More Muffia (The Muffia Book 2) Page 4

  “That never got verified.”

  “Don’t forget the Israelis are very advanced. OMG, this is huge! Do you realize just how huge this is?”

  It was like she’d received confirmation that the CIA had been holding Elvis in a controlled area.

  “The thing is—then I really do have to get off the phone,” I said, trying to be diplomatic. “The thing is, we need to let it go.”

  “How can we let it go?”

  “It’s none of our business is how. Even if you and I believe Udi is still walking around out there, in order for Maddie to keep moving forward, she needs to believe he’s dead. Because if he’s dead, he can’t call her; but if he’s alive and not calling her, it means he’s not that into her, you know? Like that book—He’s Just Not That Into You.”

  “I couldn’t get into it,” she said without a trace of irony.

  “But you know what it’s about—when you’re really crazy about somebody and he’s not calling or treating you the way you want him to, it means he’s just not that into you and you have to accept it and move on. Because if he were into you, he’d not only call, he’d tell you how nice you smell, remember your birthday, bring you flowers… ”

  “I wouldn’t know. I guess no one’s ever been that into me.”

  “That’s not true; Roscoe was into you, and Sam-what’s-his-name; Lots of guys have been into you… ”

  “Maybe.”

  “Anyway, it was obvious to me she didn’t want to hear that Udi might be alive, so we need to carry on like I didn’t see him. Otherwise, it’s just going to be upsetting to her.”

  There was a beat, which I knew better than to infer that she agreed with me. Her tactic was to change the subject. “You still seeing Steve?”

  I guess the topic of “guys who are just not that into us” put her in mind of my married lover. I’d told all the Muffs a couple of weeks ago that I’d broken it off with him, which was true, for the most part. But being as I’m weak, the situation remained “fluid.” Funny thing—Steve seemed pretty into me, considering he was completely unavailable.

  “Not really,” I said.

  “How do you not really see someone?”

  “I’m still working on it.”

  “Who would think that women as cool as we are would have difficulty finding worthy men?” said Jelicka.

  “Maybe we’re not as cool as we think we are.”

  “No, we are.”

  I reached down and gingerly palpated my ankle, feeling another pain shoot up my leg. “My ankle is a mess.”

  “Want the name of a good ortho guy?” She might be a know-it-all, but she was always ready with a doctor recommendation.

  “Maybe I should just go see Kiki.”

  “She’s training to be a Nurse Practitioner, Quinn, not a foot and ankle specialist.”

  “How hard can it be to tell if it’s broken?”

  “It’s probably just sprained. Wrap it up, take some Advil, and stay off it.”

  “Fine.” I slowly pressed myself up to standing, putting as little weight onto my injured limb as possible. This would be brutal, but somehow I had to make an appearance at the office or Jamie Harris, my boss and one of the partners at Talent Partners, might be that much closer to replacing me with her ambitious assistant, with whom at least a few of us at work are sure she was having sex with.

  “You know…” Jelicka started back up, “we wouldn’t have to tell her we’re investigating on our own.”

  “Jelicka, I gotta go. The Velocoraptriss said I could come in late, but at this point, I’m beyond pushing it.” I hopped on one foot toward the bathroom. “And it doesn’t matter to her if I can walk or not.”

  So we’re just going to drop the whole thing? What if there’s something going on that’s a threat to national security?”

  “If it makes you feel better, call the NSA or Homeland Security or whoever.”

  “Useless,” she snorted. “They didn’t do anything when the FBI agents told them there were terrorists in the U.S. learning how to fly jumbo jets.”

  “So maybe now they’ve learned their lesson. What else can you do? Infiltrate the Mossad?” I immediately realized my mistake. “I take that back. Jelicka? Don’t. Hear me? Don’t.”

  She grunted what I hoped was her assent.

  Splashing water on my face, I toweled off and studied myself in the mirror. Tired and drawn, my skin looked splotchy, reminiscent of scorched earth. The weather in Japan had been gray and gloomy, and now I saw both in my eyes, not that I should necessarily be blaming the weather.

