Design For a Crime

Chapter 24

2010-04-28T16:21:00.000-07:00

At the Formosa, I had to valet my car. When I stepped inside the bar, it was packed. I scanned around the noisy room for Harshy and settled on Britney Murphy and that kid from that Roswell show. I took a second look at the crowd and saw that I was in thick entertainment industry people. Fuck! Everyone turned to check me out and see if I was someone they should be talking to. I smiled at them and they all turned away. Suddenly, someone pulled at my skirt and I turned to see Harshy and Guy in the booth I was pushed up against.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here. This is crazy,” she yell-whispered in my ear. I agreed and we all snaked and scooted outside.

“My car’s just around the corner,” said Guy. “Where’s yours?”

“Its valet'd. I can come back for it later. Let’s all go together,” I suggested. “Where should we go?”

“Let’s go to Damiano’s. It has large booths. And it’s dark and quiet so we can talk in private,” said Guy.

“Oh, God, do we have to?” I protested. “I got sick from their pizza once. Bad scene, bad pepperoni.” Although they did have the best beer selection in all of Los Angeles and that was very impressive to this native Northwesterner. Then I changed my mind, “OK, lets go. I’m only eating what’s fresh out of the oven though.”

“Are you sure you weren’t downing cat antibiotics that time?” quizzed Harshy.

“No, no that wasn’t that incident. And, hey, those antibiotics saved my life," I admonished her.

I had had this terrible flu one year, but was still the loyal party girl so I took some hot liquid flu medicine before I hit the billiard bar to hang with my gang of Friday night friends. While partying and playing eight ball, I had forgotten about the medicine I’d taken earlier and drank a six pack of beer to myself. Back at home, at the witching hour of 3 am, my guts were trying to rip me in half. I was dry-heaving and I thought I was going to die. Correction, I wanted to die. The pain was so intense that it felt like I had been poisoned. I pleaded with my boyfriend at the time to help me, but he was of no help. In hindsight, I was pretty sure that he was sleeping off his heroin fix and I was only a bother to him. Only much later would I discover his addiction, but that’s another story.

I had scrambled around my bathroom looking for any sort of painkiller or something that would knock me out. I needed a one-two punch! I wanted to sleep and ride the medical debacle
out. Searching the medicine cabinet and vanity drawers, the only thing I found were Kashmew’s antibiotics for when he’d had an abscessed tooth pulled. I knocked back three of those and curled up on the bathroom floor, at peace with my life, fully clothed, and waiting for death to take me. The next day I woke up in bed, totally fine and not dead. My boyfriend had pulled me from the floor after he’d almost peed on me in the early hours of the morning and put me to bed. God has a plan for me, yes, he does. But who knows what it could possibly be?

We slid into a booth at the back of Damiano’s, ordered the freshest pepperoni, olive, and mushroom pizza and bottles of Jubel Ale for everyone. While we waited for our order and Paul, Guy got down to business. He was buzzing. I’d never seen him like this before. Guy also kept looking over at Harshy, almost gushing. I had to kick him in the shins a couple of times under the table because Harshy was giving me “what’s his deal” looks over the table. Guy calmed down a bit and took out his BlackBerry.

“You want me to start now or wait for Paul?” he asked.

“I know we should wait for Paul, but I can’t stand the suspense,” I bleated. After our initial phone call, I had been on pins and needles.

“Okay, while we wait for Paul, I’ll give you the reason for my trip down to the OC.” Guy beamed, his vast, gossipy knowledge locked inside his pearly whites. Wow, he must be using that teeth whitening gel because his tan is starting to look orange. “It all came together when I was hanging out in Rudy’s barbershop waiting for my haircut and I started reading an article about Charlene Dietz in an old tabloid. Naturally, because she’s Faraday’s ex-wife, I read with more interest than normal. Turned out she was originally from Riverside. Total white trash, but not unexpected. The article showed pictures of her when she was young, her first movies, publicity photos and the like. Well, as I was studying the pictures….” Guy paused for longer than was necessary (at least to my thinking).

“Well, come on. Don’t do this to us!”

Guy was looking over my shoulder. I turned around to see Paul come in. He waved at the owner and continued to our table. Paul seemed to know everyone in LA. I sometimes wondered how that was possible given how much time he spent over at the estate. After Faraday’s death and when we had gone public with our relationship, I had met most of his friends and gone to a few parties, but we still spent a lot of time alone together. Where did Paul have the time to meet all of these people? Maybe I should start tailing him. I scooted over and made room on my side of the booth.

“I see you warmed up my seat for me.” He nodded hello to Harshy and Guy and kissed me full on the lips. He smelled like fresh aftershave. Electricity shot down my body.

“Are you saying I have a big ass?” I asked, teasingly.

“Are you suggesting that I have no ass?” Paul replied.

“Oh, God, you two. Stop it or I am going to barf! I can’t stand you people in love,” Harshy chided.

I watched Guy go a little pale and sweat formed on his brow. He looked over at Harshy who wasn’t paying attention to him at all. “So, Paul, how goes the eulogy?”

“Well, it’s done. Fuckin’ hard. How do you talk about your dead best friend without sounding like a sap or constantly confirming I wasn’t his life partner.” Paul was obviously exhausted. I had tried to help him with the eulogy for the past few days, but he didn’t like the way it was turning out. It was difficult for him and I didn’t have enough history with either of them to make many good suggestions.

“Well, at least it’s done. The memorial service is tomorrow. After that we can take a break from all of this mess for a while,” I suggested.

Paul wrapped his arm around me, kissed the top of my head and turned to Guy, “So, what’s all the hubbub about? What’d you find out?”

“Good. I can finally get to the juicy part. I was telling the ladies why I was in the OC,” Guy continued. “I was reading about Charlene in an old People and how she was from the OC. No big deal until I was scanning each picture of her in her younger days before she started acting.” Guy was a big tease, pausing again for drama.

“Yes, enough already!” Harshy yelled. Guy jumped out of his seat like a tampon had rolled close to his thigh.

“Geez, calm down. What do you care? You’re not implicated in the murder,” said Guy, steadying himself in the booth with both hands. I swear he was pulsating from being both excited by his news and his proximity to Harshy..

Harshy shot him a “duh” look. “You know how I love celebrity scandal.”

Guy shook his head at her. “Anyway, who should I find in a couple pictures with her, but Bruce Hansen!”

Paul and I looked at each other, stunned. Guy smirked and continued, “So, I decide to make my little journey to Riverside ‘cause that’s the town she’s from, and stop by her old apartment complex. Well, none of her family live there anymore so I pretend I’m a reporter from People magazine and start knocking on her neighbors’ doors. I tell ‘em I’m fact checking an article and going to write a follow-up – do they want to be quoted? Suckers. So, I show them the pictures of Charlene and Bruce and I finally get a neighbor who grew up with them. Not just Charlene, but Bruce, too.”

My jaw dropped. I looked over Paul. He was rubbing his hand over his mouth and stubble. He took off his baseball cap, smoothed back his hair and replaced his hat. I took a big swig of my beer and was about to comment when our food came.

“Hey, Sal,” said Paul to the server. He waved his arm around to all of us, “Everyone this is Sal, he owns the place.” We all nodded at him.

“I’m sorry to hear about Mr. Faraday, man,” said Sal, putting down the pie and setting us up with plates, napkins, and cutlery. “How ya dealin’?”

“I’m OK, man. One day at a time. Thanks,” said Paul. Every condolence was making Faraday’s death more real for him. I think he was beginning to wrap his brain around it.

“Pie’s on the house. I’ll run a tab for your drinks,” offered Sal and he left to toss more dough. I leaned over to sniff the freshness of the pie. Smelled like it was right out of the oven. I helped myself to a slice and made up a plate for Paul. Harshy and Guy took their pieces, which were momentarily bound together with mozzarella strands. I watched them lock eyes briefly. I saw a rare softness in Harshy’s brow. Then she cut the strands with a knife, releasing Guy’s slice. I think he was hoping for more of a Lady and the Tramp moment.

“Cool beans. I like this place,” said Guy, recovering his composure. “Anyhoo, this guy, he says that Bruce and Charlene are cousins and that Bruce lived with her and her family when he was a teenager because his mom found out he was gay and kicked him out. Real nice. Quite the start in life, huh?”

“So," I said, obvious to the fact that Bruce was gay, “Bruce and Charlene are cousins. Then how are Bruce and Charlene connected with her marriage to Faraday and to his employment at the estate?”

“Well, Bruce worked for Faraday for...how many years, Paul?” asked Guy scanning his BlackBerry in case he had missed the information.

“Well, let’s see.” Paul mumbled under his breath and counted his fingers back and forth. ”I’d say about six years. I know he was there three years already before Charlene showed up and started dating Kip. If you could call it dating.”

“Here’s my theory,” explained Guy. “Small-town, poor-girl Charlene is trying to make it in Hollywood and complains to her cousin, who is her best friend, and also lives in LA. She whines to him that if she could just get the right exposure, she could be a star. After three years of being his assistant, Bruce is now pretty hip to Faraday’s weaknesses and knows the kinks in his emotional makeup. So the two of them put their blonde heads together and concoct a scheme to get both Faraday’s money and make Charlene a star. Bruce works the inside, getting Charlene invited to Faraday’s parties, events he’ll be attending, and so forth. Then he cues Charlene on how to dress and act around Faraday to get him interested. Charlene puts her acting skills to the test. And Faraday falls for her, hook, line, and sinker.”

I swallowed my bite of pizza. “You’re a genius! That is, if the theory’s correct?” I looked over to Paul for his opinion.

Paul nodded his head. “It’s entirely plausible. That relationship accelerated fast and was a done deal before a lot of people realized what was going on. Everyone made it out to be a whirlwind romance, but I could see how Kip could be duped. He had a huge ego when it came to closing any sort of deal. And Charlene was a gorgeous prize; a geek’s ultimate trophy. Kip’s emotional intelligence was retarded when it came to romantic relationships. Still acted like a thirteen year old for the most part. The one area of life he couldn’t beat his colleagues. His Achilles heel. ”

“So Faraday thought that he had shown everyone up when Charlene agreed to marry him. Do you think that he found out about the scheme and that was why he divorced her?” I asked.

“If that was the case, Bruce would’ve been way fired, if not permanently maimed in his privates,” said Paul. That was true. Bruce had continued to work there even after the Faradays divorced. Oh, weird – Charlene Dietz as Mrs. Faraday.

