Dead Ex, page 15
Oops. Well, that could happen to anyone, pressing end instead of talk.
The red SUV was no longer stalking me. That was one nice thing.
I called Joey’s cell and got voice mail. “Okay,” I said, “what exactly am I supposed to say to the homicide detectives about your—” Wait. Did I want to say “alibi” on a recording device? “Never mind. Are you still staying at—” Was I still not supposed to say “Shutters”? “—that hotel you’re staying at? And might I stay there too?”
Detective Ike Born called me back and was so gracious about being hung up on that I agreed to meet at nine p.m. Not that I had a lot of choice. I skipped the library, drove to a bookstore, bought the Cliffs Notes for The Iliad, and, exhausted by the events of the day so far, got back in my car, locked the doors, and napped.
• • •
Miniature golf ranks right up there with full-sized golf as a sport I have no real interest in. Along with hockey, bowling, drag racing, curling, and sumo wrestling. I’m not a sporty type. I’m an arty type. Joey’s a sporty type. Well, she’s an arty type too, but that part is not always immediately evident, whereas my nonathleticism is instantly noticeable to anyone trying to engage me in anything involving balance, coordination, balls, sticks, or wheels.
I drove myself to the Green’s GolfLand, since I had no home from which Julio, the chauffeur, could fetch me. I’d been too melancholy to explain that to Max, telling him only that it was more convenient to drive myself. He was waiting in the parking lot, along with the camera crew, who were sitting in their minivan with the windows open, smoking. The back of the minivan featured a live free or die bumper sticker, a sentiment somewhat undercut by a vanity license plate saying drudge2. There was no sign of Trey, but Max phoned him frequently for updates on his ETA.
“He’s close,” Max said. “And once he shows, you’ll see, he won’t be the, uh—”
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“Slug?” supplied the cameraman.
“—slacker that he appears to be.” Max made notes on his ubiquitous clipboard. “I tried to think up an activity that will appeal to him. It’s all paid for, so have fun.”
“Max,” I said. “What kind of training did you go through to be a stage manager? Were you a butler in a previous life? Or a psychiatrist? A babysitter?”
Max smiled, his face relaxing into comfortable creases. “Only half the job is corralling actors. And yes, it’s true that many creative people are—”
“Psychopaths?” the cameraman said. “Flakes?”
“—operating on a different frequency,” Max said. “I try to provide a calm environment so they’re free to focus on art.”
Once Trey showed, we went through the same drill I’d gone through with Rupert. A lingering hello kiss hinting at an advanced degree of sexual interest on Trey’s part, despite the fact that he could not have picked me out of a lineup as someone he’d ever met. There was one key difference: I was now kissing a man young enough to be my offspring. It was something Simon would notice when he saw it on TV. Not only that, Green’s GolfLand brought out Trey’s inner child, which was not, admit-tedly, deeply buried.
“Whoa!” he said as the crew packed up to leave. “Check this place out. You can get fake tattoos. And draft root beer? No way.”
“Amazing,” I said, joining him in line to pick out a putter.
“Man, I love this stuff.” Trey’s body went through a snakelike hip-hop movement that I took to signify joy. “We used to do miniature golf with my dad when he had us on weekends. This place rocks. I wonder if I could get one for my backyard. How much do you suppose it would
cost?”
“A miniature golf course? Sounds like a custom job. Not a big market for—”
“Yeah, but you know, how great would that be, to come in from the clubs and you can’t sleep and you go in the backyard and sink some putts till the sun comes up?”
“Do you get insomnia a lot?” I asked.
“Oh, yeah, every night. Till I fall asleep. Yesterday the cops were like,
‘Buddy, where were you when David Zetrakis got whacked?’ and I’m like,
‘Are you kidding me? Before noon? A day off? Where do you think?’ ”
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“The cops questioned you?” I asked. “The homicide cops?”
“Yeah. Like, where’s anyone at ten in the morning? If I’d known I was supposed to have an alibi, I’d have brought home a girl to sleep with me.
