Dream a Little Death, page 12
That would be Destiny D-Low, whose career had been resurrected by a man she loathed, Miles McCoy.
That would be Miles McCoy, who had or had not given me $40,000, and had or had not stolen it back, compromising the reputation of Uncle Ray in the process.
That would be Uncle Ray, whom I’d just caught sneaking around the house of the sister of Big Fatty’s and Destiny’s old drinking buddy Lucius Ramsay.
That would be Lucius Ramsay, employee of Omar G. Patterson, whose gun had recently been used to spectacularly ill effect by Maya Duran.
Did I leave anything out?
Only that if his name wasn’t cleared soon, Ray was not only going to lose a promotion he’d worked two decades to get, he was going to wind up in prison.
And that if that happened my grandmother was going to have her heart broken yet again.
Oh, and that Maya was about to start walking and talking again, and there might well be somebody out there who didn’t want that to happen.
Now I really needed a coffee.
I pulled into the closest Coffee Bean and ordered an Iced Blended with an extra shot. There was the usual discussion when I gave the server my name. The kid didn’t think much of Luke’s recent solo album, but apparently his mom was so into Luke’s sultry Bvlgari Man fragrance ad that she’d bought her son a bottle for Christmas even though he didn’t wear cologne.
On the way out of the mini-mall, I thought I saw a white van pull out behind me. But when I checked my rearview mirror, I saw that the van was actually sort of ecru, and that the driver was like a hundred years old. Maybe it was a bad idea to suck down so much caffeine at night. I took a breath. Visualized a mountain stream and daisies. And told myself that every white van in Los Angeles was not out to get me. Which turned out to be 99 percent accurate.
As I pulled into the driveway I saw Teddy waiting outside my door with Engelbart, who was wearing a red bowtie.
“He went to the groomer,” Teddy explained. “Petco got fancy on me.”
I bent down to scratch Engelbart behind the ears. He closed his eyes in ecstasy, puffing hot, moist dog breath into my face. It wasn’t all that pleasant, but I was stalling. I didn’t know what to say to Teddy. I felt like I’d just cheated on him. Even though Clayton had only kissed me once in the parking lot. Okay, twice.
“Are you going to tell me what happened with Omar G. Patterson?” he asked. “I’ve been worried.”
I stood up, got my key out of my purse, opened the door. “Would you like to come in? I need a shower, and then we should talk.”
“Okay,” he said carefully.
“Grab yourself a drink, or whatever,” I said. “I’ll be quick.”
I stayed in there as long as I possibly could.
After half an hour, Teddy poked his head into the bedroom. “You still breathing?”
I was in my robe, wet hair streaming down my back. “Sorry. It was a long day.”
He grabbed my hand, pulled me into the kitchen. “Look.” He tossed some lemon wedges into the disposal and turned it on. “I fixed the garbage disposal.”
“You didn’t have to do that.” I’d had no idea it was broken.
“I also brought in the trash cans.”
My gardener wasn’t going to like that. We have our rhythms, Jovani and I. He drags my garbage cans out on Thursdays, and brings them back in on Mondays. In between, I let the trash pile up inside my house. It works for us.
“I changed the lightbulb in the dining room, too,” Teddy said.
Well, that sealed it. The guy was too nice. Too thoughtful. Too concerned about my safety and well-being. So I did the logical thing. I started a fight and broke up with him. Who wouldn’t have done the same? Who wouldn’t prefer a player like Clayton Key, who’d probably never changed a girl’s lightbulb in his life? And who kissed girls in parking lots and then didn’t so much as mention wanting to see them again? Hot one minute, cold another. Yeah, a person would never be bored with Clayton.
After Teddy left, I went straight for the freezer. No ice cream. I was starving, and all there was in the fridge were softish radishes and an English muffin showing the first signs of mold, so I called the Indian place around the corner and ordered a mango lassi and three orders of samosas. They forgot the chutney, so I ate the samosas with ketchup.
After that hearty repast, I sat down on the couch and Googled Pee Chee Lowenstein.
What a nasty piece of work she was.
