Chore Whore Page 12

  Going through with pressing charges will be awfully time-consuming. I return his call and leave a message for him that I will press charges if they need me to because it is my civic duty, but I get paid by the hour and every hour spent doing something other than work is money gone.

  Chapter Eight

  Packing as many chores into one stop as possible, I tell Veronique that we can meet at Joan’s on Third, our favorite small, casual restaurant. Since it’s Lucy’s favorite, too, I call ahead and order food to pick up for her and Tommy Ray’s arrival home.

  The place is packed. Joan’s is one of the spots celebrities go to not be seen. The celebrities I “haven’t” seen there range from Shari Belafonte with a cap pulled down over her eyes to Cameron Diaz in a corner playing footsie with Justin Timberlake.

  When my sixteen-year-old niece, Stephanie, came into town from the San Francisco Bay area, she requested to be taken “somewhere, anywhere” where she might see a celebrity. I took her to Joan’s, and Matthew Perry walked in. Stephanie spotted him and morphed into what looked strangely like my old cat who used to sit on the windowsill watching hummingbirds. Her mouth opened and her chin quivered ever so slightly, and it was as if at any moment she might pounce and move in for the kill. For days afterward all she could talk about was how she wished she’d had the presence of mind to speak to him or at least whip out her camera and take his picture.

  I push past the throngs of diners waiting in line to order or pay their bills and find Veronique at a corner table in the back. In true movie star form, she’s wearing sunglasses.

  After hugs and kisses, we sit down to turkey meatloaf, chili aioli and Szechuan green beans. I recount my being fired by Daisy, abandoned for six months by Jock and my bank robbery to explain why my voice is so hoarse.

  “Don’t take offense, Veronique, because I love working for you, but I can only take so many hits. I need a new job, like soon!”

  “You’re right. You do! But not until you finish helping me.”

  “Tell me what you need.”

  “I’m presenting Best Supporting Actor this year. And that won’t take too much time, but I’ve been offered a part in a movie filming for three weeks in New Mexico right in the midst of it all. I only shoot for ten days and I’ll be back and forth in between then. It’s going to be hectic and I have a new boyfriend. He’s coming from Italy to stay with me for a while. I really need you to cook for him, Corki.”

  “Hmmm. I thought you were looking a bit rosy in the cheeks. Who is he?”

  “Roberto Tratelli. Dependable. Independent. Loving. Affectionate. Dreamy. A count.”

  “Account? He’s an accountant?”

  Veronique leans forward.

  “No. He’s a count.”

  “Get out. Like Dracula?”

  “Yeah. Count Roberto.”

  “Sounds sexy.”

  “It is sexy,” she purrs saucily as she rubs the diamond cross hanging around her neck.

  “And?” I urge.

  “I met him on the set when we were filming in Rome. He’s not in the film industry,” she says emphatically. “His brother is.”

  “Thank God for small favors. Continue.”

  “He’s a commercial real-estate developer. A magnate. He’s very well established, well mannered and well bred.”

  “Well, well, well!”

  “I don’t think he’s your stereotypical Italian fare. He’s quite reserved, a widower—his wife of fifteen years died in a car accident. He’s a staunch Catholic and, well, you know, I’ve always flirted with Catholicism.”

  “And no doubt you’re flirting much harder now,” I add.

  “No doubt.”

  “Back to the count part,” I prod.

  “That’s his title. His money comes from his business,” she says matter-of-factly.

  “It may be just a title, but I confess, I’m impressed. It’s not a title anyone I know has. You?” I ask.

  “No. I mean I met Prince Charles once at a film premiere in London, but I don’t know him,” Veronique says.

  “Would you move to Italy if you marry him?” I ask.

  “Corki, you’re jumping too far ahead. But he is going to take me on his yacht for a tour of the Med.”

  “Oh, impressive. Molto impressionante!”

  “Grazie! For the here and now, though, I need you to cook for him while he’s here. I would attempt to, but you know my cooking—less than impressive.”

  “I would be happy to do it. What does he like?”

  “I don’t know!” she confesses. “Surprise him!”

