2 Double Dip (5 page)

SIX

There were two ways into the Sanders’ residence: the private elevator, which spilled you out at a security desk and you had to have your blood typed to take another step, or the super-duper-rocket private elevator from behind Mr. Sanders’ office that spilled you out in the middle of their home, but your surname had to be Sanders to ride it up. There was a third way, via the helicopter pad on the roof, but climbing up the side of the building, then rappelling over the edge to crash through a thick pane of hurricane-friendly glass was time consuming.

I avoided the 30
th
floor with all my might, but some days there was no getting around it. My choices were the security desk, which meant a disguise and a fairy tale, scale the side of the building (too hot for that today), or get Bianca to grant me a ride on the family elevator, which meant getting her on the phone. Most of the time she ignored my calls, but miraculously, twice in a row, yesterday and today, she answered, and agreed to beam me up. She communicated this by hanging up before I finished speaking.

Making my way there, I listened to the message from a sleepy-sounding Matthew Thatcher. I will say this, a large part of his star power stems from his intoxicating voice. If he ever lost his emcee job, he could get a job leaving people seductive messages. “
I tried reaching you twice last night and struck out both times, so I thought I’d try you early. This is Thatch, your friendly knight in shining armor, and I want to see how you’re doing. I’ve had beautiful women swoon at the sight of me before
(oh, brother),
but not as beautiful as you.”
He left instructions to meet him for dinner tonight in the Bellissimo’s private dining room, then gave me directions. I knew exactly where it was, because I’d
served
dinner there before. (Shrimp and grits, orange-avocado salad, strawberries in Chantilly cream. Wearing a little boy’s tuxedo. No kidding.) Thatch didn’t ask if I wanted to have dinner or if I were available for dinner. It was more edict than invitation.

I didn’t swoon at the sight of him. I just swooned. For no reason whatsoever. Random swooning.

Bianca was stretched out on a velvet sofa, her wounded foot airborne, and in her usual good mood. (Not). And she greeted me with her usual hospitality. Make that hostility. Most days, she didn’t speak, but cut her eyes in my general direction as if to ask,
What?
Most days I gave it right back to her, today with a sharp inhale.
You’re the one who shot yourself in the foot
,
Bianca, not me
.

I was, today, and all other days, eternally weary of her attitude.

“You know, Bianca? You’re a bitch.”

(I did
not
say that.)

“Hello, Mrs. Sanders.”

(That’s what I said.)

She looked up, batting a manicured hand through the air, dismissing me.

“How’s your foot?” I asked politely.

Just then, smelling fresh blood, her little dogs came in for the kill. Sidestepping them, which is to say hopping like a bunny until they settled down, I started my business so I could finish my business. “Mrs. Sanders,” hop-hop, “we need to find Peyton.”

“
We
don’t need to do anything,” Bianca said. “
You
need to find her, and
I
need a new assistant,” Bianca said. “I am in my very hour
of need, and without help.”

No telling what she needed. A Q-Tip, maybe. Or a page turned in a magazine.

“Has she, by any chance, tried to contact you?” I asked.

She gave me another non-verbal response. This one I easily translated,
No, you imbecile.

I didn’t think so. “I’ll need to see her desk,” I said. “Her work area.”

“Help yourself.” Bianca reached for her long, skinny cigarettes.

I waited. And waited. “Where is Peyton’s office, Mrs. Sanders?”

She lit, then took a long drag of cigarette. “I’m not sure.”

After a treasure hunt through the service area of the penthouse, I found Peyton’s office, which was more like Peyton’s closet. It was behind a produce humidifier room that was behind a pantry, and there was some unrecognizable produce in the glassed-in humidifier. Seriously. Foot-long tentacle-looking things, bulbous purple things the size of soccer balls, and bunches of green things that looked more like weeds than anything else. Who eats this stuff? The whole kitchen reminded me of the Disney movie,
Ratatouille
, which my niece Riley and I have watched ninety-nine times
.
Speaking of rats, this would make an excellent storage space for Bianca’s little furry canine rodents, Gianna and Ghita. I made my way past kumquats and giant onions with thick green stalks as big around and long as my arm, to double-louvered doors. I pulled them open, and found Peyton’s workspace.