Her real name was Phoebe, but her second-grade teacher had nicknamed her Pee Chee, after the school folders, because even then she’d been obsessive about organization. I’m talking hitting the children who wouldn’t line up single file. I’m talking arranging the crayons in alphabetical order. Those fun facts I got from a profile that ran in the New York Times when Pee Chee was named Editor-in-Chief of Spin, after going straight from college to a career as an A&R executive at Roc-A-Fella Records. When she was running Spin, the magazine became known for promoting hip-hop and rap, as well as covering non-mainstream cultural phenomena, like monster trucks and Japanese anime. Pee Chee herself became known for her hair, her boobs, and her relentlessness. Also, for bullying her employees, several of whom filed a class-action lawsuit, which effectively caused her to resign.
Pee Chee had no kids. No significant others. No charities. Hobbies included needlepoint and scrapbooking—just kidding about the last part. No hobbies. Only work. And Miles McCoy.
No one was surprised when Miles seduced her away from some post-Spin freelance producing and made her 25-A-Day’s second-in-command. Miles was riding high at the time, and his charisma was legendary. By all accounts, they made a great team. Miles, the artist, and Pee Chee, the head to his heart, the one who greased the wheels, and tied up the loose ends. She even officiated at two of his four weddings. When asked by a Vanity Fair reporter what her own relationship to Pee Chee was like, Miles’s third (and fourth) wife, socialite Petal Collings, said, “What do you think? Pee Chee is Mrs. Danvers and I’m the second Mrs. de Winter.”
That got my attention.
A socialite known for her blond ringlets and a guest appearance on Gossip Girl referencing Daphne du Maurier’s Rebecca? I wondered if Petal Collings wasn’t smarter than she seemed. And if she had anything more to say on the subject of Pee Chee and Miles. I polished off the last of the samosas while I looked her up online.
Turns out Petal was no shrinking violet. She had 14,100 Twitter followers. On Facebook, 7,003 friends, plus four canines—Horst, Horst Jr., Horst III, and little Quattro. From Facebook I also learned that she was descended on her father’s side from Thomas Jefferson, and that her defunct handbag line had been remaindered at Nordstrom Rack. She was more active on Instagram. Summer house pictures, views out of Manhattan penthouse pictures, views out of private jet pictures, and—because some PR person must’ve told her she wasn’t relatable—bowls of chili with onions pictures. By the time I finished a scintillating profile of Petal in last December’s Los Angeles magazine I realized why the woman might want to be more relatable. She was launching a line of Nantucket-themed china, glassware, and tabletop accessories, which would be available exclusively at Barneys in Beverly Hills. And according to their website, the launch party was tomorrow.
I wandered into the kitchen and threw open my cupboard doors. There wasn’t much in there: a cracked mug from Fairfax High, the alma mater of my mother and two of the Jackson Five; three random wine glasses from a trip to Napa with Luke Cutt; and four white plates, which were all that remained of the original set of eight I’d picked up at Target before my last dinner party, eighteen months ago.
Shameful.
Anyone could see that what I needed was a nice set of whaling ship dessert plates and some jaunty sailboat-printed highball glasses.
And I knew exactly where to get them.
Chapter 23
“I wish we’d gone to one of our usual places,” my mother grumbled. “Or just eaten at Cellar Door. Gram could’ve whipped us up some nice tempeh hash.”
“Barneys is centrally located,” I said. “And known for its people-watching. Look.” I pointed to a spindly person of indeterminate age whose curly hair matched that of her French poodle. A service animal, no doubt.
“Don’t stare,” my mother scolded.
“Don’t start,” my grandmother cautioned.
So there we were, three generations of strong women, squeezed into a booth for two, enjoying Sunday brunch. My grandmother was having borscht, hold the sour cream. Beets support detoxification and fight inflammation. My mother chose sauerkraut. According to Dr. Oz, fermented foods keep you young. And I was stuffing my face with several of my favorite ancestral treats: blintzes, bagels, cream soda.
“Beverly Hills brings back bad high school memories,” said my mother as she dumped an ungodly amount of sugar into her coffee. Her commitment to renunciation was shaky at best.
