Shamus In The Green Room (20 page)

Kat hugged the weeping Fredericka with one arm and with

the other passed the file back to me.

The caterer poured three more Dixie cups of wine.

“Hey, you!” She handed me one. “For the road.”

Perhaps it was time to acknowledge that this experience was

not going well. The whole Rafe thing. Not going well at all. I

headed up the back staircase and stopped at the top. There was

laughter coming from down the hall. I had no idea if it was a

man or a woman. Who exactly lived here, anyway? Rafe. He

had a chrome-and-black-leather bed. That was definitely too

much information. Will’s office was somewhere on the prem-

ises. Did he bunk here, too? What about Fredericka and/or

Lana? Kat and/or Riley? Were they live-in watchdogs, too?

I ducked into the guest bathroom and locked the door be-

hind me. Everything was black and high gloss. The toilet paper

was folded neatly at the end, like at a fancy hotel. I swung open

the vanity. The shelves were bare except for a pink Daisy razor

and a bottle of extra-strength Excedrin. I wrestled with the

child-safety lid, then popped two aspirin in my mouth and

washed them down with the rest of the wine. I closed the door

of the vanity. My hair was holding up surprisingly well. But I

was out of this place as soon as I dropped off the file.

I turned off the light on my way out. More laughter down

the hallway. The redhead emerged from a bedroom, wearing

one peacock-feather earring. The other earring, as well as her

dress, had evaporated.

“Excuse me,” I said. “Do you know where the office is?”

Her eyes looked huge and glassy. I tried not to look else-

where. “Right behind you. Tread softly and carry a big stick.”

The naked ingenue was quoting Teddy Roosevelt.

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The light was on in the office, so I knocked. There wasn’t

any answer. “Hello? Will? You in there?”

I figured that was enough warning.

The room was empty except for Will’s desk, which had been

placed front and center, a thick, smudge-free piece of tempered

glass balanced on an elaborately carved plywood base. This was

not a desk meant for work. No papers, no scripts, no contracts,

no bills, no to-do lists. This was a desk meant for show. All that

was missing was the cardboard computer monitor.

There was another door at the back of the room. Maybe it

led to the real office. No light under that door. I knocked once,

then entered. It was dark. I hit the light switch. Nope, this

wasn’t it, either.

This was, however, the heart of the operation, the epicen-

ter: Rafe’s home gym.

Three of the walls were mirrored, the other covered with a

huge, flat-screen TV. The sound was off, but there was a golf

game going on. I’d never noticed how much the dents in a golf

ball resemble cellulite. And talk about stuff: in one corner, a

speed bag mounted to a platform, with two pairs of red boxing

gloves underneath; opposite, a rowing machine, a treadmill, a

stationary bike, an elliptical trainer, and a Pilates machine

called a Reformer that looked like it would lend itself to all

sorts of things I didn’t want to know about. Also, a rolling rack

with half a dozen wet suits hanging from it, and a floppy

leather bag bearing a logo I recognized from the other day.

O’Neill.

The curling wave.

“Cece?”

I could see Will’s reflection in the mirror. I could also see

Tiger Woods raising his hands over his head. Two men in

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white polo shirts were clapping him on the back. Then it was

time for a commercial break. Michelob. Everybody looked so

happy.

I spun around and gave Will a guilty smile. “Here,” I

blurted out, handing him the file. “Kat asked me to put this on

your desk.”

“So, why didn’t you?”

“I tried to. But I wasn’t sure I’d found the right place.”

He led me out of the gym, then hit the lights. “No worries.”

He took the file out of my hand and tucked it under his arm.

He looked thinner than he had the other day. Different.

Maybe not thinner. Younger. More relaxed. “We’re cool. But

this isn’t the right place. This is Rafe’s office, not mine.”

We both looked at the empty desk. In answer to my unspo-

ken question, he explained, “Rafe doesn’t do much work in

here. You want to see where I work?” I didn’t appear to have a

choice. He was already halfway down the hall. He turned left

and I followed him up a spiral staircase made out of spindly

white iron.