You know, like a witness. But the problem with girls is, then in the morning, there they are. And then you’re supposed to remember their names and stuff.”
“How come the cops questioned you?” I said.
He picked out a putter. “Not just me, everyone on the show. I don’t know why they think it’s one of us. Well, except Tricia. I could see her shooting someone.”
I smiled. “I won’t quote you when I talk about you on SoapDirt. ”
“You can. They’re always trying to get me to shut up—my publicist, and Jen, our producer, like when Soap Digest calls and I rag about my storyline or whatever, but then why even answer the phone?” He looked at me. “Got a favorite putter?”
I chose a blue-handled one because it matched my sneakers and a
green golf ball that complemented my gauze skirt, then followed Trey to the first hole. “So you like nightclubs. And do you play poker like everyone else on At the End of the Day?”
Trey smiled. “At the End of the Payday. That’s what Rupert calls it. I went one time to Vegas with them, but I always get carded, so it’s kind of a drag.”
I had not, I suddenly remembered, asked Simon about his Las Vegas FBI research. “Did David go to Vegas a lot?”
“Like every weekend. David, four or five regulars, and then whoever else wanted to.” Trey hit his ball easily through a miniature windmill.
“Who were the regulars?”
“Jen and Max and Clay, and then crew guys, like grips and whatever.
Rupert, about half the time. Tricia once, but I don’t think she was into poker, I think she just worked on her tan and did the spa thing. The whole operation shut down once David got sick. He had some deal going at the hotel, because it was a really cool place and he got us rooms super cheap.”
“So David was . . . well-connected?”
“In Vegas? He knew everyone. He was Mr. Important. Hey, mind if
I give you some pointers? I can help you improve your game.”
At the third hole, Joey showed up.
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“What are you doing here?” I asked. “Are you all right?”
“Moderately. Max told me you were here.” To my surprise, Joey gave Trey a kiss. “Hello, monkey. Wollie, do you have the key to your storage place on you?”
“In my car. I think. Why?”
“I sewed some money into that chaise longue I foisted on you. Mad money.”
Trey blinked. “You know how to sew?”
“I grew up in Nebraska,” Joey said. “4-H. Anyhow, Elliot canceled the credit cards. He said he’d put money into our checking account, then he went surfing and now I’m down to spare change. And the hotel evicted me over the canceled credit card.”
“Why would Elliot cancel credit cards but transfer money into your account?” I said. “And why don’t you have your own bank account?”
“Because I’m an idiot. He canceled the cards over our last fight and he’s putting money back into the account because we made up.”
“Well, that’s good news,” I said, thinking what an odd marriage they had. “Are you moving back in?”
Joey shook her head. “No. But we did have sex this afternoon.”
“Dude,” Trey said. “You had sex with your husband?”
“With my probably future ex-husband,” she said. “There’s a difference. Hey, you guys have to do all nine holes?”
Trey looked at me. “What’s this for, again? SoapDirt?”
“Yes,” I said. “I think I have to play enough miniature golf with you to be able to say you’re one of the hottest men in daytime. I can say that now.”
“Cool. I’m gonna finish up here and hit the Roxy. Want to meet up?”
Joey declined, dragging me away. On the way to the car she explained that she and Trey went way back, to presoap days. “He was my little nephew in an episode of Murder, She Wrote. I could no more go night-clubbing with him than I could go skinny-dipping with him.” She looked at her watch. “I should drop in on an AA meeting. There’s one in Toluca Lake, pretty close by, but I’d rather go to the storage place.”
“We’ll do both. I’ll come to the meeting too.” That would ensure she got there. “I have to go talk to this homicide detective, but not till nine.”
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She looked momentarily scared, then shook her head. “I’ll skip the meeting. I’m a little hungover. Elliot and I shared a bottle of Cristal.”
“I bet you’re not the first person to go to a meeting hungover.”
She sighed. “True. Okay. Maybe I can nap through it.”