Why had I never known that Charlene ever was Mrs. Faraday? I looked over at Harshy. Maybe Harshy had gushed it out one day and I mentally dismissed her celebrity gossip. Funny that she hadn’t brought it up again when I told her he was my client or even when he died. I had forgotten to ask her about Charlene’s ill-fated cosmetics line as well.

“Harshy, did you know about Charlene and Faraday?” I asked.

“Well, now that it’s been brought up, I do remember it being in the tabloids a few years ago. I really am not into Charlene Dietz and don’t follow her,” confessed Harshy. “I hadn’t even thought about a connection between her and Faraday even after his murder.”

And why would she? It suddenly dawned on me that no one had made the connection that Guy was making regarding the Faraday’s marriage. Had there been no tabloid reports delving into their marriage and a possible connection that Charlene was involved in Kip’s death? Could the E Channel have really missed a scoop as big as that?

“Harshy, what magazines are you reading these days?” I asked her pointedly.

“The usual, Us, People, Latino People, Star, OK…”

I interrupted her litany, “OK, fine. Your usual complement then? Has nothing been written about the Faraday marriage in any of those tabloids?”

Harshy suddenly looked very shocked, “No! Nothing.” She paused, looking as if she were searching the corners of her brain. “That’s weird. It seems as if all the talk for the past few years has always about Britney, Paris and Nicole. Oh, and Anna Nicole.”

I was having a brain cramp. Could he? Would he? How? Yes, it was possible. He would have enough money and enough power to accomplish it. Especially if he had dirt on all of the people and their families. Scary.

“What is going on in the brain of yours?” asked Paul. “I can almost smell something burning.”

“I think I know why nothing has been written about Charlene’s marriage to Faraday in the wake of his murder.” I blurted out.

“I am all ears.” Harshy leaned onto the table and grabbed my agitated hands to calm me down.
Paul and Guy all gathered in on the table for this revelation as well. Looking at them all, I suddenly felt stupid and that my epiphany was preposterous.

“Well, babe, what is it?” asked Paul, slightly bemused at my sudden muteness.

“My theory is Faraday used his wealth and influence to preempt any scandal by strong-arming the tabloids into never discussing his marriage and subsequent divorce with Charlene. And I think I have figured out why Paris and Nicole are so famous now.” I explained.

Everyone raised their eyebrows at this. We all wanted to know why those two had such notoriety for a life about nothing.

“I think Faraday gave those girls over to the tabloids for gossip fodder to keep the papers quiet. I think Kip had something on the Hilton and Ritchie families and forced them to serve their daughters up for the media slaughter in exchange for his silence on their hush-hush matters. He made a deal with the tabloids that they could never resist or they would risk what? Derision? Death? He had to make sure no one ever wrote about Charlene and his relationship ever again.” I continued.

Now everyone’s eyes were as big as saucers, especially Harshy’s. I don’t know if it was because I suddenly had explained the theory of the universe or if they thought I had gone completely bonkers.

“It has all been a distraction like the invasion of Grenada was a distraction from the Iran-Contra affair. Charlene is Ollie North. No one writes about Faraday and Charlene because the house of cards would collapse and everyone would be exposed!” I finished my theory. “Kip had something on everyone in this town and he was so humiliated by his failed marriage that he pulled every ace he had to protect himself and the situation.”

“So you’re saying this is why Paris and Nicole are famous today?” asked Harshy.

“Yes, they’re decoys set up by Faraday so that no one writes, reports or discusses his failed marriage to Charlene. Those two are constant daily reminders to the press, tabloids, and paparazzi that they are never to tread in Faraday waters for fear of great and terrible retribution by Kip Faraday.

“You make him sound like Rupert Murdoch,” said Paul, looking incredulously at me like I had two heads and one spoke a perfect Klingon dialect.

I looked at him, very seriously, “Kip was just as wealthy if not more than Mr. Murdoch.”

Guy broke in. “But now Faraday’s gone. Doesn’t that free everyone up to talk about him and Charlene? To start making the connections that we are? That Charlene could very well be involved to the extent we think she is?”

“I think all of Kip’s secrets on all of those people are locked up somewhere and they are still afraid that the secrets will be revealed if they focus attention on the relationship. Plus, now that Paris and Nicole have their new found fame, they don’t want to be revealed as total media puppets. I wouldn’t think their families would want to be exposed for being a party to it as well. The media would start digging deeper into their secrets that Faraday knew.”

Paul tugged at his ear and looked at me closely, “You’re serious about this theory aren’t you?”
“Yep.”

“Well, with all of the weird things I have experienced with you, I’m inclined to entertain the validity of it,” confirmed Paul.

“Me, too. Wow, girl, you have got quite the imagination, but it’s good.” Harshy was studying my face to see if I would reveal any more juicy information. “I believe you. You can’t make that shit up.”

Guy shook his head, “Next you’ll be telling me you were once abducted by aliens.”

I stuck my tongue out at him. “Watch it or I’ll steal your mojo.”

I turned to Harshy, “I guess this lets you off the hook with your lack of celebrity gossip connections in this case.”

“Thank God! I was beginning to think I was in an alternate universe.”

“I guess we could’ve gotten to this point sooner if I had remembered to talk to Harshy about Charlene’s cosmetics line,” I said, looking at Guy and Paul.

“Her cosmetics line? Now I do remember that fiasco! What a stupid bitch to think she could succeed in scenting cosmetics with patchouli.” Harshy laughed, throwing her hands into the air. “Who would want their face or body to smell like mildew? Except hippies, of course.”

Harshy looked back over at me. “How did you know about her cosmetics line? You don’t wear anything, but mascara, eyebrow powder, and lip gloss.”

Paul answered in my defense, “I knew about the cosmetics line. I told Lois about it after we were interviewed by the cops. When Lois started working at the estate, it was the week that Faraday had incinerated Charlene’s entire product line that she had stored on the grounds. The scent was obnoxious and nauseating. We also smelled it again when we broke into the estate a few weeks ago.”

“What? You broke in to the estate?” She turned to Guy, “Did you know about this?”
Guy nodded his head “I drove the getaway car.”

Harshy punched him in the arm. “You all could’ve been caught! Are you all idiots?!”

“Hey, it helped me with my lead and we eventually got here,” explained Guy, rubbing his arm. He was a big guy, but Harshy had pointy knuckles.

“So, to summarize, Bruce is a person of major interest to us right now. Charlene is, as well, if she indeed was in the house the night of the murder which seems likely, given that her perfume aroma was recently noticed by us at the estate,” affirmed Guy. He closed his BlackBerry. "There has to be a reason why she was at the estate the night of Faraday’s death, and it’s got to be about Bruce and Charlene’s old scheme.”

“Unless she was being framed by someone,” added Harshy. “Maybe Bruce is really our only person of interest?”

“That may be so, but how are we going to find Bruce? Or Charlene, for that matter?” I asked, mozzarella hanging from my lower lip. This pizza is so damn good. I prayed to God I wouldn’t get sick that night as I slurped the cheese into my mouth and took yet another slice.

“Lets not discount Trevor,” brought up Paul. “He may have found out what we found out, killed Kip, and then used the information to frame Charlene and Bruce.”

“But why would he want to kill Faraday? I think he’s too small potatoes and too much of a pea brain to be a criminal mastermind,” I countered, “He freely admits to just being a petty thief.”

“Bruce and Charlene devised a plan. So why not Trevor?” asked Guy.

“I just don’t think he did it. I have a feeling.”

“So what are we going to do next?” Paul asked Guy.

“We are not going to do anything. I’m taking this information to Detective Patrick,” said Guy. “You two are going home to get a good night’s rest before the memorial service.”

“Good point. We should be going. I’ll have Sal’s boys box up the pizza,” said Paul. “I’m gonna sleep like timber.”

“Do you mind if we give the rest to Brian?” I asked. “I’m sure he’s fallen asleep in front of the TV again without eating.”

“What are you? His mother?” asked Paul.

“No, I’m his friend. Besides, he looks out for me.” I shot him a ‘Don’t you mess with what you don’t know” look. Paul feigned fear and started to open his mouth. “And don’t say “whatever.”

We grabbed the box on the way out. Paul and I got into his truck to go pick up my ride up at the Formosa. Harshy and Guy left toward his car parked down the street. She actually rides in his car? Will wonders never cease? I watched the two of them go. They really did look good together. I was relieved to see that Guy had finally gotten a decent haircut even if he still did needed to work on his transportation. I wondered if Harshy had actually said something to him? Before I turned to get into the car, I saw Harshy slide her arm into Guys. He looked at her in profile, obviously stunned, and then broke into a big smile, his whitened teeth reflecting in the lamp light. She kicked him in the bum from behind across her left leg, school-yard style.

I smiled and closed the passenger door of the truck. Paul looked over at me, took my hand and kissed the top of it. I leaned over and kissed him, running my hand up his thigh and pulling the hair at the nape of his neck. We kissed for a long time, like horny kids in high school, ‘til the windows fogged up. When we’d satisfied ourselves for the moment, we broke apart and, laughing, started the defogger. As I wiped my side window with my sleeve, I looked beyond the steam and saw Sal waving and giving us the thumbs-up through the storefront. I waved back. I slid in my Steve Miller CD and, all the way to the Formosa parking lot, mused about shaking Paul’s peaches that night.

Chapter 23

2010-04-28T16:05:00.000-07:00

I breezed into the office, set my bags down, and slugged down my third mocha of the day dry before three-pointing it into the trash. Word of my work, or I should say, the scandal surrounding my work had made its way through the LA gossip grapevine. I took the referrals, however in bad taste that was, at least for consultation. A few of the potential clients were looky-loos who only wanted to know what I knew about Faraday’s death and were tweekin’ for gossip. I didn’t mind charging them double my usual consultation fee. Others were titillated just to be near me because I was a “Person of Interest” in a murder investigation and they got off on it. They were usually good for a few consults before they lost interest and stopped returning my calls. Who knew rich nerds and socialites could be such closet cases? I made my monthly bottom line in one week, plus gravy.

The only consultation that had turned out to be an actual job so far was a friend of Jasmine’s, but he also just happened to be a colleague of Faraday’s as well, and that was the deal clincher- my involvement with the case. I know, it’s an extremely tacky way of picking a designer, but I’ve voted for political candidates for weirder reasons.