“You have your own floor?” I asked.

“Sure do,” he answered, walking into his office.

It was a wreck. The furniture was old and cheap. Pock-

marked file cabinets were bursting at their metal seams. Card-

board boxes stuffed with papers littered the floor. Trash cans

overflowed. There were keys and thumbtacks and wires and

zigzagging cords and neon-yellow Post-it notes covering every

visible surface. Phones were ringing; monitors were buzzing;

faxes were coming through. Will tossed the folder noncha-

lantly onto his desk and knocked over a plastic champagne

glass. Luckily, it was empty.

“You’re working in the middle of a party?” I asked.

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He sat down and ripped the fax out of the machine. “I’m

always working. The media is on a twenty-four-hour cycle.

And you’ve got to feed the beast. I didn’t say that, by the way.

Pat Riley said that, but I could have.”

Will pulled a large checkbook out of the top drawer of

his desk.

“What day is today?” he asked.

“The twentieth.”

“Right-o. Here you go, Cece.”

It was a check for $25,000.

“What’s this?” I asked, confused.

“Your money,” he said. “You did a great job, so I threw in a

bonus.”

“A bonus?”

“Richly deserved.”

“But it hasn’t been two weeks!” I protested. “Rafe and I

aren’t done.”

“I think you are.”

“But what about Lillian Hellman, the Communist party,

the six months in jail for contempt? I’ve barely even gotten

started with that stuff.”

“A: Lillian Hellman was a monster. Every idea she ever had

was stolen from Hammett, so who gives a shit about her? B:

Hammett never officially became a member of the Commu-

nist party. C: When asked how he felt about going to jail, he

said, ‘I felt like I was going home,’ and that’s a direct quote. In

other words, I can handle it from here.”

My cheeks were burning. “If you’re such an expert, why’d

you hire me in the first place?”

Will sighed. “Cece, you’ve done an incredible job. But I

think Rafe needs some downtime now. He’s pretty stressed.

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I’m sure even you can see it. I don’t want to keep upping the

pressure on him. He’s going to crack. He’s done it before.”

“I didn’t realize—”

“Look, I’ve already said too much here. Can we just stop

now?”

Downstairs, the party was raging, but I left in a hurry, like

the maid who’s been dismissed after getting caught stealing the

silver.

Only I hadn’t stolen any silver.

I’d stolen Rafe’s keys off Will’s desk.

And nobody had caught me.

CHAPTER

TWENTY-THREE

Idon’t know why I did it, I thought, draping my naked self

across the wooden riser. I just saw those keys sitting there,

and something came over me.

Bad Cece. Lawbreaker. Underachiever. Impulse shopper.

I closed my eyes and tried to relax, to let the shimmering

waves of heat heal my broken mind and body. Unfortunately,

neither mind nor body was interested.

I stole those keys because I wasn’t finished opening doors.

I bolted upright and pulled my towel out from under me so

I could wipe the sweat off my face. I didn’t actually do well in

saunas. They were too hot.

Bridget twisted her head to look up at me, nearly losing her

turban in the process. “Can you please not position your

sweaty self directly above me? There’s plenty of room in here.”

“You were just sitting in the hot spring practically on top of

five old ladies.”

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“Mrs. Park and her friends are extremely clean,” she said

curtly. “Didn’t you see how they were scrubbing each other’s

backs with nailbrushes?”

“With your short hair, why do you need a turban anyway?”

She smiled. “I like the way the white looks against my black

skin.”

Lael burped delicately. “That’s the last time I eat kimchee

before noon.”

A ghostly face peered through the filmy glass: Mrs. Park,

smeared with cold cream.

“I’m heading into the steam room,” I announced, “if any-

one wants to join me.” But the door to the steam room was

covered with yellow hazard tape, so I headed through the

grotto and sank back into the hot water instead, right in front

of a bubbly jet.

