue casts an unflattering glow on nearby diners.

  The smell of seared sirloin wafting from the plates carried by the attractive, black-clad wait staff provokes hunger in the carnivorous clientele and makes it clear that, despite the cool-colored surroundings, the kitchen staff knows how to prepare a red hot steak. I could not wait for one of those plates to land in front of me.

  My date, sitting opposite me at one of the restaurant’s more intimate tables, sipped from a drink he’d started on before I arrived. Our menus were displayed in front of us, and I used mine to steal glances at him whenever his head was down. He was well dressed and attentive and looked surprisingly like his photos. I’d pegged him correctly as in his fifties. The actual number fifty he hadn’t seen in years. Straight nose, dark brown eyes, a clearly-defined chin, and he was still in possession of most of his hair, which looked real from what I could tell. But without any visible strands of gray running through it, I suspected he must get some assistance from a colorist. He had lied about his height, but I wasn’t going to hold that against him. Being five-nine, it’s hard for me to find many guys, age-appropriate or not, who are taller than I am. So what’s a couple of inches? There was only one thing I was totally not prepared for:

  “So, Quuueeeeen, whahdjyoo doo pfor pfuhhhnn?” he asked.

  What an accent. Though charming, it was almost impossible to penetrate. Hearing him speak had come as a complete surprise. One would think he might have me
ntioned, in one of his many emails, that he was from Venezuela. One would think knowing someone’s country of origin would be relevant to a prospective date’s decision to go out with that someone. This, most likely, was precisely why he hadn’t mentioned this detail in any of those well-written messages he’d sent—messages, I suspected, that were written by somebody else. Not that any of this really mattered, such was the paucity of attractive, intelligent, age-appropriate men. I probably would have gone out with him anyway.

  “What do I do for fun?” I repeated, making sure I’d heard him correctly. I hesitated, not wanting to go too far down the road of story-sharing before we got our order in. I was determined, regardless of how the evening developed, to get a good meal out of this, so the sooner I got my steak, the better.

  “Let’s see. Gosh, so many things… ” I looked back at the menu, considering the NY Strip and how much pfuhhhnn that could be, but he pressed on without me.

  “Djyoo lie doo tance? Djyoo lie doo go-honzee lon hyge?”

  What’s a—Oh, I get it—hike, long hike!

  “Yes, I do like to hike. There are lots of good hiking trails in L.A., don’t you think?”

  He had a peculiar way of cocking his head to the right whenever I said something. Maybe it was because English was his second language and doing that helped him concentrate? Or maybe he was deaf in one ear? Not sure.

  John—or more likely Juan, though I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt and call him John—claimed to be a refugee from the Chavez regime who had fled his native country years ago with the family fortune, the sum of which remained as unclear as the reason for the head tilt.

  “Oh, djyess.” He smiled through too-white, too-even teeth.

  Some of that fortune went to a cosmetic dentist, that’s for sure.

  Across the crowded dining room, I saw a man sitting alone. There was something familiar about him, just like there’d been something familiar about the guy at Firefly, but the way his body was positioned I was unable to get a good look. Probably a washed-up former child star or somebody I dated once. Or maybe I’ve been around so long, everyone was starting to look familiar.

  I turned back to John, watching his head tilt back into listening position, and said, “And I like to dance. I’m not very good, but I like it.”

  No need to tell him about the pole dancing—he’d only get ideas.

  “Thass goood, Queen,” he said, righting his head and taking a big gulp from his drink. “De higing iss berry good por zee-elth, but de tancing is beery good por zee-soll.”

  I nodded, still deciphering. “Oh—the soul, of course!” I said to the tilted head. “And health. Absolutely. Great for your health and your soul.”

  A waiter finally appeared to take our order. Metrosexual and wearing all black, except for a red tie, he rattled off a couple of specials, while John tilted his head to listen to the elaborate descriptions, only righting it again once the waiter left.

  John didn’t seem like a bad guy so, mixed assessment notwithstanding, I resolved, as part of the Quinn self-improvement campaign, to put all my criticisms aside. I was in a beautiful restaurant with an attractive—who cares if he was a little short?—man who seemed very interested in me. I would practice gratitude. Yes and thank you. There were, after all, so many truly horrible places I could be right now that it would be selfish of me not to be grateful. All that said, I decided to remain sober just to keep myself honest.

  “Jhyehhsss,” John said. “Zzee-art and sol har soo eempohrtent. Ahm so appy daht dwee ahgree on daht.” As he spoke, he lowered his voice so it sounded like the low rumble of thunder on a sex-laden summer night. “An tehll me, Queen, abow djyour tanhce. Djyoo lie doo doo zee tengo?” His eyebrows lifted and tilt went his head.

  “Tango?” He’d asked the question so suggestively, I suddenly felt exposed. They say tango is the closest thing to sex with your clothes on, not that I had any first-hand experience. Pole dancing comes close, I guess—except that you’re dancing with a pole, not a person.

  “Si, si—tengo. Como los Ahrzhenteen. I ham tahncing de tengo pfor mehny, mehny jyeeehrs.”

  “I didn’t realize people in Venezuala did Argentine tango,” I said, trying to make a joke.

  “Oh jyheesss, off corssse dey doo. De Venezuelan peeepowl hahrr no so particulahr when ees a goohd tance weer eet come from. I weel teesh you to tengo eef you lie.”

  What exactly did he mean by “If I lie?” Though I was game to tango in a general sense, it was becoming ever more clear that I wasn’t about to try it with John. And with his suddenly too-obvious wooing, I was beginning to think I didn’t even want to continue the conversation.