After our weird restaurant encounter weeks earlier, Jasmine didn’t seem put off anymore about my choice of boyfriend material, and she was still recommending my design services to her friends. At least I thought that they were people she liked. She could’ve just been trying to get her 4th-tier, B-list friends off her back and sent them my way for distraction away from her. I was thinking that I should have a more extensive client screening process. So far, it’s all been fine and they’ve paid their bills. Maybe I should start interviewing assistants just so that I can hire someone to screen potential clients.

I had returned from an appointment with one of my new clients and was ready to tackle my large pile of project information and start my listing and delegating of tasks. God, I wish I had an assistant for real. Who am I kidding? Well, maybe an intern? Don’t they work for free? Get school credit or something? I’d have to call UCLA when I had time. Time – yeah, what’s that? With the barrage of phone calls I was getting, plus the check-up calls from Detective Patrick (“No, I’m not planning on leaving town this weekend”) and spending all of my free time with Paul preparing for the memorial service and the reading of Faraday’s will, I had no time.

I needed to call Harshy. I hadn’t talked to her for a while and I knew that my “friend” head would be on the chopping block. I dialed her number and spun in my chair, buzzed from all my coffee. I seriously needed to invest my new funds in some Starbucks stock. In no time, I was wrapped in my phone cord like an outlaw.

“GGMC. How may I direct your call?” answered the receptionist.

“J’Neene Harshbartle, please.”

She put me on hold while checking to see if Harshy was available. I listened to Ashlee Simpson sing some song about how her heart was tortured by her slacker boyfriend. Wasn’t she like twelve or something? Silver spoon up her ass. What the hell did she know about anything except that she looked like a more edgy Tweener as a brunette than a blonde? Having traveled as a blonde for a while, I knew it was better to be brunette. Blonde is fun, but predictable.

“Harshy.”

“Hey, babe, what you up to?” I asked, slowly uncoiling myself out of the phone cord.

“Who is this? Wait, no! Is this the Ms. Lois Pushkin? Why, I thought she had changed her number and moved away,” Harshy berated me.

“Hey, low blow. It’s been only two weeks. I’ve had a lot going on. Continuing crime investigation with a staring role as “Person of Interest”, boyfriend, cops, even a new client,” I excused myself from her blame. I was now out of my lasso and scooted myself up to my desk.

“New client? Ooo, who?” asked Harshy. On to bigger and better things already. Murder? Oh, that was so twenty minutes ago.

“No one you know. Actually a friend of Jasmine’s, who happened to also know Faraday.”

“Hmmmm.” Harshy was bummed, I could tell. “So, what’s up, lady?”

“I was wondering if we could get together tonight. I need a drink. I am so buzzed off of coffee, I could cut the rug out of the floor at the Dresden,” I said. “Are you up for it?”

“Well, I do have a date, but it’s for much later tonight,” said Harshy. “I could hang with you until then.”

“A date? Is this really J’Neene Harshbartle? Please identify yourself. What is your mother’s maiden name?” I was incredulous. Harshy hardly ever dated and definitely not casually.
He usually had to be rich and famous with a wardrobe and car to her specifications, minimum.

“Has it been that long since I’ve seen you? Who is this lucky guy? Must have a spankin’ pair of shoes to be with you.”

There was silence on the phone and then a huge fit of snivelling giggles and then all-out snorting. “Arrrggghh, I can’t keep it from you any longer! You are never going to let this go, never.”

“It’s Guy, isn’t it?” I let my cat out of the bag.

Instant silence on the other end. I could hear the click-clacking of keys far off in some distant cubicle, office crickets. “How did you know?” asked Harshy. “I haven’t hung out with you in so long and when we are together, that’s not for long either.”

“Sorry, lady. This is sooo my fault. I feel like I’ve been simutaneously cheating on you and spying on you.” I did feel badly even though earlier Harshy had said she wouldn’t hold my relationship with Paul against me. “I see Guy a lot because of the investigation and he talks about you. I could tell from the way he talked about you that you were actually reciprocating the same feelings. I had a feeling, but it was still a guess.”

“Damn girl, you’re good. They teach you that psychic mumbo-jumbo at design school?” Harshy sneered. She was pissed. I must’ve spoiled her surprise.

Miffed or not, she’d crossed the line. “That’s not nice or fair, Harshy. I’m sorry for neglecting you. But you need to remember what you told me when I first told you about Paul and me. I would appreciate a memory jog, please.”

Again, silence on the line. I waited. “Oh, all right. Shit, yes, I know. Fuck! OK, you’re forgiven and I see here on my calendar now that we did have dinner ten days ago and not ten
business days. And I’ll count it even though it was the four of us.”

“Well, thank you for your acquiescence, my empress.” I snorted. Did she also now consider it a double date? “So, I’ll see you at the Formosa in fifteen?”

“Make it an hour. I gotta fire an account rep,” said Harshy. “When you get there, order me a side car with Tuaca. I want it fresh and ready to drain when I get there. Little punks’ crying jags exhaust me.”

I hung up with Harshy and stacked my papers in order of to-do for the next day. I could be a little late meeting Harshy as sometimes those firings took an hour and sometimes they took fifteen minutes. Sometimes they took the bomb squad evacuating the building. But only once in a while.

This new project that had come my way had a huge scope and working on it took my mind off of the murder. For a few hours a day anyway. The whole ordeal was emotionally taxing and draining. I needed time to tune it all out and recharge my brain and my heart. I found that for me work was like a meditation. Especially the more clerical the task such as listing or doing the billing and accounting. Cleared the cobwebs from my mind to have instant gratification and a sense of accomplishment. Math is pure fact; a beginning, middle, and end. A good basis for trying to ground one’s self.

I checked the clock on my computer. Ah, I still had time to hit the Pacific Design Center. As I was gathering up my bags, the phone rang.

“Pushkin Atelier,” I answered in best receptionist voice. God forbid that any of my new high-end clients thought I actually answered my own phone! I was expected to have at least a receptionist and an assistant for me to have any clout. But it looked like I was going to be wearing these three hats for a long time to come. Perhaps I should give my receptionist an accent? English? No, New York. I should practice with Lacey. Wow, I haven’t seen her in a long time and I’m due to go to the PDC now. I should give her a ring before I head out.

“Hello?”

I was startled back into this world, “One moment. Who’s calling please?”

“Lois, it’s Guy.”

“Hey, where have you been? We’ve been waiting to hear from you since that night,” I said, relieved it was a friend. I was very tired. “Did you find out anything down south?”

“Yeah, and we need to talk and soon,” said Guy, very excitedly. “Can we meet tonight? Make sure Paul is with you, too. He’s going to shit his pants.”

“Can’t you tell me now?” I asked. What the fuck? The anticipation was too much. I was feeling my adrenaline surge and my mocha kicking into gear.

“No, we need to talk face-to-face. What are you doing now?” asked Guy. It sounded like he was in his car. I could hear Steve Miller in the background. Really love your peaches, want to shake your leaves. I should really remember to put that CD on the next time Paul and I are together.

“Well, I’m meeting your girlfriend over at the Formosa in an hour,” I said.

The crickets started up and I thought the line had gone dead. Steve Miller was suddenly gone.

“Did you just say my girlfriend?” asked Guy quietly, genuine gooey increduality coming
over the line.

“Yeah, dude.” I felt kinda bad calling him out like that. I thought I would be met with more bravado.

“Are we talking about the same person? Did she really say I was her boyfriend?” continued Guy, quietly.

“If her name is J’Neene Harshbartle, then, yes, we are talking about the same woman,” I confirmed.

More crickets. Then the phone fell down on his end, banging electronic noises into my ear. I heard a screech and then a weird creaking sound. Suddenly, I heard a lot of muffled whooping and hollering. Then more creaking. Then a large intake of breath. Such clarity for his cell phone. I should really get one of those Blackberrys.

Eventually, Guy returned to the line, “Well, that’s great. What time will you guys be there?”

“In about an hour. I’ll call Paul to see where he’s at. We have to be at the memorial service tomorrow and he has to deliver the eulogy,” I told Guy.

“That’s cool. So, do you think Harshy really digs me?” asked Guy, again, still distracted from my news.

“You’re a piece of work,” I said. “And try to contain yourself at the bar. I said she was your girlfriend, she didn’t. Although, I know she is really into you and she isn’t really into anyone, ever. Don’t fuck this up for me.”

“Cool beans. See you in a few,” confirmed Guy and he hung up. That’s who says ‘cool
beans’! I should’ve cottoned on to Harshy along time ago. Forest for the trees. Dork. Guy, not
me.

I clapped off the lights and went to retrieve my car from the garage. Joe gave me the Queen’s wave when I passed through the lobby. He was now watching football people. I drove through rush hour traffic to the PDC. An hour didn’t leave me much time to look around, but I wanted to at least stop in and see Lacey. I called Paul and told him about the meeting with Guy and Harshy at the Formosa. He grilled me for more information even though Guy had kept me clueless.

Lacey saw me as I trotted down the design center hallway and waved me into her showroom. She greeted me at the door with a flourish of her hand and a semi-curtsey.
“Wow, do I have the honor of a real notorious celebrate in my showroom?” Lacey asked with a Cheshire grin. “Or should I call the cops?”

“What?! Oh, you can’t be serious,” I said. “I’m only a “person of interest”.

Lacey laughed at that, “Glad to see you still have a sense of humour after all that’s happened. You’re quite the buzz at the Center.”

“What do you mean?” I asked. No one ever talked about me. Even when they should have.

“Oh, girl, everyone is following this case like it was OJ. They all want to know if they’re gonna lock you up or if you’re really innocent.”

“Of course, I’m innocent,” I raised my voice at these accusations. “My client died at his house. The police think it’s suicide.”

“But the case isn’t closed yet,” said Lacey, pushing her finger to her nose like Santa Claus. “Why would that be?”

“That’s true,” I agreed. “But I really didn’t murder anyone. Faraday was my best paying client and the first step of my successful Hollywood design career ladder. Why would I kill that?”

“For love,” she said matter-of-factly.

I nearly choked on my own saliva. “What? Kip Faraday?!” I instantly got a bad
case of the heebie-jeebies and started to physically writhe.

“Oh, honey, do you need to sit down again?” Lacey led me over to the chaise. “Can I get you something to drink?”

“Liquor.”

“One moment,” Lacey sang as she went into the back. I hoped she wasn’t calling the cops, thinking she had caught a fugitive who had just confessed to a crime of passion. That would make tabloid headlines. She definitely was reading too many of those if she thought I could possibly have been in love with Faraday. My skin creepy-crawled again.