  Ugh—what day was it? I always lose track when I cross the International Dateline. Let’s see...if I left Tokyo on Wednesday and they’re sixteen hours ahead...the flight lasted twenty hours so that would mean it was still Wednesday. No. It was Thursday. Oh, shit. Thursday was usually the day I saw married guy. Not today, though. This Thursday I am going to be strong!

  I stare at the hollows under my eyes—forty-two going on sixty, and what did I have to show for it? Even Jeannette Walls, who started with nothing but burn scars, has surpassed me. So what if her mom is a dumpster diver. My own mother has glaucoma and macular degeneration and just moved to a retirement facility outside Fresno. Jeannette has a great writing career and a husband who loves her. Me? I ain’t got nobody save somebody else’s man for an hour a week.

  It’s true I have great friends and a good career that I enjoy—a career a lot of people would be desperate to have. After eighteen years booking “C” and “D” list actors on commercials for everything from douche to donuts, I’m now booking the “A”-listers. I work at a prestigious talent agency with top talent, and I’m considered skilled at what I do. You’d be surprised just how many movie stars are willing to sell out to big corporations so long as the deal states the commercials will only air in foreign markets. But now, with the proliferation of online video, ensuring that is well nigh impossible. The idea that any commercial will remain unseen by a star’s core audience is ludicrous these days.

  But I digress. At this point in my life, I’m able to afford the lifestyle Hollywood and non-Hollywood types alike dream of, and I know I shouldn’t complain. The thing is, other than the Muffs and pole dancing, I don’t have much else. No husband, no kids; my dad died, my mom might as well be dead, and my brothers are either in jail or in religious cults. So what do I do? Apparently, I thought it was a good idea to have an affair with a married man whom I meet up with on Thursday evenings for fast and furious sex, hoping one day he’ll leave his wife. The whole thing is beneath me, beneath any woman of my stature. How does a smart, successful woman like me get herself into such a situation?

  Well, in my case, married guy is smart, sexy, and he owns a cutting-edge architecture firm with offices in L.A. and Milan and a factory in Malaysia where his company makes prefab houses with built-in solar panels. He’s so far ahead of the curve that he’s doubled back on himself before the other guys have started. And he doesn’t just run the place; he owns it. In the industry, people call him Mr. Greenhouse. He understands higher math and physics, which is just too sexy. But, like a lot of geeks, he can be a social nitwit. I must have a soft spot for nerds since I lost my virginity to the biggest math geek at Fresno High who wowed me with Pythagoras, Pi, and polynomials. He even showed me the mathematical significance of the name Quinn, which, suffice it to say, made me cream before I even knew there was a word for what was happening between my legs. And ever since, math makes me horny.

  For the past two years, the object of my misplaced affection is one Steven Zucker—not any of THE Steven Zuckers—the producers and bankers and other rich and famous Steven Zuckers. No, this is Steven I. Zucker. And the “I” does not stand for Ives or Irwin or anything like that. In married Steven’s case, the “I” stands for Ignatius. Who does that to a kid? And I didn’t find out from him, trust me. One Thursday, when I realized, for the 100th time, that our affair wasn’t going anywhere, I went through his wallet while he was showering—just to see how
much I could torture myself. There were the pictures of his family and, of course, they were all lovely. The woman was gorgeous—perfect hair, perfect smile, perfect body—as were the two beaming kids, which only made me feel more insecure and horrible, no matter how many times he tells me his wife is frigid and won’t have sex with him and that he wants to run away with me.

  The bottom line, and what’s been hardest to admit to myself and anyone else I talk to about it, is that he doesn’t run away with me, nor does he talk about how we’ll do it if he were to actually follow through. The pain of that admission is the fuel that stokes my denial. If I stop denying, I have to change, and change is hard.

  What’s most ironic of all is that if one day he ever did follow through and announce that he’d worked it all out—our life together lay ahead of us, stretched out like a beach towel—I don’t think I’d be able to follow through myself. I’d feel guilty. I know it’s messed up, but it may be the drama and unfulfilled, unfulfillable illusions about each other that have kept us together.