But it didn’t come to that. In a church parking lot, we ran into Avram
“Ziggy” Ziegler. And Joey’s life changed.
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Z iggy remembered me from the car wash and greeted me happily.
The sight of Joey made him rapturous. He looked like a man
pleased with all of life, except for the item of information he had to im-part to Joey.
“I moved to L.A. last month,” he said. “Great town, by the way. So I’ve been trying to track down Elliot, but he’s a hard man to get ahold of, and then I remembered his sister in Palm Springs. Camille. She said he was out of town, but then I realized that it wasn’t just Elliot affected by my actions, it was you too, only Camille had no number for you, but then I heard you were turning up at AA meetings, someone said Toluca Lake, and so I started coming here too and that’s how I came to be following you the other day—probably scared you, huh?—and I knew then that God would throw us together. Don’t you love it when those promises come true?”
“I’m sorry,” Joey said, “have we met?”
“No. But didn’t Elliot tell you about me? His divorce lawyer?”
Joey glanced at me. “I wasn’t aware he was divorcing me, as a matter of fact.”
“Divorcing you?” the little man said. “No, no. He’s not married to you.”
“Yes, he is,” Joey and I said simultaneously.
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“No, he’s not. That’s my point.” Ziggy stared, his smile faltering.
“Uh-oh. Oops. Deep breath here. Joey—can I call you Joey?—Elliot was my client years ago.”
“During one of his divorces, I assume,” Joey said.
“Ziggy!” A woman hailed him from across the parking lot as she opened the back of her van. “How about a hand with the coffee machine?”
“Uh . . . sure,” he called back. “Give me a minute.”
“Now,” she called. “Or it won’t be ready for meeting time.”
“Do you mind?” he asked us. “I’m co–coffee person for December.”
Without waiting for an answer, he took off across the parking lot.
Joey and I followed. “Look, Ziegler, Ziggy, whatever,” she called, “you gotta finish that thought.”
“Well, it’s delicate,” he yelled over his shoulder. “There may be some confidentiality issues here. I thought you knew already.”
“Pretend she does know,” I called, “and you’re just reexplaining it.”
Ziggy reached the van and lifted out a coffee machine the size of a small child. The coffee lady handed Joey and me boxes of coffee, creamer, sweeteners, and Styrofoam cups. “It’s attorney-client privilege,” Ziggy said. “At least, I think. I’ll look up the statutes. I never practiced in California, so I don’t know the laws here—”
“We won’t report you to the state bar association,” I said.
Ziggy and his coffee machine turned to us. “It’s not about getting caught, it’s about doing the right thing. I’m sorry, I thought I was just going to apologize, not break the news to you. What a moral dilemma. I have to consult my sponsor.”
“Will you please,” Joey said through gritted teeth, “tell me what you’re talking about before I go and drink myself into a frenzy?”
“Ziggy!” The coffee lady unearthed two cans of coffee and slammed shut the van door. “I’m appointing myself your interim sponsor. You tell this girl whatever it is you’re not telling her. Make your amends and get on with it. Nowhere does it say you’re allowed to torment people. Only start the coffee while you’re at it.”
We followed the coffee lady into the church. She turned on the lights in a meeting room. We dropped off our supplies, then followed Ziggy as he lugged the coffee machine to the men’s room to fill it with water. The men’s room was empty.
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“Okay. About eight years ago,” Ziggy said, “Elliot came to me to handle his divorce from Mary Lou, his second wife.”
“I know about Mary Lou,” Joey said.
“Well, it was pretty straightforward, no kids and not much money to split up. There’d been money at one point, but Elliot had made invest-ments that didn’t pan out, which was one reason Mary Lou didn’t care to stay married.”
“Another reason she didn’t care to stay married was that he was cheating on her,” Joey said. “But go on.”
Ziggy looked over at her from the sink. “He told you that?”
“We have a very honest relationship. With some glaring exceptions.
Go on.”