Always prepared, Lacey returned with a shot of whiskey with a slice of lemon. After squeezing the lemon in, I shot it to the back of my mouth, the warmth first stinging and then soothing my throat. I composed myself and looked Lacey directly in the eye. “I was not in love with Faraday and we had no relationship other than that of designer and client.”

“Well, that’s not the talk around town,” She rebuked. “Town” being the LA design community. In that regard, we were a one-cow town where everyone gossiped about everyone else like a bunch of farmers. “We heard you were mad about the guy.”

She cocked her head and seemed to actually expect a denial or confirmation from me. I owed her. “I am in love, but not with Faraday. And I can’t tell you who it is, because he is notorious in his own right.”

“Oooh, you’re giving me goose bumps.” Lacey laughed as she showed me her arm. Wow, she actually shaves her arms. How weird? Snap out of it, Lois. Focus. “Really, tell me who it is?”

“Sorry babe, I can’t. We’re very private especially with everything that’s going on,” I said. She looked very disappointed.

“Oh, all right. I understand,” Lacey surrenderd. She took my glass and helped me up. “So what are we looking for today? Prison stripes?”

I shot her a look.

“Sorry. Couldn’t resist.”

I looked at my cell phone, “Shit, I gotta go. Sorry, lady, I’ll catch up with you later in the week.”

“Hot date with the mystery man?” she asked coyly.

“No, meeting the gang as usual.”

“Oh, them. Well, tell everyone hello for me.” Lacey lead me to the door and saw me out, locking up behind me. As I went down the corridor towards the parking garage, I turned to look back. She was still standing at the door, looking at me through the glass. No expression and she didn’t wave. Creepy. I turned back around and picked up my pace all the while plagued again with the heebie-jeebies. I began to think that maybe it was Lacey who was spreading the rumours around that I had killed Faraday. Attention for herself inside her fishbowl world?

Chapter 22

2010-03-20T16:17:00.000-07:00

What we were doing was insane, dangerous, stupid, and, of course, my idea. Paul was just as cuckoo for going along with me, but after my completely logical persuasion (“What do we have to lose?”), he agreed to join me on my little adventure. Where did we go? Faraday’s estate, of course. And why did we go? To snoop – what else? The questions that the police had posed to Paul during his interrogation had sparked my insatiable curiosity. And since they didn’t seem to be in such a hurry to check out their own theories, I thought we should. Oh, and I pulled Guy along with us to cover our asses. He was more experienced than us at stakeouts of any kind, although mostly disability fraud cases for him, so I thought that he should be our getaway driver. Guy snorted into his beer when I brought up my idea to him.

“You’ve got to be kidding! You and Paul snooping around a closed crime scene and me, sitting in my car, incognito. I'd be a sitting ducks for the cops,” expounded Guy. “Yes, I know
my job can get boring and tedious, but I have a nice, stable career with the insurance company. I like my life in Woodland Hills. I like my TGI Fridays and the mall. I’m not going to blow my license for the two of you!”

Shocked, my mouth dropped open almost to the bar top, “You live in Woodland Hills? I thought you lived in Silver Lake!”

Guy squirmed and fussed with the coaster under his glass, pretending to align the planets within his drink. “Well, no, actually only Drew does. I just told you that so you wouldn’t think I was, um, lame.” I cocked my head at him. “I know, I know. That’s the furthest thing about me that makes me lame.”

So then we went to the Faraday estate in the back seat of Guy’s non-descript Chrysler K car. (I thought only Christians drove those?) Once we got there, we got a lecture from him about how to best gain entry to an estate and all of the necessary safety precautions via his personal PI code.

“If you’re not back in an hour, I ‘m driving down the street and waiting for you there. If you’re not back an hour after that, I’m leaving. That means you’ve been fucked and I don’t want any part of that. Especially if the media shows up. I can’t compromise my status with my insurance work.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Guy. I assure you we will be very careful. But when you see us running down the drive like bats out of hell, be prepared to put the pedal to the metal.” I had to make sure that he wouldn’t just bolt at the sight of two crazy people running from attack dogs and estate security.

Paul grabbed my hand and my bag, “Dammit, Lois, quit being so dramatic. We’re not going to get fucked! Jesus, somedays…” Someone was nervous. I laughed and we exited the car. We ducked into the hedges, helped each other over the iron fencing hidden inside and dropped down onto the daphne path. We weren’t going to try to enter the estate through the main floor. I thought it would be better to try to get in through the damaged bathroom skylight. I always have to make things more complicated – it’s all in the details.

Paul had found out that security wasn’t so tight around the estate any more via a slip-up by Detective Patrick. Guy had been able to confirm this from a stakeout the night before. Apparently, the police weren’t concerned about maintaining a police presence at the estate. Maybe dragging Paul, Trevor, and myself all in for questioning had been a practice of smoke and mirrors by the LAPD for the sake of the media to make it look like they were doing something about the case. Perhaps they were resting back on their original theory that Faraday’s death had been a suicide. I didn’t know how they could still think that when given a body with a pristinely burned hole in the skull annihilating half of the brain. But what did I know?

We did know the alarm still functioned throughout most of the estate, but no one had gotten around to repairing the executive bathroom yet, because it was still a closed crime scene. There was really no one at the estate anymore to be concerned with at night anyway, except for
maybe Bruce. We still didn’t know where he’d gone. The police hadn’t seemed so concerned about him either, according to Paul. What’s the adage – “Look close to home”? Could Bruce have had anything to do with the murder? What would he have had to gain from Faraday’s death other than the end of a tortured fantasy he expressed as love?

Anyway, Paul had called the estate earlier on the pretense of looking for Bruce to talk to him about Faraday estate matters. That was when he learned that Bruce hadn’t been at the estate since the body had been discovered. The house staff that Paul talked to then proceeded to let him know more details about the memorial service and the cremation. After he was forwarded to the event coordinator, Paul was told that secure e-vites would be sent out with ‘Save the Date’ time and location. Shit! We had totally forgotten again about how Faraday’s remains would be handled and the typical funeral protocol.

Had time really flown so fast that it was time for a funeral? I guess you couldn’t keep a body on ice for long. I hoped forensics had taken really good pictures and evidence from the body. Was Faraday to be buried? I would love to see that casket up close and personal. But what if the event coordinator was to cremate Faraday? Then there would be no body to dig up if the police changed their minds and decided his death was a homicide. I wondered if how the body was to be inturned was in Faraday’s will? Wait, a will.

After reading my note I had shoved in front of him, Paul asked the event coordinator about that subject. She said we would be notified of the day and time of the reading of the will by Faraday’s lawyers. The same lawyers who were representing Paul and me. In the meantime, she had to get off the phone because she still needed to locate Bruce who was required to be at the reading as well. Interesting.

After breaking and entering onto the estate grounds, we rounded the house over to where we knew there was a sturdy iron trellis. We climbed up and scrambled onto the tiled roof. Then we crab legged our way over to the shattered dome of the executive bathroom. There was no light coming through the hole. We shined our flashlights into the opening, sweeping the floor for
possible obstacles, police tape, or other evidence- gathering devices. Naturally, we didn’t want anyone knowing we’d been here. This was our entry point. When it seemed all clear, Paul rapelled down smoothly, like the pro he was. I, on the other hand, fell through the skylight and swung like a monkey on a chandelier until Paul caught the belt of my pants and guided me down.

“Dammit, Lois! We practiced this. You could’ve really fucked this up. I thought I was going to shit my pants. You were swinging around like a crack head.”

I whisper-yelled back, “Hey bucko. I did the best I could with one lesson, OK? Did you just call me a crackhead? How eighth grade is that!”

Paul hung his head, his body shaking. He reached over and shook me by the shoulders. “You are going to be the death of me. Either from crazy hare-brained shit like this or just laughing straight into my grave.”
“Fine, Captain Attitude.” I smiled. “Now let’s get down to business.”

From what we could remember from all the construction meetings and site visits, Paul and I had outlined specific things that we were going to look for that seemed suspect. A lot of what Faraday had done with his specialists and technicians and electricians had gone over our heads, but we were going to try to see if there was anything we could figure out that was strange. We had brought our gobbledygook of notes and diagrams from those meetings as well. Who knew how much help those would even be?

Once I got into the bathroom, I gasped, putting my hand to my mouth to stifle the sound. The place was really torn up. Glass and mirror shards and tile and crap everywhere. My beautiful bathroom destroyed! Nine months of hard work and putting up with an inane client and his annoying assistants to remodel a bathroom to its true, executive inspiration. The only worthwhile thing to come out of this whole ordeal still fully in tact was my relationship with Paul. I never would’ve met him and fallen in love if it hadn’t been for crazy Faraday and his cuckoo bathroom. Now it was all in fucked up. Maybe Faraday’s death had even fucked up Paul and I a little bit.

Paul said “Pssst” over near the shower and I shined my light over his way. The police had outlined Faraday’s body and you could still see the blood stain on the floor.

“Are you OK?” I asked, realizing that all of this had suddenly become very real for Paul.

He assured me that he was and squatted down to shine his light over the outline, the floors, the wall, and the shower curb. Peering closer, Paul shined his light on some marks on the tile and grout. “What do you think this is?”

I crouched down next to him. “Looks like the tile’s been scored. Smells funny though. Like it’s been burned.”

“Like Kip’s head wound. Maybe that’s what we should be looking for?” suggested Paul.

“Burn marks or etching-type marks?” What type of thing did that? Certainly not a gun. Maybe a machine gun? But the police hadn’t mentioned that. And from looking around, I couldn’t see any bullet holes in the walls. Just all of the scoring marks on the finishes.

“Well, you and I know that they are not part of the finishes palette so maybe if there are other things that look like this around here. If there is a pattern or some discernible direction, we might be able to figure out what went on here,” suggested Paul.

“Paul, we may find nothing. We’re already risking our asses by being here. Let’s just look around quickly and get out,” I cautioned. Even though this had been my idea, I was beginning to have second thoughts.

“Fine. I’ll look at Kip’s electronic gizmos, you look at all this crap on the floor. Figure out the glass and mirror pieces. I want to know how that frickin’ dome got smashed,” said Paul. “That was one hell of a piece to get in here, and it cost a bomb.”

I set about scanning the mess with my flashlight. I could see the glass from the dome; it had alabaster veining. Mixed in with those pieces were some mirror shards plus some amber glass and some other clear glass. Was the amber glass from the dome as well? I compared it with the dome pieces. Having looked with my designer eye, they seemed to be connected. I had only ever had a ground-level view of the skylight while it was being installed, so I was not really sure what the glass make-up of the panes were. I saw some clear glass there, but there wasn’t much of it. It looked like coke-bottle eyeglasses glass. But there was more on the floor than would make up a pair of eye glasses. What was this clear glass? Think, Pushkin.