  “Well, John,” I said. “You must be very good if you can teach.”

  He gave me a seductive smile, his sparkling teeth catching some of the blue light. He was very smooth—too smooth. “Djyoo can call me Jojo. Eees whahd mohsse ahf deez people dey call me.”

  “Okay...Jojo.”

  The waiter returned and set down another drink in front of John. I hadn’t even seen him order it, but it gave me a chance to think about how to redirect the conversation.

  “I also like to read,” I blurted out. “Not that I have a lot of time for it.”

  “Oh, jyyehsss? Djyoo lie doo reedee boogz?” He sipped his drink and resumed his head tilt.

  Reedeeboogz? “Oh, books! Yes, very much I like to read dee books, I mean, the books. I’m even in a book club.”

  “Jyyehsss?” This seemed to enchant him for some reason. I decided it was probably best to avoid telling him we’re called The Muffia. This would only give him ideas.

  I just needed to keep him in his seat and the conversation away from topics that might get him riled because I’d be damned if I was going to leave before I got my dinner. I was hungry, and I’d already invested too much in this guy. Wow, Jelicka was right.

  “I theenk hi haff eyrd of deez boogcluhbzz. Djyoo read a boog ahn djyoo gehdogehther doo deezcuss dees boog, jyehhss?”

  “Mmmm, I think so, yes.” Man, that accent was thick! “Every six weeks we get together, have a great meal, and talk about a book—other stuff, too. Actually mostly, it’s the other stuff we talk about.”

  His head remained in the tilted position for a beat too long. Straightening, he downed his drink and scooted his chair closer. Apparently, John thought talking about books was an aphrodisiac.

  “Tayhll mhe, Queeen, abhow dees boog cluhb.”

  Didn’t I just do that? How many drinks had he consumed? He probably had one or two before I even arrived, which meant he was on his fourth. He seemed to be grinning bigger, making larger gestures, and raising his voice, and people were noticing.

  I decided that maybe if I talked more—even if it meant repeating myself—he’d talk less. That way, I wouldn’t have so much trouble understanding what he said, thereby conserving energy in case I needed to run, which hopefully wouldn’t happen until after I ate my steak.

  “Well,” I began, “There are nine of us in the club—all women and…”

  “Hall weemens? Oh, thees hi theenk ees bfeery eenteresding, jyhess?” He slapped the table, startling the young hippieish couple at the table a few feet away.

  OK, it really wasn’t that interesting. There are some 300,000 book clubs in the U.S., supposedly, and most are made up of women. In any event, he certainly didn’t need to slap the table for emphasis.

  “It is interesting.” I tried to keep my tone dry and clinical, as if I were being interviewed for the job of librarian. “We’ve read thirty or forty books so far. Of course, I’ve always enjoyed reading, but being able to talk about a particular book with a group of smart friends has taken it to a whole new level.”

  “And theess weemens are lyga-djyoo, Queen? Sehxsy and phowerfool?”

  It was kind of cool he thought this; that is, if he thought this. But the motivation for these questions was so obviously not about books, that anything he said on the topic was suspect.

  “Well, you know, we’r
e just reading books.” I tried laughing it off.

  “Whahd boogs haff you rhaid een djyoor booog cluhb?” His head really tilted this time. Where was my steak, already?

  “Let’s see… We just read a book called The Glass Castle.”

  “Mmmmm...Dee Glahss Cassell.” He seemed to savor the title as he sat back in his chair and closed his eyes. The alcohol was clearly getting to him because his head remained tilted. He was less and less attractive, and I was about to tell him I had a client emergency with Jennifer Aniston, steak be damned, when his eyes popped open and he attempted to focus, his head now swaying.

  “Ees a nyhss image, doan djyoo theenk, Queen? Zee cassell mayde ahf glahss.”

  “Yes, I guess it is a nice image.” Help! “Anyway, it’s a memoir and goes back to when the author was four and her pink tutu caught on fire. Then there was how she fell out of the family car on the freeway, how she shot her neighbor—he was this freaky twelve-year-old white trash rapist—and how her mother would send her to the bars to search for her father, who was certifiable, and how he pimped her and her siblings to get money out of people—Dammit, I should have avoided using the word ‘pimp’—but mostly, the book is a non-stop road trip with the insane parents dragging the author and her three brothers and sisters from one poor white trash town to another, whenever the bill collectors were about to find them or when Dad got another cockamamie idea to go somewhere and mine for gold or whatever; and well, suffice it to say, we all decided that the ‘glass castle’ represented a sort of holographic, no there-there, yearning of Jeannette’s failed father that he hangs over the family convincing them to buy into his crazy dream, which somehow they do.”

  I looked at John. My overwhelming amount of words, delivered speedily as they had been, was having the desired effect. He looked as though he might keel over. So I pressed on, hoping I might actually make it happen.

  “And you want to know the really amazing thing? She survived! Jeannette is now a very successful writer living on Park Avenue with a weekend house in the country. Meanwhile, her mother is homeless on the streets of New York! That’s right, mmm hmmm. And she wants to be; can you believe it? Her mother is a professional dumpster diver who’s made it her mission to rescue stuff from landfills. So in the book, Jeanette asks her mother what she can do to help—you know, because what daughter wants to see her mom dumpster diving?—and you know what her mother says? ‘An electrolysis treatment would be nice.’ That’s what she says, an electrolysis treatment! So that just tells you her mom really was crazy, or maybe she just never lost her sense of humor. Anyway, it’s incredible that she made it through.”