I sat in her chair, pulled gloves out of my pocket, snapped them on, and started digging. After an hour of sifting through Bianca’s shoe receipts (found one for Christian Louboutin coyote fur boots—price tag $4,900), I had nothing but a headache. In a last-ditch effort to find anything—ticket stub, gum-wrapper, ten-dollar bill—I pulled the desk drawers all the way out to see if anything might be wedged between or taped under. I was force-feeding them back into their slots when something stuck against the back frame of the desk caught my eye. I looked like a pretzel, I’m sure, stretching for it. I finally connected with a corner and pulled it out. I recognized it immediately. It was a wedding invitation to the Mystery Shopper slot tournament I’d been kicked out of. It was addressed to Jewell Maffini, One God’s Boulevard, Beehive, Alabama.

Well, I’ll be dipped.

*     *     *

I would have made up something or another to get out of going to dinner with Thatch the Great, had it not been for the fact that my boyfriend was in Las Vegas with Mary Ha-Ha the Lawyer. That, and I was hungry. The distance I covered from Peyton’s office up near heaven to mine and Fantasy’s down near hell, if horizontal, would probably cross a state line. I keyed myself, then poked my head in the door of control central.

“Whatcha got?” I asked Fantasy.

She looked up. “Not much.” Peyton Reynolds’ face was on the left sides of four computer screens, with flashing images zipping by on the rights. “I’m running her picture through every database in cyberspace, and so far haven’t turned up a thing. This girl doesn’t even drive a car.”

“Check Beehive, Alabama.”

“Beehive? As in the little old lady who lives in a church, Beehive, who won the tournament?”

“The very same.”

“Seriously?”

I dropped the Mystery Shopper invitation on the desk in front of her. “Found this in Peyton’s desk.”

“Jewell Maffini,” Fantasy read. “This is way more than a coincidence.”

“I agree,” I said. “See if you can find anything on Peyton in Beehive while I get dressed for dinner.”

“Dinner who? Where? Why?”

“Matthew Thatcher,” I said.

“Can I go?”

“No.” I turned for the closet.

“Why is Beehive one word when Pine Apple is two?” Fantasy shouted at my back.

“I have no idea!”

I grabbed a dress, shoes, earrings, blue contacts, a push-up bra, a bag, and was almost out the door when I remembered that I had to be a medium-spice brunette. I pulled my red hair up, twisted it, twisted it more, stuck four hundred bobby pins in it, covered my face and clothes with a towel, and yelled across the bullpen to Fantasy. “Can you come spray my hair for me?”

“No!” Fantasy shouted back. “I’ve got something in here!”

I did a quickie on my hair, holding my breath. I checked the back with a mirror, sprayed a spot I’d missed, then scurried across the bullpen to control central.

Fantasy rotated the computer screen my way. “Check this out.” It was Peyton Reynolds, the missing assistant, both on the right and left of the screen.

“Well, how about that.” I stepped into my shoes. “Where’d you find her?”

“Beehive High School alumni database,” Fantasy said. “And that’s not all. Take a look at her name.”

I leaned in and read
Peyton Beecher Maffini, Class of 1998
. “The little old lady and the missing assistant are related.”

“By marriage.”

We said it together. “Road trip.”

*     *     *

The best thing about dinner with Mr. Microphone was the food. Delicious.

Another great thing was my outfit. I was a fashionista below my medium-spice updo. I was Armani business-casual in a herringbone jersey dress, a little on the short side. It had a very scooped neck, a banded waist, and cap sleeves. I looked like I’d been poured into it. Lots of shoe: black, block-heeled pumps that took me from five-two to five-six. Also Armani. Pewter satchel bag. Target.