There were no other windows in the bathroom besides the dome. There was no glass shower door because the shower was a huge walk-in room of its own. Besides, this clear glass sparkled way much more than typical glass in the beam of my flashlight. I crouched down and picked up some pieces that looked alike. The glass looked like it had been polished by the ocean. It was also scratched like the tile. No, wait. No, it’s not.

Upon closer inspection, I could make out letters - Bacc. What could that be? I sounded it out in my mouth. Shit! This was a Baccarat highball glass. I picked up other clear pieces from the floor. I picked up the amber ones again on a hunch. I smelled those. They smelled like alcohol. Bourbon. Plus something else I couldn’t quite place, but gave me a heady sense of déjà vu. I picked up all the similar pieces I could find. There seemed to be enough clear and amber glass to make up two drinking glasses. The kind Trevor used to make me my drinks in while I met with
Faraday. So, was Trevor involved in this after all? That little shit! What the fuck did he think he was up to? Who else knew I drank bourbon? Was he trying to frame me? For what? No, that was ridiculous. He made drinks for everyone in those glasses. Calm down, Lois, and keep a level head (if that’s possible). You’re not the only person who drinks bourbon and Trevor is not the only person that knew that about you. So that leaves Bruce? And Faraday? And Paul?

“I don’t think Faraday was alone in here when whatever happened happened,” I said to Paul. I put the all the pieces into the empty soap dish. Faraday used only a pump soap container; the dish was for decoration. He hated soap slime. Who didn’t?

“Well, duh, we do think he was murdered. Did you find something?” he asked. Paul was now standing on a chair he had pulled from the office and was inspecting with a a pair of needle nose pliers the damaged security camera, which dangled from its mount above the shower wall. It looked like a deranged octopus that had caught on fire in mid-swim.

“I found the remains of what I think are highball glasses, two of them, and they’ve been used.”
Paul stepped down and came over to inspect my cache. He picked up the pieces, eyed them, and smelled the pile of amber ones. He pulled back with a snort, “I haven’t smelled that in a long time.”

“Smelled what?” I asked bringing the same glass pieces to my nose. I pulled away fast at the overwhelming stench.

“Remember that smell? Remember when you first started working on the project, you told me you smelled something funny in Faraday’s office?” reminded Paul. “You thought it was disgusting – like patchouli?”

Oh, yeah, I remembered that. I had to endure it for a few weeks and then one day it was gone. I remembered mentioning it to Paul. “What is it?”

“It’s her smell; it’s Charlene’s cosmetics and perfume line. All of the products were scented like this with her perfume, in large quantities. God, it reeks,” explained Paul.

“I’ve never heard of it. What a bizarre concept. Scenting cosmetics?”

“Exactly, so bizarre and stinky that it bombed instantly and horribly. Ask Harshy about that fiasco – I’m sure she’ll remember,” laughed Paul. “Charlene tried to store her crap here after Kip kicked her out. When Kip found out, he incinerated the whole lot. That was a bad idea, because the smoke plume lingered for days around the estate. I think that was when you had your first meetings with him. His last encounter with her was what really motivated him to renovate this bathroom.”

God, I had so wanted to barf from that stench when it first assaulted me during my initial meetings with Faraday. For God’s sake, who would want to smell like mildew much less put it on their lips and eyes? What was wrong with that woman that she actually liked that scent? I still don’t know how other people can wear it and enjoy it unless they are part of the hippie culture where it is a requirement for membership like homecoming sweatshirts for sororities. It’s a wonder Faraday could’ve remained so non-chalant about that smell during our meetings. Must’ve been ripping him apart inside. But, like any successful professional, he had a good game face. Bet he was a killer in poker. I wondered if the police had picked up on the cosmetics angle. Do they smell evidence?

“So does this mean we should tell the police about what we suspect?” I asked. “It seems like Charlene was here the night Faraday died. Maybe she killed him? Or maybe she knows who
did? Why would Kip have tolerated her in his house again? How could she have gotten access to the property with no video record of it?”

“We can’t even let them know we’ve been here,” cautioned Paul. “Let’s tell Guy and have him hang around the police and see if he can get any information about their forensics results from this mess,” suggested Paul. “We’ll see if they know about the cosmetics. If our suspicions are true, that means Charlene was here or least someone who used her products.”

Didn’t know who that idiot would be, but I did know that it wasn’t Jasmine, so that ruled her out for now. Only Chanel #No. 5 for her. Even if she did shower in it sometimes. Bitch. She’s rich; she can afford to do so and afford to have people put up with her for it. Plus, if Jasmine was fucking the man and enjoying it, why would she kill him? But maybe that wasn’t why she had taken up with him again. Spurned love? A lover’s revenge? Frame the woman who stole her man?

“I want to look at this security camera again,” Paul said, motioning for me to come back over to the shower. The side of its box was melted and scorched, and its mounting bracket was bent.
“It’s got the same scoring marks as the shower tiles. What could make burn marks like that?”

“Maybe he was playing laser tag in his new uber bathroom.” Geek.

“That’s it! A laser! I’d bet these are laser burns. Lasers can kill. With Kips cache of geniuses working for him, to kill him with a laser would be brilliant as well as a total cliché. But then that would mean that it could’ve been anyone who killed him. It would only be narrowed down by who had access to the estate… or those working at the estate?” Paul was very excited about his new theory. “I wonder if the police suspect that this was the way Kip was killed?”

“Paul, get real. A laser?” I asked.

“Well, you know that even we ourselves don’t know all of the components that went into the walls of this bathroom other than the phone, the alarm, and the cable wires. Why couldn’t it be a laser?” he asked, his little boy imagination glossing over his eyes with the fantastic.

“Did Faraday dabble in laser technology? He knew everything that was going into his bathroom with all of his specialists ad naseum. Why would he have a laser, which could kill someone, installed in his bathroom; his thinking spot?” I asked, ever incredulous that this bathroom could get weirder. “There has to be some other explanation. This was his temple. Was he preparing for the abiliy to shoot someone on the spot for invading his pot?”

Paul thought about what I had said. “I don’t know. Maybe it wasn’t a laser. Maybe it was a light saber. Maybe he fantasized about beating Darth Vader after a hot shower? Maybe it’s really late and I can’t think clearly.”

“Let’s get out of here and give all of our information to Guy, even your ‘theories’,” I suggested. “See what he can get from the police. In the meantime, I think we need to go over the project file and search for anything unusual like security cameras with lasers or Jedi knights lurking in closets. There’s got to be something that would shed light onto why Faraday ended up dead in his bathroom.”

Instead of hitching ourselves back up our ropes through the shattered dome, we opted to exit through Faraday’s office onto the daphne path. Paul didn’t think he could survive watching me flail around while attempting to exit quietly and unobtrusively the way we came in. Plus, with all of the evidence we were carrying out of there for Guy, I didn’t think I would’ve made it. At the threshold, I stubbed my toe and fell out of the door into the pea gravel.

“Shit! Yow! That hurts. Fucker!” I pounded the pea gravel and gave it what-for.

“Lois, be quiet,” shushed Paul. Then thinking better of it, he asked, “Are you OK?”

“Yes, I’m fine.” I started to get up and snagged my finger on something in the path. I picked it up and looked at it. I couldn’t tell what it was, but put it in my pocket for later inspection. We rounded the corner and crept to the hedge we had scaled earlier. Guy was still in the car off of Mulholland Drive even though we were more than an hour late. When we got closer, we discovered that he was actually sleeping, head back, mouth wide open, snoring up a storm.

“Boo,” I whispered into Guy’s ear. He shrieked like a girl. I tried to get him to recognize me before he enacted his fight or flight response and wet his pants.

“Bitch! Don’t scare me like that. Fuck.” He wiped his hands on his pant legs.

“Let us in. We gotta go before someone catches us,” I hissed into his face.

Guy unlocked the doors of the car and Paul and I scrambled into the back seat, falling over each other. We started laughing, much to Guy’s annoyance. “So what did you find? Anything useful? Do you know who killed Faraday and how?”

“Shit, Guy, we’re not freaking psychic Columbo. We don’t know what we’ve found. That’s why we have you. Take us back to Paul’s, and we’ll show you what we’ve got. This is going to be your time to shine, ‘Mr. Hammer’,” I said as we drove off Mulholland Drive and down into the dawn towards Studio City.

Back at Paul’s house, we replayed our every step in Faraday’s bathroom. Surprisingly, Guy took meticulous notes and made an outline. I guess it shouldn’t be so surprising to me. I mean it is his job to do investigation. I just suddenly realized that I had never seen him at work. Only at bars. I glanced over at Paul. He was watching me watch Guy and angled his head questioningly in return. I slapped his knee in response and went into the kitchen. I returned with beers for everyone.

“Good work, people,” said Guy, swigging a big gulp from his bottle. “Right now I have crap, but a lot of crap. Usually there’s something worthwhile in crap; you just gotta find it.”

Now there’s a mission statement I hadn’t heard before. “Let us know what you find out from your lead at the police station. Tell us everything he says. Because Paul and I were both on the build, we may know something about the construction or the materials that may be a little unusual.”

“Cool. I’ll get on it tomorrow. In the mean time, I’ll continue to stake out Trevor and Bruce. I’ve got one thing to check out regarding Bruce so I’ll be gone most of today in Long Beach,” informed Guy. He pressed “Save” on his BlackBerry and stowed it in his jacket. Cool. No Post-it-Notes. I should look into this new and wonderous device.

“I hope you emailed that to your office in case someone mugs you,” I said.

“Yes, Ms. Pushkin, and I E-mailed you a copy too,” replied Guy, smirking. “I’m on to you, little Miss Anal Retentive.”

“Oooh, speaking of that.” I pulled the object out of my pocket. “I forgot I picked this up. Never bothered to see what it was.” I turned over the black disc in my hand. Actually it was more like a filled horseshoe. Guy and Paul both took a peek.

“That’s from a high heel,” announced Guy. “Where did you find that?”

“On the daphne path. So, it’s nothing. It could belong to any woman who was ever at the estate.”

“Do all those women have a reason to use that path?” asked Guy.

“I don’t know. I know that when I first arrived for the project I wasn’t allowed on the path.” I explained. “I started using the path only when the project was in progress. I would exit through the panel door for an easy escape from everyone.”