  This is my fault more than his, and I know I have to break it off once and for all, which is why I started telling the Muffs I stopped seeing him when I technically haven’t. It’s also why I agreed to try online dating with Vicki, even though success will elude me unless I get a total attitude reboot to simply get over feeling that there’s no one else out there for me.

  I unplug my phone from its charger and stick it in my purse. This whole thing with Steven is so boringly predictable, that’s what’s so irritating. I should know better. In fact, I do know better; I’m just not doing it. Yes, yes, yes, yes; thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you. I am destined for great things.

  Well, at this point, I’ve pretty much given up on great things, but I am going to become a better person.

  CHAPTER 3

  With my damaged foot in a purple croc, I limped off the elevator and onto the fifth floor offices of Talent Partners, Inc. as gracefully as I could. Everyone, save for the receptionist, a recent college graduate named Daniel, seemed to be at lunch, which was just as well since when Jamie returned, I’d be at my desk, looking industrious, possibly negating the reality of how late I was.

  Making my way across the mostly-open floor plan, over the tasteful wall-to-wall wool carpeting in muted shades of gray and grayer, I reach my office—an enlarged cubicle, really, which we who have one call a ‘cubiffice’—and sit down. If half of life is just showing up, I’d made it. I’d shown up and my ankle didn’t even feel too bad, the double dose of NSAIDs having done wonders and delivering on their advertised promises. Too bad all the anti-wrinkle creams I’d purchased over the years had not.

  My mobile vibrated, and I looked down to see Steven’s name on caller I.D. I considered picking up but let it go to voice mail. That was one place I would not be showing up today.

  Other than making an appearance at Talent Partners, the only task I had to complete that particular afternoon was the paperwork for the Kubota shoot so that everyone involved on our end could get paid. You’d think that in the latter half of the first quarter of the 21st century I could have finished up the job from home with my ankle up on ice, but even with all the technological advancements and our faith in online transactions, believe it or not, some of what business required was still done on real paper and required real signatures.

  As people slowly returned from their lunches, I chatted with colleagues who were curious about my shoe selection, Japan, and how Viggo looked on a tractor.

  Sameer Kumar works opposite me in a cubiffice the size of mine. He’s a soft-spoken, dark-skinned guy of about thirty-five originally from Sri Lanka—a former cricket player turned agent who basically does the same thing I do at T.P. except instead of dealing with A-list actors, he books athletes—Tiger Woods for Nike, for example. He handled that quintuple-timing, under-par husband throughout his multiple sextscapades.

  Carolyn Marcus, with a slightly smaller cubiffice, is the go-to person for PSAs—also known as public service announcements. When various charities or causes need a mouthpiece—wanting one of our clients to speak out against smoking, or to be the new face of “Got Milk” or whatever—Carolyn is the one to field that call. She’s whip smart and might one day call the shots at T.P. unless somebody hires her away to another agency first, which is probably what will happen since hiring from within seems to be threatening to those passed over.

  The three of us—Sameer, Carolyn, and me— are assisted by a recent mailroom graduate named Rafe who puts out calls and basically takes care of our every non-sexual need, including indulging our caffeine addiction by driving to Peet’s Coffee several miles away, even though there were three Starbucks installations within walking distance.

  After an exchange at the water cooler, I hobbled to my desk, realizing the only person in our immediate area who had not returned from lunch was the newest member of our immediate team—Titania Cibulkova, a Moldovan immigrant by way of the Ivy league, who had become Jamie’s exclusive executive assistant—the very same assistant some of us suspected of having sex with our boss. And, as it happened, in a twist that I would soon come to find out was related, Jamie also had not returned from lunch.

  Carolyn must have spotted my quizzical expression as I glanced from Titania’s desk to Jamie’s office—no cubiffice for Jamie— because she suddenly said quietly, “Things really heated up while you were gone.”

  I felt my eyebrows rise. Very interesting... “Do tell.”

