Roll with the Punches (16 page)

After a moment, George growled, "You know, I just knew you'd taste good, and feel—Mmm! Even better. You want to continue this upstairs?" I could tell the pinky ring was trying to express more than it was capable of.

Cathy was strangling herself with her tattooed hands, her tongue lolling, as she faked an agonizing death.

Yvette shrilled, panting, "Oh, piss off, George. You and your sodding anti-aging creams. Like I was an old hag. God, you Yanks are about as subtle as a barrel of tar. Maybe you blundering blokes can ooze by with your boorish manners with these American tarts, but not with this Brit.”

Angry spike heels staccatoed over the living room floor as we four delinquents, no longer able to control ourselves, exploded into the front yard like a passel of first-graders hitting the schoolyard after a tense subtraction lesson.

Yvette stomped outside and George followed. "I'm sorry, Yvette. You're not old. You're wonderful. Wanna go out for pancakes?"

Cathy and Largot, drunk on hilarity, roared and pointed at Yvette, who was steaming toward her car. "That's Gold Diggeressa. From the Irvine Irritations! We hate her!"

Then a loud, vibrating ball of claws and teeth headed out the door at us.

In the car, my butt shifted restlessly from one dog-bitten bun to the other. That damn Jeeves had sharp teeth. The back seat resounded with mimicry of Livid Yvette and Curious George. Cathy held her dangerously jiggling spare tire and cackled again, "Oh, piss off, George!"

"Octopus urine!" Largot gleefully spun her rope and caught it on her lip stud.

The Mustang careened around a corner on two wheels, slamming us into the doors.

"They’re probably fake," Harley said, eyeing me. I scowled, and she added, "Hey, Rhonda, speaking of bosomy heroes, you could be Boudicca.”

Largot said, "Yeah, Booty-Ka! Get it?"

"Nah. Her butt's not big enough," Cathy said.

Largot added, "Yeah. If anyone should have a
booty
name, it should be Cathy."

Okay. They weren't so bad, after all. They poked each other all the way to the local cowboy bar, where we dropped them off. Then I took the wheel from Harley and headed back to the rink and my car.

"What the hell was Yvette doing back there?" I screamed. "Framing me with George's help? Why?"

Harley said, "I don't know, but I'd watch her. At least we know George isn't Reynard Jackson. Anybody that stinky at seduction, and reduced to hawking cosmetics for a living—"

"—and that house? And the dumb inherited ring," I agreed. "Not enough money there to be Jackson material.”

"Unless all his money's invested so he can't get at it."

I frowned. "Right. In real estate. Or some damned Babe Ruth collector’s bat. Well, put him on hold for now. What about Marian and the mysterious Pala?"

"Not likely.” Harley said, “Um. Did James ever get a hard copy of your book?"

"No, I made him a CD, but he never took it."

"He didn't read your book?" she asked.

"Don't worry, he will soon." Oh, yes, my magic kisser would. I would see to that. "The other CD was for George, the shit. There were a lot of early pages I handed out, but they were just chapters. I only made five complete paper copies of the final draft of the book. Four I just copied to go to agents last week. The other one Jackie just returned to me.”

"So, maybe it was Jackie. Did George return his CD?" Harley asked.

"He gave it to Marian, who can't find it."

"Maybe her boy toy stole it. He was cute. Now him, I could see as Jackson."

"So Jackson has to be cute now?" I shook my head.

"Duh. What about your earlier drafts? Maybe Asshole Jackson copied one of those. Or got into your computer when you weren't looking, like at a conference.”

"Nope. When it’s not at Mom’s house or my condo, I keep my laptop with me at all times, especially at conferences." I pulled into the rink lot. "When I go pee, it does, too.”

"Spare me the details." Harley said. "Want to go interrogate Marian's boy toy tomorrow night?"

"I'll talk to Marian about the CD first."

"Want to go spy on Jackie?"

"No, Mata Hari." I got out of the car. "Jackie'll have the place fully alarmed after the report she gets from George tonight. This is serious, Harley. My group may ban me for life."

"Hey, since it was Yvette, I bet it just looked like you were harassing a fellow roller girl." Harley grinned. "Wouldn't you love to catch her in the middle of blood and thunder?"

"Insecticide." I smiled.