“Interesting,” mused Guy. “Anyone else know about the exit from Faraday’s office besides you two and the assistants?”

Paul laughed and nodded his head. “Everyone knew about that door. Kip thought he was being sooo cool with his secret door. He used it every chance he had, especially when he had an audience in his office. I think the whole world knew it was there.”

“Well, there goes that idea. You’re probably right, Lois, it’s probably nothing,” agreed Guy, handing the disc back to me.

I looked closely at the small piece of heel again. It suddenly glistened in the light. There looked to be tiny bits of glass embedded in the black. Baccarat? I suddenly had a thought and brought it up to my nose. The smell of mildew and alcohol was faint, but there. Something that had lain in a daphne path for a long time should smell like a daphne, but this didn’t.

“It’s her smell. It’s Charlene’s ‘mildew’ perfume. Could this be from her shoe? Does this piece prove that she was the one at the estate when Faraday died? Did she kill him?”

Paul paled and sat down abruptly. Guy looked at me and then at Paul. Paul locked my eyes with his. He whispered, “We’ve got to talk to her.”

“We will. We’ll find her,” I turned to Guy and walked him to the front door. “Call us when you get back tomorrow. By the way, why are you going to Long Beach?”

“Got a lead. Could be fruitful. I’ll call you as soon as I get back.” Guy shut the door behind him, and I turned my attention back to Paul, who’d gotten up and was banging around in the kitchen. I wrapped my arms around his waist and hugged him tightly to me. He let out a long-held breath and relaxed. Turning around, he pulled me into his chest and kissed my hair, breathing in deeply.

“Lady, I am sooo tired and it’s all your fault, dammit,” drawled Paul.

I smiled. “Let’s go to bed then.”

“Don’t have to ask me twice.”

Leaning down, he pulled me close. Then he nuzzled my neck, biting at my ear. I went limp and he picked me up and carried me upstairs to his room. It was dark and warm. Paul laid me down on his bed and pulled off my black spy boots and spy socks. He tugged on my black spy jeans until my hips gave in and they slid off too. Sliding on top of me, he pulled up my black, knit, spy sweater and pulled it over my head. I lay there in his bed, under his warm body, feeling his chest hairs tickling my cleavage. I shuddered.

“Are you cold?” asked Paul.

“A little,” I replied – big lie. I was never cold here. How could a Northerner like myself ever be cold in Los Angeles? Where I came from, we would wear shorts at the first sight of the sun and 55 degrees Fahrenheit.

Paul stood up and whipped off his own black spy t-shirt, undid his black spy leather belt, and let his black spy jeans drop to the floor. After kicking off his black spy boots, he climbed into bed with me.

“You forgot your spy socks,” I reminded him. I couldn’t stand a guy that slept with socks on. That was just creepy.

Groaning, Paul rolled over and took off his black spy socks, dramatically tossing them to the side of the bed. He pulled the comforter over us like a big, fluffy, warm cloud.

(Fantastic sex scene omitted here and available when book is published.......)

“I love you,” I told him.
Paul looked me straight in the eyes. “You have no idea how much I love you, Ms. Pushkin.”

I stared back at him. “I think I do. I’m just glad that you do so much.” I kissed him full on the lips and then nipped at his bottom lip. His beard was growing in and it felt weird against my teeth.

“Lois, I couldn’t deal with this nightmare if you weren’t here. You’re like my cosmic partner. You always know exactly what I’m all about, how I feel, and how to be with me.” Paul drifted away for a bit. “You’re a part of me that I didn’t even know I was missing until I met you. I guess that’s why I couldn’t let you go after the marble yard encounter. I can’t ever let you go now.”

My eyes stung. I blinked the pending tears away. No one had ever said anything remotely like that to me my entire life. Well, maybe my daddy, but he had died when I was little. I had wanted to say those exact words to Paul for so long, but I hadn’t known what they were. The symbiosis we had was eerie, but spiritual and unquestioning for me. I wrapped my arms around his neck, salty tears running down his chest. “I know, babe, I know.”

As I drifted off to sleep, I started thinking again about a possible future with Paul. Maybe this was the start of the future and I should live in this present. Would we get married? Would I actually have kids? I shuddered. Paul pulled my closer and wrapped the comforter around me, wrapping me up like a bug in a rug. Ugh! Now I really was hot. Before falling asleep, I managed to release my bonds and relax into my last waking thought. Please find out something good, Guy.

Chapter 21

2010-03-20T16:11:00.000-07:00

Paul and I screamed as well, but to each other in shock and surprise. Us? We shot down the boulevard, my poor little Subaru screaming under the strain. Wild eyed and with our jaws hanging open, we were literally vaklemped. Several blocks later, we escaped into the Trader Vic’s parking lot at the Beverly Hills Hilton. Sitting in the dark of the bar, our booth illuminated with a little tea light, we chanted “Oh, shit” until we laughed ourselves hoarse. Then we sipped on fruity drinks and munched on chi-chi (but still fried) appetizers in bewildered silence.

“Darlinnnn…” someone purred into my ear. Gripping my seat, I slowly, cautiously turned to find Jasmine standing at our table, hand on her hip, toes turned out to accentuate her figure. “What are you doing here getting sloshed in the middle of the day? Shouldn’t you have your little nose to the grindstone in that cute boutique office of yours in the oh so trendy Wiltern?”

I pointed over at Paul, who leaned forward into the tea light. Jasmine let out a gasp of surprise and looked from him to me. “What are you doing here with him?”

I looked at Paul, who just shrugged his shoulders. “Um, sorry I didn’t tell you earlier, but, well, Paul and I are together.”

Jasmine promptly dropped her pose and slid into the booth next to Paul. Totally focusing on me, she continued, “What? Are you kidding me? When? How? Why?”

“What do you mean ‘Why’? Look at him. Why not?” I shot back.

“Thanks babe,” said Paul. “Nice to know you’re with me for my looks.” Paul smiled and turned back to Jasmine, who was having trouble controlling some emotion I couldn’t quite make out in the shadows of the tea light. I squeezed Paul’s leg. It was warm.

“Lois, you should not have kept this from me,” Jasmine said in unusually clipped tones. “How long has it been that you two have been together?” Her very expensively manicured finger ping-ponged back and forth between Paul and me.

“No offense, Jas, but since when are you my mother?” I was curious aboutt her new attitude. I was also tipsy enough to put aside the fact that she was my best referral that I tried hard never to offend or embarrass.

“This is all a shock. Is it not enough that Kip is gone and no one knows why?” Jasmine dabbed at her eyes with a Hermes handkerchief. “Now I find that you, Lois, have taken up with this man, a man who labors with his hands and carries dirt and filth around on his clothes.”

As I recall, Jesus labored with his hands.

She continued, “I wanted you to succeed, Lois. You had so much potential. You were perfect for the right man with means. That is why I pushed Kip to hire you.”

“OK, stop right there.” I put my drink down and lit a cigarette. This was making me nervous.
She was starting to sound exactly like my mother. I squinted into the darkness. No, it was still Jasmine. “What do you mean?”

“I wanted you in a position to meet someone who could give you the lifestyle you deserve. You struggle so much, darling. Working at what you do is not going to make you rich.” Jasmine continued to dab at her eyes. “You deserve better.”

“Fuck you.” I said it. “Fuck you.” I said it again.

I could hear Paul breathing, the warmth flowing over my neck and collar bone. “Jasmine, I think it’s time for you to leave,” he told her. “No one is in a good place right now. The cops will figure out what happened to Kip. I know that you’re hurting and you’re taking it out on Lois.”

Jasmine turned and glared at Paul. “Bastard! You didn’t deserve Kip and you don’t deserve her!” She gestured at me.

Then Jasmine stood up to leave, poised as ever. Turning on her toe, she looked me right in the eyes and said, “Stupid, silly girl. You don’t know what you’ve gotten yourself involved with. TTFN.”

What the fuck! All right! I had to know once and for all. I started to slide out of the booth, but Paul grabbed my arm, “Where are you going? She can’t help it. She was in love with Kip.”

“It’s not about her. I want to know what that god damn fucking ‘TTFN’ means!” I hissed.

“Well, I know what it means so sit your drunk ass down and be calm,” said Paul, pulling me back into the booth next to him.

“How would you know?” I demanded, arms crossed, daring him to educate me.

“ ‘Cause I’m an uncle, that’s how.”

“What does that have to do with anything?” I demanded again.

“It has to do with Winnie the Pooh. Tigger says it all the time,” he explained. “It means ‘Ta-ta for now’.”

I gasped. “You have got to be kidding? I have been plagued by a rich bitch’s use of a term from a children’s story?”

Paul smiled in affirmation.

“I thought I was so old and uncool that I didn’t know what that meant,” I confided. “And I was killing myself over a children’s story. Bitch.”

“Yep.”

I looked over at Paul. He was an uncle. How come I didn’t know that? I knew who his mechanic was and the name of his gardener, but I hadn’t known he was an uncle. I am an idiot in the forest of trees.

“Do you think it’s safe to leave?” I asked.

Paul thought for a second. “Yeah, if they haven’t found us by now, I don’t think they’d still be out looking for us.”

We shimmied out of the booth and made our way to the front door. There were no suspicious characters in the parking lot, so we got the valet to get my Subaru. Paul drove back to my place so I could check on Brian and Kash.

No cat greeted us at the door when we arrived. That worried me. I checked the doors for forced entry. Would someone steal Kash? Would they hold him for ranson and blackmail me
until I confessed to Faraday’s murder? Wait, what would they have to blackmail me with? I think kidnapping my cat would be enough leverage. I stepped across the threshold into the kitchen and continued to the slider. As soon as I clicked the lever, Kash’s head popped up from the couch outside. So he was cheating on me with Brian. Caught you in the act, cat!

Kash looked at me with half-lidded eyes, yawned, and then stretched his legs over the back of the couch. Brian’s head instantly shot up as I’m sure Kash had dug his hind claws into his thighs. He looked at us with glazed eyes and then lazily waved when he saw that it was just us. Well, at least everything was right with this world. Paul went out on the patio to talk with Brian while I gathered up more clothes and amenities that I needed over at Paul’s. I wondered if Paul would give me a drawer? Better yet, a dresser. Did Paul even own a dresser for himself? I would have to check. Maybe I was getting ahead of myself. Just pack your suitcase, Pushkin.