A not-so-great thing about dinner, and I found this out quickly, I was dining with the President of the Crazy for Thatch Club; the guy was beyond egomaniacal. I didn’t have to worry about my cover story, explain why I’d fainted, or divulge any details I might need to remember later, because he didn’t ask. All I had to do was make sure I didn’t have spinach in my teeth, and even at that, I’m not so sure he’d have noticed. Come to think of it, there was no spinach, so the whole thing was no challenge whatsoever, unless you count staying awake.

From the moment I sat down, he began answering questions I didn’t ask. How he got his job and how shocked the professionals (“flown in from major media markets coast to coast”) he beat out for it were. How difficult it was in the beginning, because he didn’t start out with a staff feeding his earpiece with the proper pronunciation of the crazy gamblers’ names that he had to call out. (“I don’t know what people are thinking when they’re naming their kids. How do they even come up with some of this stuff? I mean, look at my name”—huge pause—“Matthew Thatcher. Say it. No, really. Try it on. See how it rolls off? A strong, masculine, solid name. Easy without being common.”) How difficult a time he had keeping a low profile and private life with his celebrity status. (“The last time I went to the mall, I was
mobbed
.” Chuckle, chuckle at the memory. “My assistant takes care of all that now.”) No, he can’t rig anything so that it’s my name pulled out of the hat for this or that. (“Now, there are other ways I can guaran
tee
you’ll win.” Wink, wink, wink.) (Gag, gag, gag.)

I got a very few words in edgewise. “I hear you’re from Alabama.”

He weighed his response, trying to decide whether or not he was going to admit it.

“My family has strong French roots.”

Not.

And he had strong auburn roots. His fluffy chestnut hair was straight out of a bottle. Or a spray can, like me. I wouldn’t bet on it, but I strongly suspected Mr. Smokey-Eyed Thatcher knew his way around an eyeliner pencil too. Or maybe his assistant takes care of all that now. I couldn’t help but compare him, and all other men, to Bradley Cole, as he was the bar. Bradley Cole would stand at the mirror smudging on eyeliner in about one gazillion gazillion years.

The last of the china was whisked away, and, out of nowhere, a man showed up.

Thatch half stood. “Laura Kasden, Rodney Whitehead.”

What? Who? I was used to the alias thing, and I sure hoped I was the Laura Kasden at this gig and not the Rodney Whitehead.

“Rodney is my publicist,” Thatch said to me, which made me Laura. Whew. “And I hope you won’t mind a photo op.”

I minded it very much. No Hair would have a cow and blame me.

“I’ll make sure you get a signed copy,” Thatch assured me.

“Scoot in a hair, Miss Kasden, if you don’t mind.” That was Rodney.

“Smile!” Thatch said, pasting on his own. “Look up at me through your eyelashes, chin down,” he spoke through his mask, “and don’t say cheese, say
home
.”

The whole thing was over in three seconds.

“You wouldn’t believe,” Thatch dismissed Rodney, checked his seat for crumbs before taking it, then smoothed his tie, “how much mileage I’ve gotten out of you fainting.” He shifted positions, crossing his legs the other way, picking at the pleat in his pants. “Word spread like wildfire. Five hundred people have asked me who you are, how you’re doing, and have made me promise to catch them if they fall.”

I’d known for a while that this wasn’t about me, so I didn’t pout.

“Hope you won’t mind a little Page Six.” He winked. “Follow up for my peeps, you know.”

Page Six in
The Biloxi Sun Herald
was a bigger deal here than Page Six in
The New York Post
was there. Page Six was the casino news. Several local casinos reported not only the amounts of huge slot machine wins, but the machine serial numbers and locations too. There were lots of winner photos, restaurant specials, and a Q & A section where gambling experts weighed in. Page Six was the addicted gambler’s bible, complete with daily gaming horoscopes, which had every sign under the sun winning. Thatch, believing me to be from out of town, was explaining the relevance and privilege of Page Six to me. “I kept a scrapbook the first year,” he said, “but I’m in it every other day”—he threw his hands in the air; what’s a boy to do?—“and I couldn’t keep up. I have a
huge
Page Six following.”