“So. They signed the papers and Elliot gave me money to file them, but I put it in a special account I had for clients’ money, and one day I took all the money and headed for Tijuana.”
“Excuse me?” Joey said.
“I took everyone’s money and went to Tijuana. It wasn’t a fortune, but then, Tijuana’s quite a bargain. Have you been?”
Joey just stared at him. I noticed how pale she looked in the bad bathroom light, the white scar running down the side of her face more prominent.
“Wait,” I said, putting it together. “That means there are people out there thinking they’re divorced and, in fact, they’re still married.”
“Exactly. Until last year, when I started to make amends.” Ziggy tried to lift the filled coffee machine, grunting from the weight. “So there I was,”
he said, still grunting, “living high on the hog south of the border—.
Sorry, can one of you help me here?”
Better me than Joey. I took one end of the coffee machine and walked in mincing steps with Ziggy as he talked. “—until I got sober. Want to hear that story?”
“No,” Joey said.
“We’ll just call it a miracle. So then I had to clean up my past. Which is gonna take a while. Years, even.” He sounded cheerful about this.
“Also, I had to do a little jail time, which is why it took so long to get to you. Elliot and Mary Lou were last on the list.” We reached the meeting room, where people were beginning to congregate.
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“So you got everyone redivorced?” I asked.
“Well, not Mary Lou, obviously. She died two years ago in a small plane crash. I figured that was the end of it, till I heard Elliot had remarried three years ago. None of the other couples had remarried, so, Joey, you’re the only instance of what I call collateral damage. One couple even started dating again. Isn’t that fascinating?”
“Not to me,” Joey said. “You’re telling me Elliot’s still married to Mary Lou?”
“Well, he’s widowed from her.” Ziggy and I hoisted the coffee machine onto the table. “He’s definitely not married to you, though. I explained all this to Elliot’s sister.”
“Yes,” Joey said, “and my question is, How come you were so eager to tell Camille, and had to be tied down and sat on to tell me, whose business it actually is?”
Ziggy nodded. “Good question. Bottom line, I’m a coward. I knew it would be easier to tell her than to tell him, let alone you. I don’t like to upset people. Now, can I assume that you’ll fill in Elliot, if in fact he doesn’t already know, or should I call—”
“You do it,” the coffee lady said, overhearing. “As your interim sponsor, I’m making an executive decision.”
“Good idea,” Joey said. “You do it. And Ziggy? Have a nice day.”
“Thanks,” Ziggy said. “Oh! I’m happy to pay for a new marriage license, when you two tie the knot again. I’d like to pay for the whole wedding, but it’ll take me about seventy years to settle up with Uncle Sam.
But you’re not leaving, are you? The meeting hasn’t even started, and we have a great speaker tonight.”
“I can’t imagine anyone topping the speech you just gave,” Joey said.
“Joey,” I whispered on the way out, “don’t you have to attend meetings?”
“Yeah, but I don’t have to attend that one. I’ll go to four or five tomorrow. What I have to do right now is find Elliot and marry him.”
“Are you sure?” I said. “Under the circumstances, why not just—”
“Wollie.” She turned to me. “I don’t have a choice. I’m flat broke.”
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B roke?” I yelled. “How can you possibly be broke?”
“Shh.” Joey looked around the parking lot. “Let’s not feed the
paparazzi.”
“You’re exaggerating, right?”
“Well, there’s still the cash I sewed into the chaise longue.”
“I’m serious,” I said.
“I am too. All the money I ever made is tied up in Elliot’s companies, which are in his name, not mine.”
“But that’s so—feudal, Joey. It’s not like you.”
She rubbed her eyes as if she was allergic to the topic. “Three years ago, I had assets and he had . . . ideas. I provided seed money, and he quadrupled it. Quintupled it. He’s a genius of sorts. Anyhow, this is California, it’s community property, so half of what he made is mine, which is a lot more than I came into the marriage with. Not a bad deal.” She was talking like she was legally married, which was only natural.