Gram nodded. “I remember when they kicked you out of that boutique for shoplifting those jeans.”
My mother said, “I was thinking of the time they kicked me out of that club on Rodeo Drive. I’d been going there since ninth grade, no problem.”
“It was a private disco,” Gram said. “What was it called?”
“Oh, my god,” my mother said. “You’re losing your memory already?”
“The Daisy,” I piped up. “I was just reading about it. They filmed a scene from American Gigolo there.”
My mother said, “That’s right. The scene where Richard gets together for a drink with his pimp.”
That would be Uncle Richard Gere, who had a thing for my mother in between the (alleged) gerbil and Cindy Crawford.
“Leon was the pimp’s name.” My grandmother turned to her daughter. “And don’t you worry. I remember everything.”
“Excuse me, ladies,” I said. “Do you want to know why I was reading about the Daisy? Speaking of gigolos?”
“You can stop right there,” my mother said. “I’m not having you say a word against Daniel.”
“Who is Daniel?” I asked.
“The savory seitan pie maker,” my grandmother supplied.
I turned to my mother. “Why would you think I was talking about him?”
“You said, ‘speaking of gigolos,’ and I know exactly what you meant. And I do not appreciate it.”
“I wasn’t talking about your lover, Mother.”
“Ex-lover. Not that you care about my feelings.”
“More coffee, ladies?” asked the waiter.
My mother placed her hand over her cup. “Habituation to caffeine leads to increased risk of mortality related to cardiovascular disease.” She fixed me with one of her stares. “And I want to live forever so I can torment you.”
Like a red flag to a bull. But not this time. “When I said, ‘speaking of gigolos,’ it had nothing to do with you, Mother. It was about me.”
“Teddy’s a gigolo?”
“Teddy is not a gigolo. And Teddy is no longer in my life.”
My mother almost choked on her sauerkraut. “He dumped you?”
“As a matter of fact, I dumped him.”
She shook her head. “Not smart. He’s hot and nice. Who dumps hot and nice?”
Gram started to cry.
“Now look what you did,” my mother said. “She’s upset about Ray.”
“I am not upset about Ray.” Gram blew her nose with her napkin.
“Ray is cheating on her,” my mother said.
“That is so not true,” I said.
“Stop it, both of you,” Gram said. “Not another word on that subject today.” She asked for the check. “You were about to tell us why you are pursuing a gigolo. Or gigolos.”
My mother said, “It’s a bit hypocritical, isn’t it? You made such a fuss about me going on Tinder.”
“I am not pursuing gigolos,” I said. The couple at the next table turned to look at me. I lowered my voice. “Gigolos are pursuing me.”
Gram looked shocked. “I didn’t realize it had come to that. If you need money, we can give you more hours at Cellar Door.”
My mother handed the waitress her credit card. “Remember what happened to Leon the pimp.” She ran her finger across her throat.
I’m not going to recount the rest. Let’s just say it took me twenty additional minutes to make it clear that I’d just been hired to organize an American Gigolo tour for Cowboys4Angels, which is a company that provides straight male escorts to women looking for the “boyfriend experience.” The C.E.O. believes in perks—trips to Disneyland, spa days, etc.—to keep the gentlemen motivated. My mother and grandmother were beyond thrilled to hear that my career was not over, and that I was moving on from the Miles McCoy debacle. And I was moving on. Just not quite yet.
After we’d properly digested, the three of us headed to the third floor.
Home accessories.
There was a sizable crowd of people hovering around a blonde perched on a high stool.
There are blondes, and then there are blondes.
Petal Collings was the second kind, all pale skin, red lips, and cascading curls, dressed in a body-hugging white dress that would have been virginal if it weren’t actually pornographic. This was a woman who never waited in line. Never paid. Who made people stop and smell the roses and crave blueberries fresh off the bush and feel suddenly happy to be alive. Big whoop. I had cunning. Like a fox.
“Please back up!” barked an older woman wearing khaki walking shorts and a Nantucket red visor. “Miss Collings is claustrophobic and feeling faint!”