*
      
*
      
*

Dad insisted he was fine alone at home that night, so I went to my condo and located every hard copy, old or new, paper or disk, of my manuscript, put them all in a cupboard, and locked it. Then I unlocked it. Who was I kidding? The damage was done. Who'd want the thing now that it was published? And I still had no idea how it had been done. Had someone found Marian’s copy of the final draft?

Then I remembered. In December of last year, I'd made a flock of copies of my very rough first draft to give to friends as a test read, but then I'd gotten busy with Christmas. Where had those gone, exactly? I didn't remember disbursing them at all. Were they lost? Were they hiding in my condo? Maybe all those little paper piles were floating around Orange County in the general miasma of excess printer paper, like lost dryer socks. Or, more likely, in the dump, available for anyone to find and publish. This just got worse and worse.

Mom called at midnight, saying she'd finally found a church friend to help Dad with his food and medicines the next day while I worked, so I shouldn't worry. But I hadn't been worried. That's how awful I was at taking care of people. I'd barely thought of Music Man all evening. Besides, the doctor had said he'd be fine at home, right?

"You went out?" Mom yawned. "Did you meet any new friends?"

"Uh. Yeah.”

"Nice?"

"Well …"

"Male?"

"No."

Pause. "Say, did you hear anything new about your book? Any eager publishers?"

"Uh, no, Mom. It's … too soon." How could I tell her the truth and listen to the disappointment in her voice? Rhonda had messed up again. "Just Rhonda." "Just Rhonda," who never quite succeeded at anything.

I said, "Hey, do you know where Manuela went or how to find her?"

"I think Henrietta Smith at church uses her sister. Oh listen. Ed's moving into the house tomorrow. Put clean sheets on the bed and sweep up, okay?"

An eerie, hot wind howled all night. At 7:30 on Friday morning, I woke in my own little condo and unbent myself inch by inch, still groggy from the four Motrins and three Tylenols with codeine I'd needed to sleep. After two cups of coffee, some failed yoga, and a stiff email from my last hope of an agent, Ivy Liygh, dumping me and my book and recommending serious therapy, I limped into the Rancho Santa Margarita Library with two bags of frozen peas, since all my ice packs were leaking blue gel.

At this point in October, we were between travel season and the science fair. So my morning work was full of information searches about Santa Ana winds, hurricanes, the World Series, elections, real estate booms and busts, ghosts, and Halloween. During my break, I found out Pala was an Indian casino. Hmmm. Which made G. A. Gamblers Anonymous and wholesome Marian quite the card shark, although I'd pegged George for the gambler in the group.

I called Henrietta Smith and got a phone number and address for Manuela's sister, Concepcion, in Santa Ana. I called the number, shaking my head all the while. Manuela had never had any interest in print whatsoever. She threw away magazines and newspapers just like trash unless I guarded them. I just couldn’t see her stealing my book, though she might have trashed a copy. No matter. The number was disconnected.

Then I found I'd been banned from my two online writers' groups for fear I might plagiarize the members' postings. Furious, I googled Jackson again and found that of all the people claiming in tabloids to be his angry ex-wives or illegitimate children, none knew where he was. If they had, I'd have gone there and J-checked his ass into the shrubs.

I was just getting ready to call Marian's copyright lawyer, Jack Pruitt, at lunchtime when my cell phone rang.

"Rhonda? Is that you?" said an older female voice.

"Yep. This is my cell phone.”

"It's Arlene, honey. You don't happen to know where your dad is, do you?"

Alarm bell. "No. He should be in Anaheim, at home."

Polite Arlene minced words. "Well, Corliss Greene was with him this morning, but your father, well, maybe … kind of yelled at her or something. Your mother told her to make cereal for his breakfast, but Harold insisted on making eggs and bacon. I think it may have ended in kind of a … well, a food fight. Then he wanted to go see your mother right away, but Corliss was still cleaning up the kitchen. He got real impatient, I believe he swore some, and he took off, she thought for a walk. That was about 9:30 or so. She called me at my job an hour later when she realized he'd taken the car. She said she couldn't work for a man with a mouth like that. She quit."

Stomach sinking, I said, "So did he go see my mother?"

"He never showed up there. Nobody knows where he went. I got some neighbors to look in the neighborhood, but no luck. Your mother told me not to bother you, but it's been almost three hours, and I'm really worried."