  · · ·

  Surprise him. Surprise him. What meals would surprise a count? I try to think of all the small corners of the world whose cuisine might be fresh and exciting to Roberto Tratelli and can’t come up with one. This is going to haunt me all night until I can come up with something new and fresh.

  Balancing Lucy’s bags of take-out food carefully while waiting for a break in the stream of cars, I run across the street and pass the place where I used to be able to afford manicures. I nod and mouth “Hello” to the ladies working there behind the large glass window painted with delicate, long hands showing the different colors of nail polish and French manicures they perform.

  They wave to me as I disarm Betty and roll down the back window to place the bags of food in the trunk space.

  “Uhhhh!” I hear.

  I look around.

  “Mmmmm.”

  There it is again. I look under the SUV. Nothing.

  “Uhhhh!”

  I roll Betty’s back window up, realarm her and go to investigate, slowly walking around to the passenger side. I hear what sounds distinctly like a baby’s wail.

  Phlit!

  A wad of something hits my leg. White viscous fluid is dripping on the cuff of my jeans. I look up and see a pasty-faced, unshaven guy dressed in sweats shoving his penis back in his pants. He runs away.

  I can’t even muster a scream. My vocal cords have been burned by the tear gas and the doctor told me my windpipe and lungs now resemble those of a man on the front lines in war. I look back toward the manicurists’ shop to see if anyone else noticed what happened.

  A young woman getting a pedicure sits close to the window, her short skirt revealing her thigh and crotch as she holds up her leg for a heel scrub.

  Disgusted, but trying to force my mind not to dwell on what just transpired, I dig through Betty and find four old napkins from the last fast-food run Blaise and I made a few days ago. I wad them up and attempt to wipe the semen off my pants. Where are the cops when you need them? They’ll probably arrive the one time in my life when I litter by throwing the napkins down on the curb. I’ll end up with a three-figure citation.

  “Dang, girl, you have a good old selection here! We should have taken these to Maui with us, Lucy.” Tommy Ray continues to scan the rows and rows of Lucy’s music. “How can you say the CDs you have might not be to my taste? I see Buck Owens, Duane Diamond, Johnny Cash, Dwight Yoakum, ZZ Top, John Prine. I’ve never seen a better collection. You even have some of Elvis’s best stuff.”

  I smile politely at Lucy, who stands over Tommy Ray, acting as if her newly fortified collection of CDs is old hat. Lucy mouths the words “thank you” to me as she strokes the back of Tommy’s neck.

  I smile and nod my head slightly to acknowledge her.

  “Lucy, let’s bring along some of these for the road,” Tommy suggests. “You almost ready?”

  “Honey, now that Corki’s here, we don’t have to go. We can stay right here,” Lucy says seductively. “Corki can go pick up the car.”

  Tommy swings around and playfully nips Lucy on the thigh. “Meow!” he purrs. They tumble on the floor and start kissing and fondling each other.

  I clear my throat.

  “Corki, don’t be so uptight,” Tommy Ray manages as he gets on top of Lucy and straddles her. “You ain’t never seen live sex shows before?”

  “Tommy Ray, shut up,” Lucy says playful
ly. “Get off me!” she says, pushing him off of her.

  Tommy uses a wrestling move and negotiates her into a half nelson. She squeals with joy.

  “Corki, ignore us,” Lucy whispers.

  “Lord, girl, can’t you tell when two people need to be alone? Get the girls and all of you go pick up Lucy’s car together,” he demands.

  Before I can ask what girls he’s talking about, two come out of Lucy’s bedroom. They are mere girls, maybe nineteen or twenty. Both of them rub sleep from their eyes and both wear men’s, probably Tommy’s, pajamas.

  The taller of the two is very pretty with long, blondish hair and a cattish grin plastered across her face. As she passes by, I can smell the scent of old cigarette smoke clinging to her hair.

  The shorter one has a decidedly round face reminiscent of a ball of rolled pie dough. Her already big, wide-set brown eyes appear larger than normal behind Coke-bottle-thick magnifying lenses set in tortoiseshell frames.

  The “girls” giggle between themselves, then, without warning, the prettier one pounces on top of Tommy Ray and Lucy and they all start wrestling around together, hugging, kissing and saying good morning.