Beverly Hot Springs, located on a narrow side street in Ko-

reatown, was not your typical day spa. The city’s only natural

mineral thermal spa, it was discovered by some oil wildcatters

around the turn of the century, and rediscovered in the thir-

ties, when the well’s contents sold for drinking water at ten

cents a gallon. They’d fixed it up a little since then, with a

man-made rock waterfall and baby grand in the lobby, and

complimentary Paul Mitchell shampoo in the showers. But

there was definitely room for improvement. I’d start with the

robes, which made you feel as if you were at the Ob/Gyn’s,

waiting for your Pap smear. Still, it was cheap.

Sunday. R & R with the girls. After Beverly Hot Springs,

we were getting manicures and pedicures on Larchmont Av-

enue, a yuppie oasis just to the west.

“Why is there a No Pets sign posted in here?” asked Lael,

climbing into the steamy water beside me.

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“Good question.”

“So, Cece. What’s going on in your life? You’ve been aw-

fully quiet since we got here.”

I pointed to the Silence Is Golden sign.

“Please,” she said.

I fanned myself with my hand. “Also, I’m a little dizzy.”

Lael popped out of the hot water, padded across the con-

crete floor, and popped into the cold pool, then popped out of

the cold pool and back next to me.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“It makes the hot feel hotter and the cold feel colder.”

That was Lael, an experience junkie. On cue, she shivered

with pleasure and sank down deeper into the water.

“I think the more interesting question is, what’s going on in

your life, Lael? How’s Officer Murray?”

She went all the way under, then poked her head up. “It’s

over.”

“Why?”

“He’s unadventurous.”

“Oh.”

“Sexually,” she said, taking her time with one of her fa-

vorite words.

“I got that.”

“Got what?” asked Bridget, climbing in next to us. “Scoot

over, Cece.”

I scooted two jets over. “Lael is talking about her sex life.”

“What about your sex life, Cece? And when’s the wedding?”

Bridget, like my neighbor Butch, was on a mission. In her case,

it was because she’d found me the perfect dress, a diaphanous

Greek goddess number studded with baby pearls and cut down

to there. It was from Chanel’s winter 1991 collection. She’d

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gotten it for a steal because the runway model who’d worn it

had had a thing against antiperspirant. Bridget, however, had

sponged the dress with her famous fifty-fifty vinegar and water

solution, and it was as good as new. But the way things were

going, I wasn’t sure I was going to be needing it.

“What wedding?” I asked.

“Cece,” warned Lael.

I pulled off a hangnail. “Gambino and I had another fight.”

“Oh, no,” Bridget said. “What’d you do this time?”

I told them about the phone calls. The woman. Gambino’s

sort of explanation.

“And you believed that?” Bridget, being typically supportive.

“Of course I did.”

“Then, honey, I’ve got an Elsa Schiaparelli capelet back at

my shop I’d like to sell you.”

I was astounded. “You got fleeced?”

She smiled ruefully.

“I never thought I’d see the day,” I said with satisfaction.

“Welcome to the club.”

Lael looked at me disapprovingly. “Gambino did not

fleece you.”

“That’s not what I meant.” I didn’t even know what I

meant. “Plus, I got fired.”

“Oh, Cece,” said Lael, giving me a hug.

One of Mrs. Park’s friends was leaning into the fresh, boil-

ing water, which was spilling down from a stone funnel in the

center of the pool. She caught my eye, and nodded.

I nodded back.

She floated over.

“Excuse me?” she asked in a tiny, accented voice.

“Yes?”

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“Are you the lady in the magazines?”

“No,” I said with as much dignity as a person could muster

naked.

“Now, don’t be modest,” said Bridget.

“So sorry, but may I take a Polaroid in the locker room? For

my son, Jin? He loves celebrities. And I recognized you right

away! You are a famous lady!”

My best friend, Lael, popped back into the cold pool, shak-