Paul came back in and we set out. He had briefed Brian on what had happened to us at the lawyer’s office and told him not to answer my phone or the door. Brian was also to call us everyday and update us. And I needed him to take care of the apartments while I was gone. Let the tenants know that I had a ‘family emergency’. With any luck, my picture wouldn’t end up on any tabloids to dispel this white lie.

Chaptee 20

2010-03-20T16:04:00.000-07:00

We made our way over to Westwood for our scheduled appointment with Paul’s lawyer’s office. As we pulled into the parking garage under a huge marble edifice rising above, the dollar signs started reeling around in my head. I knew I couldn’t afford these people. I was beginning to wish I had stuck with my mother’s lawyer friend. My eyes must’ve been as big as saucers because Paul grabbed my hand to bring me back down to Earth.

“Don’t worry about the cost, babe,” he said. “I’ll take care of it.”

“Yeah, like you have the money for these fancy cats. I can’t ask you to do that for me,” I said. “If they’re as good as you say, then they’re worth all my dollars. I’ll spend the rest of my life paying them back if it’ll keep my fanny out jail.”

Paul laughed, “I’ll help you out then, OK? They are worth every penny and they’ll get the cops off of our backs. The statements from this office should keep the authorities at bay and give us some peace.”

We ascended in the lavish, silent elevator to the higher floors of the marble-clad monolith. The doors opened onto a compact, but sophisticated and tailored lobby with an equally tailored receptionist sporting a high-tech, silver Janet Jackson headset with nails to match.

Immediately, we were seated to wait complete with complimentary mimosas. Presently, we were shown into a small conference room with a round table of Brazilian walnut surrounded by modern, hand-stiched leather chairs in a complementary chocolate color. The room was small and understated, but rich with wood paneling to match the table and a million-dollar view of Westwood and Beverly Hills. I felt like Charlie in the Great Glass Elevator. In this room, my life would now move in all sorts of new directions. Was I capable of staying in control? Paul sat next to me, facing the view and we waited for his lawyer.

Soon, a young man, possibly Brian’s age, came in and greeted us. He introduced himself as Ari. Ari informed us that he and the senior counselor for our account would be taking our statements. His boss arrived shortly after and greeted Paul heartily. They embraced and Paul introduced me to Clive Blackwell, his corporate lawyer. I looked at Paul questioningly – didn’t we need a criminal lawyer?

Mr. Blackwell spoke up. “Don’t worry, ma’am. Before I succumbed to the lure of the big bucks, I was a defense attorney in Newark.”

New Jersey. East Coast. Seeing the mischievous gleam in his eye, the word Mafia floated through my brain. I smiled my best “Oh shit” smile and shook his hand. “Nice to meet you.”

As Paul and I took turns giving our statements and the young lawyer scribed furiously and monitored the tape recorder, I began to feel more at ease. These guys were going to be worth every penny. The spin and sparkle that our statements were taking on were simply gorgeous and hypnotizing. I was relaxing and enjoying the view when the receptionist came into the room
bearing a tray of drinks in sparkling, heavy, highball glasses. Baccarat, of course. The bicep in her beautifully tanned serving arm was taut with tension, but she moved with effortless grace, balancing her charge as if it were a powder puff. I took the glass she offered and sniffed it. Whiskey and soda water. Mmm, delicious. Tasted like Ballentines. No expense spared, even for those low on the economic totem pole. I think I melted in my chair. I would’ve nodded off if I hadn’t caught Paul staring at the receptionist. I went to kick him in the shins. No, wait, he was dictating something to her and she was writing it down. My head turned to fuzz and I resumed enjoying my different view of the world.

After I didn’t know how long, my reverie was interrupted again by the receptionist, this time bearing coffee. Thank God. I think I would’ve relaxed right into the Aubusson carpet. Perking up from the first sip of the rich, silky, obviously European-roasted coffee, I sat up straighter in my chair and tuned in.

Paul reached for my hand and held it while we listened to Mr. Blackwell tell us our next steps and what we should expect. Also, what our rights were as suspects and what the police could and could not expect of us. We were to call him at any sign of harassment or if we were suddenly arrested. Well, duh.

“Thank you so much for agreeing to do this for us,” I said shaking Clive and Ari’s hands as we were leaving. “I will spend the rest of my life paying your invoice.”

Clive laughed and the young lawyer ducked out of the room. “Don’t worry ma’am. We’ll make sure that you’re taken care of. You have a good man here in Mr. Atkinson. And he is very lucky to have you.”

Shouldn’t he have meant that I was the lucky one to have Paul? Did he think I was paying Paul’s bill? I looked over at Paul, confused as usual when trying to understand this inner
sanctum of the wealthy and its accoutrements. Paul was shaking his head and smiling.

“Clive, you were always the smooth talker. Must be what kept you alive and allowed you to walk away from it all,” Paul chided him in a friendly manner. “Thank you and we’ll keep in touch.”

“I’ll see you at the memorial service,” said Clive. “How are you doing with the eulogy? I know it’s probably the hardest task for anyone to do.”

Paul shook his head. “Yes, I have to work on that. With the statements out now, I hope to have the time to do Kip justice.”

I looked at Paul, “Memorial service? When is that? When was that decided?” That had thrown me for a loop and I was embarrassed that I had not known. My eyes stung as I looked at Paul, hurt that he was hiding this horrendous task from me.

“Now, don’t look at me like that,” Paul pleaded. “I forgot about it myself. Only today did the receptionist here remind me. With all that’s been going on, keeping my mind off of Kip’s funeral is what’s been keeping me going.”

I looked at him closely. There were dark circles under his eyes and his face looked worn. He had a 2-day growth of beard and his lips looked chapped. (Although I thought that I was guilty of that last detail.)

My voice came out strained and a little scratchy. “So do you have to plan the service and notify family and friends?” That all seemed gi-normous and not within the realm of Paul’s skills.

Paul exhaled audibly. “Thankfully, no. Kip had planned his own memorial service while he was still alive and his entertainment coordinator is taking care of every detail. I was asked to do the eulogy only.”

Ah, yes. The entertainment coordinator. I should’ve guessed. Was this the posthumous continuation of the three-ring circus that was Faraday’s life or finally the grand finale? Had he scripted himself in death? Funeralpalooza?

Clive had been watching me and chuckled. “That was Kip. I wasn’t ever one of his personal lawyers, but we did hear the stories of how he planned out everything to maintain the ultimate control. Except, of course, where Charlene was concerned.”

Interesting. I waited for Clive to go on with more elusive Charlene information, but he didn’t.

“Now, stay out of trouble. Don’t call attention to yourselves,” warned Clive, “and don’t talk to the media.”

Yeah, like the media would want to talk to small fries like us. The receptionist escorted us to another bank of elevators and accompanied us down to what was the back lobby. Guess it was her coffee break. We continued down to the parking garage to get the car. Pulling it out onto a side street, we rounded up back onto Wilshire. There, we saw the receptionist outside the building fending off a throng of reporters, their camera people, and TV vans. That would make sense in the timeline. Word would’ve gotten out that these lawyers were Faraday’s lawyers. I was sure the world wanted to know what was to become of his estate and heirs. They could care less how he died.

As we continued on our way down Wilshire, past the mass of news people, one reporter looked right at me. As I turned away to say something to Paul, I heard her scream, “It’s them!”

Chapter 19

2009-12-26T16:50:00.000-08:00

“So what did they quiz you on after they separated us?” I asked, pulling bowls from the cupboard. We danced around each other in the kitchen, preparing our dinner. I had mixed us some strong gin and tonics with lots of twists of lime in large high ball glasses. Sour puckers. Great for winding down from stress.

“Detail-type things. How long had I worked on the bathroom? Did I know anything about electronics or wiring? Did I know anything about lunar phenomena? Did I know the location of Kip’s ex-wife? How long had Trevor worked there? Was I in league with him to steal from Kip? Weird stuff that….”

I spit out my drink and coughed for like a minute into the sink. “His ex-wife?!” I asked after I finally recovered. I dragged on my cigarette and my larynx relaxed. Smoking is really good for throat relaxation. A nurse told me that once. Kills all the nerve cells that tickle the crap out of you at the most inopportune moments. So, when you see doctors and nurses standing around smoking, you know it’s good for you. Not.

Paul slapped my back a couple of times and held my arms above my head. He tossed my cigarette into the sink and washed his hands. Seeing that I was fully recovered, he began pulling plates from the cupboard, enlightening me. “Yeah, yeah, crazy bitch. I couldn’t believe Kip married her. ‘Course I also couldn’t believe what she did to his bathroom.”

“Well, don’t just babble! Who was it?” Shit! I was about to know something Harshy didn’t know. How rare was that? She was going to shit her pants. I was definitely going to have to call her later that night. Or maybe she already knew this information and it was so boring, she forgot to mention it? That wasn’t like her. Maybe Faraday’s wedding wasn’t a highlight on the LA society scene. Or maybe Hollywood actresses upstaged him?

“You remember that actress, Charlene Dietz? She had Kip’s number from day one. She knew how to play him. Man like that could have anything he wanted, because people wanted him. They wanted him as a client, investor, friend, lover, etcetera, so they were like dogs to him. They would do whatever he wanted, no matter what was asked. Charlene was a woman who knew how to deal with a man like Kip and somehow she figured out his Achilles heel. She made herself very unavailable to him and blew him off, denied him, and flat-out ignored him whenever they were at the same functions or events. With her wily, womanly ways, she knew that if she treated him like he was a nobody, he wouldn’t be able to resist her, that he would come after her. She would drive him crazy, weakening him for the kill.”

Well, duh, all women know that trick, said the spider to the fly. Guys are so simple. “So what did Kip do to get her to go out with him?”

Paul shook his head, inhaling his gin and tonic in one swallow, and laughed. “He asked her to marry him. Ego.”

“And?” The suspense was killing me. This was so cool – hot gossip, and from my boyfriend, no less. He was a keeper.

“She said yes, of course. It was what she had wanted the whole time. Kip and his millions!” revealed Paul. “Marriage didn’t last long though. That was the only thing that I ever saw crush Kip to the point of paralysis.”

“Wow,” I said, sipping my drink and dragging on a new cigarette. Paul waved the smoke away and turned on the stove exhaust hood. Patient man. “So, where is she now?”

“I don’t know and that’s what I told the cops. Haven’t seen her in a couple of years,” said Paul. “And Kip kept blaming his business funk on that stupid bathroom design. I think the truth was that she really got to him and he was willing to try any gimmick to get his game back. He was superstitious like that.”