  I look at my watch. It’s 2:15 P.M.

  Pie Dough looks on affectionately, then wanders down the hall toward the kitchen.

  “Corki, I want you to meet Jolene McGraw; Jolene, this is my friend, Corki Brown,” Lucy says in a winded, exasperated rush.

  “Nice to meet you,” I say.

  I don’t mean it.

  “Real nice to meet you, too,” Jolene says with as hard a drawl as Tommy’s.

  “And the other girl . . .” Lucy stops, then calls out to the kitchen. “Bobby Sue Hunsucker, get in here and meet Corki. Don’t be antisocial.”

  Bobby Sue peeks her pie-dough face around the corner.

  “Nice to meet you, Corki,” she says in a flat tone.

  I return the coolness.

  “Likewise.”

  I fidget, not quite wanting to say “Could you two get off your asses and get dressed so we can get going to pick up Lucy’s car.”

  “Lucy, why don’t I just catch a taxi. The service department closes at four on the dot and it takes a good thirty minutes to get there at this time of day,” I plead, wanting to vacate the premises immediately.

  “Slow down, woman. Give the girls a moment to shower and they’ll get you over there. Jolene here was my driver on my last movie, she’ll get you there soon enough,” Tommy protests. “Besides, I want you to show them the ropes.”

  What’s that supposed to mean? My Spider-Man “spidey senses” are tingling. I sense a hostile takeover on the brink of invasion.

  The girls go back into Lucy’s bedroom to get dressed, and I go to the kitchen, make myself a cup of tea and wait. I’m still waiting one hour later. It’s now three-thirty, rush hour, Los Angeles time. The repair place closes in thirty minutes.

  About to give up and just go home, I walk out into the foyer just as Jolene and Bobby Sue slowly exit Lucy’s bedroom. Lucy and Tommy Ray come out of the living room after them. As if they’re off for a trip around the world, Jolene and Bobby Sue throw their arms around Lucy and Tommy Ray and they all exchange goodbye kisses on the mouth. I watch this display and notice that when Jolene kisses Tommy goodbye, she slips him the tongue.

  I get into the back of Tommy’s rented Mercedes while Jolene gets behind the wheel and Bobby Sue, with her freshly powdered face, gets in the front passenger seat. I give them directions on how to get down the hill and into L.A.

  Jolene can’t drive to save her life. Her foot keeps tapping on the accelerator, then takes turns tapping on the brakes. She drives only a little bit slower than Mustafa. She also carries on an elaborate conversation with Bobby Sue without so much as glancing at the road. We fly down Coldwater Canyon where sharp turns and big, thick pine trees line the road. Under many trees are flowers, crosses and ribbons memorializing the people killed there. I don’t want to die sharing a car with these two.

  “You might want to slow down up here!” I offer. “It’s a tricky curve.”

  “Don’t worry, I drive for the union back in Tennessee.”

  She keeps up the same pace and the same conversation. I sit back, close my eyes and pray that it’s not going to end like this.

  “So, Corki! Tommy Ray says you’re gonna teach us the ropes,” Bobby Sue says brightly.

  “What ropes are those?”

  “You know, like what you do for them. Where you shop, what you get, what they like,” Bobby Sue says.

  “Well, we already know what Tommy likes,” Jolene interjects, nastily.

  They laugh to each other, confirming my suspicions.

  Lucy’s mama, Beryl, will blow a gasket when she takes one look at Jolene. I can already hear her lecturing Lucy to make Tommy Ray get that “blatant hussy” out of his life or else. Lucy’s not brave enough to give a man an ultimatum though. The cost of losing him is too high.

  “Are you two working for them?” I probe.

  “Oh yeah,” says Bobby Sue. “Tommy Ray says he needs folks from back home so he can be comfortable here. He doesn’t work too well with you Hollywood types.”

  You Hollywood types.

  “Mostly it’s just stuff you’ll be too busy to do. Like Lucy says you have a little boy, so you can’t really travel with her as much as you used to. And she said you work with other people, too, so you’re not available as much as she’ll be needing you,” Jolene adds.

  “I’ve never not been available for Lucy,” I say, defensively.