Oh boy. Orange County was a giant place, and Dad was loose in it.

"I'm coming. Try the local donut shops, okay?"

Stooped, gray Marla in her stout librarian's shoes was deeply unhappy at my leaving work early on a Friday, but I finally got a hall pass and flew back to Anaheim in my little Honda, like Boudicca in her chariot, ready to save her royal ancestor. On the way, I stopped at my condo for some fresh ice packs.

The Santa Ana winds had intensified overnight to produce a hot, dry, hazy October day. During my drive, my head filled with a blast of acrid wood smoke blowing in from wild fires in the hills near Silverado and Modjeska Canyons. My eyes watered and my nose ran. It was the type of day we Southern Californians used as an excuse for arson, murder, and bad hair.

When I pulled up at the curb outside the folks' house, I had already peeled off my green linen jacket. I ran inside. A quick tour of the suffocating house revealed no sign of Music Man, not even the old blue Chevy in its normal mooring place. In the middle of the family room, I slammed my bag on the brown shag carpet, shed all my clothes except my underwear, and screamed loudly. Then I flipped on the cranky old air conditioning, crouched low under the kitchen window and Arlene's visual radar, and slapped together a peanut butter sandwich at the kitchen countertop, all the while trying to read Dad's mind.

Where are you, you old coot?

But my sports bra and underpants were soaked with sweat. So I popped them in the microwave and found a chunk of ice to rub on my stomach and chest and stood in front of the family room air vent feeling quite free in an odd sort of way. The hall mirror showed me a slightly rounded Roman statue of Pomona, goddess of fruit, come to life. Me. Au naturel. I posed a second for the glass. Not bad, except for the dorky sandals.

Then, just like my karate-loving brothers at age five, running around with weenies flapping at bath time, my lack of clothes freed the real Pomona inside me. I stretched like a cat, working out muscle stiffness, and danced a swirly, twirly dance around the room. As I did, my goddess energy shifted more toward Athena in battle, throwing air punches at the mirror and striking defensive stances. I snatched a pot lid for my shield and lashed out with a stirring spoon, my spear, then whirled and stuck the butcher knife deep into my imaginary opponent's invisible heart. A high kick at his compadres with my magic sandal finished the job.

Which was when Dal walked in the garage door and got a comprehensive view of everything I had to offer. Faster than a speeding bullet, I was down the hall, leaving the spoon and butcher knife suspended in mid-air like in Tom and Jerry cartoons. Then silence. For long minutes.

"Could you throw me my bra? It's in the microwave," I finally yelled.

Pause. It sailed down the hall.

I waited. "And my underwear?"

It came after another pause, with elastic now as limp as old celery.

"You nuke elastic?" he said.

"Never," I yelled. "Clothes?"

"Why?" He laughed.

When I came out in Mom's robe, he was rooting in the fridge. "This house has unexpected and wondrous views." he murmured to the lettuce.

"Mm-hmm," I agreed, appreciating my view of a tightly muscled rear end and some long, sleek, brown legs disguised in old cut-offs and Nikes. Not bad. "Forget what you saw or you die." I bit into my sandwich.

He closed the fridge and turned, imperious with all that startling nose. A smile quirked his lips. “Not sure it’s possible,” he said, then laughed.

*
      
*
      
*

After I'd changed, I found him out on the driveway, unloading his over-stuffed silver Toyota. "Have you seen my dad?" I asked, holding a cold Coke to my forehead. It was still mercilessly hot out.

He was arranging an armload of long metal pipes, two-by-fours, saws, and other tools, including some evil-looking axes, on and around the workbench in the garage, ponytail wagging as he bent and lifted.

"No, I just got here. Your car was here and the garage door was open. So I …" He stacked a giant plastic bin full of scrap metal on top of a pile next to the workbench.

I said, "Listen, Music Man took off in the car three hours ago. No one knows where he is." A little frantic note crept into my voice.

He stopped and looked at me. "
Music Man
?"

"Dad. Harold Hamilton, Harold Hill. He was in the school play."

"He's not at the hospital?"

"Never went there. He's been gone for hours."

"And your little naked dance in there was aimed at getting him home fast?" He frowned.

"I was nuking my underwear. I couldn't call the police naked." I pulled out my phone and dialed the police as I spoke, and got put on hold.