No Hair wasn’t going to have a cow. He was going to have a tractor.

“Marketing wants me take a first aid and CPR course,” he said, “just in case an opportunity like this comes up again.”

I could see the publicity possibilities, so I smiled an
Oh, really
?

“But rest assured,” he leaned in. “Mouth-to-mouth is Thatch choice only.”

Gross.

He reached under the table and pulled out a gift bag. “I have a treat for you.”

“You shouldn’t have.”

“Oh, but I did.” He placed it on the linen between us. “Go ahead.”

I pulled out tissue paper, then a thick sealed envelope that I placed on the table for later. No doubt it was an autographed studio portrait of him for my nightstand. I shook out the treat. It was a T-shirt, size S, bright red. On the front, the Bellissimo logo. On the back, the whole back, in letters large enough for an interstate billboard, it read
THATCH! PICK ME!

“Is the color okay?” he asked. “They come in every shade in the rainbow.”

I knew this. Thatch had a whole line of T-shirts, and casino patrons wore them all the time.
Thatch, call my name! I
(heart)
Thatch.
One had a quip he’d made famous around here, his stock greeting when he stepped up to the mike:
Who wants Thatch to call their name?
The crowd went nuts when that particular question boomed out of the sound system. You could buy them in the gift shops, and I’d been in the casino before when he’d come through accompanied by half-naked girls shooting them out of guns. They were part of the Thatch phenomenon, and now I had one of my very own.

“It’s lovely,” I lied.

“Wait,” he said. I was rolling up the shirt. “Look closer.”

He’d signed it.
Saved by the Thatch! –Matthew Thatcher.
Big fat Sharpie letters. EBay, here I come.

“Open the envelope.” He nudged it.

It was an invitation to a slot tournament, die-cut, shaped like an ice-cream cone, two scoops above a gold cone, the individual scoops loose slips of pastel silk. Everything was sprinkled with dots of cubic zirconia. I lifted the strawberry silk scoop to see that the buy-in was $25,000 per player. I lifted the chocolate scoop to see the theme—Double Dip.

“This,” he leaned in, he needed a Tic-Tac, “is the hottest ticket in town.”

“I’m honored.” I wasn’t.

“It’s a spectator pass, mind you,” he said, “but you won’t want to miss a minute of it.”

*     *     *

Bright-eyed and bushy-tailed the next morning after a great night’s sleep in my slot-tournament hotel room, I speed dialed Fantasy at eight on the nose. “What are you doing?”

“Waiting on you,” Fantasy said. “How was dinner? Is he bigger than life?”

“His head is.” I was zipping through the Bellissimo lobby, overdressed in last-night’s clothes for today’s early hour. I passed the T-shirt to the first person I made eye contact with. “Listen, I’m going by my place real quick for some people clothes. Pick me up there in thirty minutes and we’ll head that way.”

“I was hoping you were calling to tell me we didn’t have to do Alabama today.”

“We’ll hurry.” A porter held the door for me. “We’ll find Peyton, check her for bullet wounds, snap a few pictures for No Hair, then be back by dinner.”

“The chances of it going down that way are slim to none, Davis.”

On the drive home I listened to the messages that had parked themselves on my phone for two days. Bradley had left a quick one: The movers called, they were going to charge us $2,500 for the $1,200 move because we hadn’t let them know in time. (In time for what?) Surely something could be done. (One would think.) He was up to his eyeballs; could I handle it? (Handle
what
?) Bradley again. Where was I? Could I possibly call the movers and work something out? (Work
what
out? Reschedule the move?) Then my sister, Meredith. Same question. Where was I? She hoped I remembered. (Where I was? She hoped I remembered where I was, or she hoped I remembered something else? Was it our mother’s birthday again already?)

I stepped into the front door of our condo, my Armani shoes starting an echo that bounced off the walls. There were three things, and only three things, in the whole condo: dust hippopotamuses, my grandmother, and my ex-ex-husband, Eddie Crawford.