  “Oh no, she never said you weren’t, but what with Tommy Ray and all. He has a lot of needs. He’s sort of a high-maintenance hick.” Bobby Sue titters at Jolene’s remark.

  “He always says he can call himself white trash, but he don’t want no one else to say that,” Bobby Sue adds.

  I let them keep talking, resolving not to give any of my information away for free.

  We pull into the Stallion repair place and I tell them I can take it from here. Then, as if I’m graciously teaching them “the ropes,” I offer, “This is where I get Lucy’s car repaired. I’d let you two drive it back, but I’m the only additionally insured driver.”

  They drop me off and leave at 3:59. As I pay for the repairs with Lucy’s credit card, I call her on my cell phone.

  “Hey, it’s me. Listen, the girls took so long, I’m going to have to pick up Blaise from school before I return your car. I hope that’s okay.”

  “Take all the time you need. We’re not going anywhere,” Lucy purrs.

  In the background, I can hear Tommy Ray laughing as Lucy hangs up without a goodbye.

  Ever since the 1994 Northridge earthquake knocked down a part of the freeway that affected all north- and southbound traffic, Angelenos’s driving patterns have changed. What used to be a quick bypass for me on Crescent Heights Boulevard is now the clogged normal route for drivers trying to make it south to Inglewood or north to Hollywood. Even after the freeway overpass was reconstructed, commuters stuck to their newly learned patterns.

  I creep along Crescent Heights in Lucy’s yellow Ferrari just like all the other creatures of habit heading home after a long day of work. My cell phone rings.

  “Hello,” I say, on autopilot.

  “Corki, this is Drew Cheriff from Three Arts Entertainment.”

  The name sounds familiar, but I can’t place her immediately.

  “Yes?” I say.

  “Your name and number were given to me by a member of the team at Brillstein Grey. I’m calling because you were highly recommended as a reliable personal assistant. Our client Jennifer Aniston needs a full-time assistant to help her.”

  Drew continues explaining what will be needed, what the pay is and the extent of benefits, time off, vacation pay, sick days, etc.

  “Drew, I am very interested in this position and I think I could be of great assistance to Jennifer,” I say in my best professional manner.

  We make an appointment for the n
ext afternoon at three o’clock to meet in their offices on Wilshire Boulevard in Beverly Hills. With Daisy gone, Jock absent for six months, Lucy handing out my work to her lover’s assistants, Liam and Esther only needing me occasionally and Veronique potentially running off to Italy with her new man, Corki Brown has been left high and dry.

  I’ve always avoided working for just one person, because celebrities often “clean house,” leaving their personal assistants to fend for themselves. But here is an opportunity to work for someone at the top who has a reputation as being an honest, fair woman. And she is willing to pay handsomely, with medical and a 401(k) to boot!

  As I pull up in front of Blaise’s school, I feel like a weight is off my shoulders. Maybe my career’s future won’t be as grave as I thought.

  I walk quickly through the schoolyard and see Blaise playing handball with his friends. Quietly, I sit on a bench and wait for him to finish the game. Afterward, he and his playmates run up and a young Russian boy named Boris plops down next to me.

  “Mrs. Brown? Blaise called me Stalin.”

  “Blaise! What an ugly name to call him!” I say, embarrassed.

  “Mom, I said he was stalling.”

  “No, you said I was Stalin,” Boris says, indignantly.

  “You were!” Blaise exclaims.

  “Enough,” I say. “Just apologize to Boris for the misunderstanding.”

  They exchange apologies, shake hands, and we walk toward the parking lot.

  “Guess what? I have Lucy’s car instead of ours.”

  “Very cool. Can we drive through the parking lot one time so my friends can see me in it?”

  “Sure.”

  My phone rings. It’s Shelly.

  “Oh my God, Corki, I’m so glad I got you. Slight emergency. My sister and I went to Arcadia to buy some Indian fabric and now we’re stuck in traffic. There is no way we’re going to get home in time to pick up the girls. Are you available for a rescue?”

  “How much money do you have?” I joke.

  “However much you need. We’ll be back in L.A. probably right around six to six-thirty. You’re a lifesaver.”