  Carolyn took a sip of her Kombucha, got up, and strolled over.

  Titania had arrived at Talent Partners four months earlier and worked a few different desks in the theatrical and literary divisions of the agency before landing with Jamie Harris. Titania was pretty and smart, and she dressed like a high-class secretary, but she did not strike me as gay. Not that I’d ever been particularly skilled at pegging a woman as lesbian unless her wardrobe was that of a bull dyke.

  Both Carolyn and I noticed the furtive glances exchanged between Titania and Jamie prior to my leaving for Japan and surmised the two were beginning an office romance. Now, clearly, there had been developments.

  Carolyn stood poised within whispering distance with her open bottle of Kombucha. “You like that stuff?” It smelled awful.

  “It’s so good for you,” she said. “All the probiotics.”

  “MMMmm.” I’d heard the latest spiel about how we need to put more bacteria into our guts because our food is, in fact, too clean. We must eat dirt is what they were saying. Dirt tasted better to me than Kombucha.

  “Anyway,” she said sotto voce, her eyes on the entrance. “This is the third day this week the two of them have taken an extended lunch.”

  “Are you sure they’re together?” It seemed like the logical question.

  “I haven’t followed them, but watch what happens—Jamie will come back and half an hour later, Titania will show up.” Carolyn glanced up toward the entrance and immediately pivoted back to her desk. “Here we go.”

  At that moment, Jamie strode across the floor, her burgundy leather Longchamp shoulder bag swinging alongside her. Peering beyond Jamie, I did not see the lovely Titania. I looked over at Carolyn who shrugged and mouthed the word “watch” before turning back to her computer screen.

  Jamie Harris, if not the beauty so many of the agency’s clients were, knew how to maximize what she had. Average in every way, she was always well-coiffed and impeccably dressed—usually in expensive earth-tone suits by Jil Sander or Armani—always carrying a bag that enhanced what she was wearing. The Longchamp was my favorite.

  She stopped at my desk. “Good trip?”

  “Great trip,” I said, keeping it short. Jamie was not someone who enjoyed hearing an elaborate breakdown of events.

  “What’s with the purple Croc?” she asked, clearly perplexed, having grown accustomed to seeing me in heels.

  “Rolled my ankle running for the plane.”

  She grunted unsympathetically. “Sorry to hear that. All the docu
ments ready?”

  “End of the day,” I said.

  She looked like she might protest— that this was far too long—but she just smiled. “Good. When they’re ready, just give everything to Titania.” And with that, she turned toward her office door.

  “Where is Titania?” I called after her.

  “She’ll be here,” said Jamie over her shoulder.

  A couple of hours later, my work still unfinished, Titania had not only returned, she was now inside Jamie’s office with the door closed. Thinking about what might be going on in there, I felt distracted and picked up my mobile without checking caller I.D.

  “Hey babe, am I seeing you this evening?”

  Steven. If truth be told, picking up had less to do with not checking caller I.D. than sensing who it might be and picking up anyway—in other words, I picked up at one of those moments of weakness I’d been suffering.

  “I’ve been thinking about our favorite piece of furniture,” he teased, his voice seductive.

  Furniture was the furthest thing from my mind at that moment but, just to explain: I have this solid old dresser/sideboard thing that sits just off my kitchen and once belonged to my grandparents. Supposedly, it had been the focal point of the dining room in their Fresno farmhouse where buffet items were put out for big family dinners. Steven, however, liked it for sexual reasons because when I sat on top, naked and spread-eagled facing him (okay, it’s a little premeditated), my poontang was at the perfect height for his cock.

  “Steven, please—we’re not seeing each other any more, remember? Besides, something’s come up.”

  “You make me come up, I’ll give you that. Just thinking about putting your ass up on that dresser has me really needing to see you.”

  “Then don’t think about it. I’m at work, and I have a lot to catch up on.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Realistically, I didn’t have to tell him anything; I knew that rationally. But I heard his voice, and all the good stuff flooded my brain, none of the bad. This is why I must never pick up when he calls!