“Oh, please,” pooh-poohed my mother.
Indeed. Petal was drinking champagne and looked to be safely ensconced behind a barricade of acrylic and faux-leather trays and Lucite ice-buckets with logo-embossed brass handles, though it was true that people were grasping at these objects as if they were holy relics and Petal herself had the power to heal the lame.
“I repeat, put away your phones,” the older women shouted through her megaphone. “Miss Collings will only pose for pictures with a purchase.” She frowned at a passel of youngish Asian women who were frantically waving around selfie sticks. Apparently, Petal was huge in Japan.
I got into line behind a woman who was live-tweeting standing in line to buy coasters. My own set of coasters in hand, I cursed silently to myself about the injustice of having to shell out actual dollars merely to approach this woman who may or may not have information she was willing to share about Pee Chee Lowenstein and/or Miles McCoy. My mother, meanwhile, had set her sights on the last set of starfish napkins, and was battling it out with an equally determined Orthodox Jewish matron juggling several toddlers and what looked to be one of the discontinued Petal Collings purses from Nordstrom Rack.
“Wouldn’t you prefer this, Desirée?” Gram pointed to a pink and green catchall tray.
“You know I hate paisley,” said my mother, who had attracted the attention of several of the Japanese teenagers, who were now pointing their selfie sticks at her while chanting, “I WANT MY, I WANT MY, I WANT MY MTV.”
Thrilled to have been recognized, my mother surrendered the starfish napkins to the Orthodox woman and, backing up to fix her lip gloss, careened into the vertiginously stacked ice buckets, which went crashing to the floor. My grandmother, rushing in to fix things, as is her wont, tripped over the older woman in the Nantucket red visor’s megaphone, which certainly shouldn’t have been left lying in the middle of the floor, and went flying directly into Petal, who, in trying to catch her balance so as not to topple off of her swivel stool, inadvertently yanked out her own hair extensions.
Oh, yes.
They kicked us out.
After escorting my mother and grandmother back out to their cars, and going all the way back up to the restaurant to get my ticket validated so I didn’t have to pay even more handsomely for this fiasco, I wandered into the lingerie department. It was by accident, really. Not because all my bras and panties were ratty and there might be a time in the near future that I’d like to own at least one matched set that could make a lothario like Clayton Key go weak at the knees.
They were having a sale. After fighting off several determined women, I grabbed some tiny, silky things and waited for a vacant dressing room.
The first ensemble I tried on—red with leopard accents—was something my mother would wear.
The second made me look like a pre-pubescent boy.
The third—well, I was studying myself from all angles in the full-length mirror at the end of the corridor when I heard someone say, “You look hot enough to make a bishop kick a hole in a stained-glass window.”
I whipped my head around.
Petal Collings, in a full-on bondage ensemble.
Not only could this person reference Daphne du Maurier, she could quote from Chandler’s Farewell, My Lovely. But why was I surprised? The woman had married Miles McCoy. Twice.
I scooted back to my dressing room and attempted to wrap the pink curtain around my body while maintaining eye contact with Petal. God forbid I should glance down again. That’s right. Crotchless.
“I’d kill for your legs. ” Petal waved around her ostrich feather tickler for emphasis.
“Thanks,” I said.
“What do you think of this?” She pirouetted out of her own dressing room. “I’ve got an event.”
No way was I asking.
“Stunning. The tassels are so bouncy.”
“Dr. Kamerinsky.” She nodded conspiratorially. “His boobs defy gravity.”
We were bonding.
“So you like this teddy?” I dropped the curtain. “I’m not 100 percent sure.”
She smiled. “I’d do you.”
That wasn’t the kind of bonding I had in mind. “I’m kind of involved with someone.”
“No worries,” she said. “I’m straight. And engaged! I’m a big believer in marriage.”
Good thing. The Nantucket-themed china, glassware, and tabletop accessories—like her handbags—were nothing to hang a future on.
She passed me her phone. “Type in your number, and I’ll invite you to the wedding. I don’t mean to be weird, but you’re Dreama Black, aren’t you?”