That guy was his own traveling freak show. “Oh, so you think that’s why he hired me to redo his bathroom? To erase his memories of the blonde, gorgeous, man-killer?” I asked, snarling a bit at the end, because I was not even close to being the beauty that Charlene was. I was satisfied with this reason why Faraday had never hit on me. Ha, ha! To even think such things, Lo. Yuck.

“I’m sure of it,” affirmed Paul. “Once he had Jasmine hanging around again, they got as thick as thieves. I’m sure she convinced him to have the bathroom redone to erase any memory of her. Charlene was the one with the Bat Cave = Superhero concept.”

I laughed. I had told Paul of my design theory about Faraday’s bathroom after we’d gotten together as a couple. We had dished about our ideas and opinions and laughed ourselves silly when we realized that we’d had a lot of the same thoughts even though we were at opposite ends
of the room. Paul thought that I had hit the nail on the head with my theory.

“I thought I told you about Charlene when we first started the bathroom?” questioned Paul.

“Not a word. You were probably afraid of scaring me off because you knew I would immediately ask you if she had an interest in you at any time,” I said looking at him for conclusion. Now that he had brought her up, I really did want to know this information. I couldn’t stand the idea of anyone else desiring him.

“You’re probably right and, yes, she hit on me all of the time. I didn’t spend much time at the estate during their marriage,” said Paul. “Charlene may not have respected their marriage, but I did for Kip’s sake. Kip didn’t really notice my absence anyway. He was very into his new Charlene, obsessed and consumed by the relationship. I always wondered if that suffocation was what made her leave him.”

“When did she leave?”

“About two years ago. Kip immediately left Los Angeles after the breakup and went overseas for a while to ‘recover’. When he came back, that bathroom made him hysterical. I thought Bruce was going to have a permanent shit stain in his pants the way Kip carried on,” explained Paul.

“So she was gone only a year before the bathroom renovation got started? How could everyone keep this from me?” I asked. “Don’t bother answering. I know, I know, they were all under strict orders never to say her name in the house or acknowledge her existence, right?”

“You got it, babe!” Paul clinked his glass against mine.

Wow. I dragged on my cigarette. This was news. Why hadn’t the police asked if I knew of an ex-wife? Maybe Paul had already told them I didn’t know about her? When would they have had the time to ask him and get that info to Detective Patrick? Maybe Bruce had told them that no one knew about Charlene except the estate personnel. That would include Paul.
Charlene Dietz, Super Star actress. All the big money movies, an in-demand celebrity for every block buster summer feature. Why would she marry Faraday? He never seemed the type to be interested in movies, music, plays or any other form of entertainment. If it wasn’t business or sports, Faraday wasn’t likely to be involved. Charlene made her own money, so I couldn’t see her marrying Faraday for that reason. Or had she? Financial problems? Or was she attracted to him physically? Creeeepy! Seemed a long shot though as he had easily twenty years on her. Just the thought of them together in the biblical way made my skin goose pimple.

Or maybe she just had a thing for geeks? More likely he was just another challenge, a conquest to occupy her mind when she had down time from movies and was bored. Was she the female version of Faraday? Little game of cat and mouse? Boy, if I were Faraday and I’d found out that I was just an amusement, a way to pass the time, I might go ballistic. I’d have to make a point to ask Harshy all about Miss Charlene Dietz when I saw her next. Guy as well. Look into her financial and legal situations. That should be easy enough for him. I should see them both together so I wouldn’t have to repeat myself.

“I can see the gears moving a little more quickly than usual.” Paul jolted me out of my reverie that was so deep my drink was still settled at my lips and I hadn’t taken the intended sip. Instead, I sloshed it up my nose. Paul handed me a paper towel, laughing in his sexy way. He was the only person I could take outright laughing at me; I trusted how much he loved me.

“Just musing over this latest tidbit,” I said. “Do you think Charlene could be a factor in all of this?”

“I don’t see how. No one’s seen her in Kip and Jasmine’s social circle in at least a year and a half,” said Paul.

“Do you know who saw her last?”

Paul stared out the kitchen window, biting his lower lip in thought. “Weirdly enough, I think it was Bruce, of all people. Man, she treated him like dog shit on her shoe. He hated her like you hate cauliflower. Last sighting must’ve been when she came to collect the rest of her things. Faraday had put her stuff in a dumpster. Rented the thing until Charlene came back. A ‘personal message’ I think Kip told me. She’d been in Europe shooting one of those period pieces actors do to pay the rent. Boy, was she hopping mad when she saw all of her stuff in that twenty-yard dumpster! Bruce had to baby-sit the stuff the whole time, waiting for her return. He was pissed when she did finally come back and then promptly turned around and left it all after she got the ‘message’. He had a celebrity garage sale on Mulholland Drive, just off of the servants driveway.”
I laughed. I could see Bruce on a little folding chair at the end of the driveway, holding court with all sorts of celebrity whores trying to buy up Charlene’s clothes, shoes, perhaps used underwear? Yuck!

“So she hasn’t been seen around the estate since?”

“Nope, she’s a faded memory, a blip on the estate record. When the police brought her up, everything came flooding back to me,” said Paul. “Every awful thing.”

“I wonder if Trevor knew anything about her? Did she even know who he was?” I asked.

“No, Trevor was hired at the estate after Charlene. To tell you the truth, I think Trevor is pretty much clueless about everything important that went on at the estate. He’s a target because he’s easy for the police to deal with. I think if you threatened him enough, Trevor would admit to anything,” said Paul.

“Interesting. After dinner we should call down to the station, see how he’s doing, and if he’s been released yet. Find out where he’s staying, so we can keep an eye on him,” I suggested. “I guess if we haven’t heard from the cops by now, he must not have pointed a finger at us?”

“Great,” Paul groaned, “just what I want to do this evening.”

“It won’t take so long. Then we can finally take some time for ourselves,” I promised, taking Paul into my arms and kissing him passionately and playfully.

“You big tease, freako,” he said as I nodded in return.

I laughed and pulled away. Going to Paul’s phone, I pulled Detective Patrick’s card out of my bag and dialed the station. The desk sergeant – or was she the intake officer?- answered the phone, “Yes, hello, this is Lois Pushkin. I was in earlier and interrogated by Detective Patrick…”

“Yes, I remember you. Cute shoes,” she replied.

“Oh, well, thank you. Um, so, could you tell me if Trevor Gerard is still there or if he was released?” I said. “Uh, we need to know if he needs a ride home?”

“Yeah, right.” She was not so complimentary now. “Mr. Gerard was released shortly after you and Mr. Atkinson. He was able to get his own ride home courtesy of the LAPD.”

“Oh, OK, thank you,” I said and hung up. Turning to Paul, I said, “Well, I guess Trevor isn’t such a threat to us after all. He was released shortly after we were. Nothing has happened so far. So maybe nothing will?”

“Don’t count on it,” he said moving behind and wrapping his arms around my waist. He kissed me lightly and repeatedly on the back of my neck. Between kisses, he said, “He’s a snake and he’s going to lie in wait for the opportunity to strike. He’s a regular gutter club punk. Best not to be so trusting at this point. Right now, we’ve got only each other to trust.”

I turned around to face him, “Don’t forget about Harshy and Guy. We can trust them, too.”

Paul sighed and pulled me into his body. “Yeah, that’s true. And let’s not forget the other punk, Brian.”

“Shut your mouth! Brian is a wonderful young man. He just has habitat issues. And an addiction to TV. You like him, admit it,” I teased.

“He’s OK. If you like him, I like him,” assured Paul. He started pulling me up the stairs to his bedroom.

“Anything to shut me up?” I asked, following him willingly. His hand was warm and his ass hot.

“Wait!” A thought shot through my brain. “Let’s make sure that we’re being given protection by the LAPD.”

We crept back down the stairs and pulled back the window coverings to the windows facing the street. After a few seconds, a cop car leisurely drove by. We looked at each other. Next, we went to the windows off of the kitchen facing the side street. Just down the block was a plain brown wrapper parked across the street under a tree. I suddenly hoped that the police didn’t have one of those listening devices that looked like a dish in there. Everything that Paul and I had said could’ve set the police off. But if they were still sitting there, perhaps they didn’t have the
technology. Budget cuts. Or maybe we just weren’t that interesting.

After making sure that there were no scuba cops in Paul’s pool, we returned to our task at hand. At the top of the stairs, Paul kissed me longingly. When we took a pause, I was breathless. I was also feeling quite dog-tired, but I wanted him so bad. The booze had kicked in and made me fluid and willing. Our hands were all over each other as we made our way to the bed. Clothes were stripped and tossed. Tracks leading to our location, should anyone need to find us. Hopefully not Detective Patrick and his goon squad. I laughed out loud at my frightful thought.

“What?” murmured Paul, lifting his mouth from my breast, his hand in midstroke between my thighs.

“I was thinking how much I didn’t want Detective Patrick to find us together like this,” I whispered, pushing his hand back into play.

“Please don’t think of other men when I’m pleasuring you,” Paul said. “You’re going to give me a complex.”

“Very funny, babe. You know that you always have my complete and undivided attention.” I moaned when he ramped up the action on the sweet spot. God, I was going to gyrate off this bed and spasm on the floor.

Taking his own sweet time and making me a prisoner of my mind and body, Paul finally entered me and brought me to another body-and-soul-shattering climax. Oh, I am not worthy, I am not worthy. But I’m going to stay and take all I can get until he gets wise to me.

Chapter 18

2009-12-26T16:41:00.000-08:00

The “Interogation Room” wasn’t as bad as I had imagined. Having never been to a police station, I had feared the worst Law and Order episode. Maybe those weren’t so bad now that I think about it.

Inside the room, Detective Patrick invited me to sit in a lovely, hard, steel chair certain to make any perp confess inside of an hour. The table was government issue in the lovely, federal green color of bridges. It was littered with droplets of dried coffee, sticky soda, and crumbs from what I was assuming were various pastries. That wasn’t so bad. Reminded me of my desk and the mocha stain that had been on the right side near the corner for a year. A constant splotch that faithfully continued to remind me that I needed to clean. It was a good, loyal stain. Didn’t have the heart to get rid of it.

The walls were painted a matching green and looked to have matching stains. Too matchy-moo for my taste. The lighting was typical police station décor. Fluorescent downlighting units attached to a pockmarked suspended ceiling system that looked decayed and ready to collapse with the next earthquake.

After seating myself, I faced Detective Patrick and composed myself for his probing questions, feeling my face get warm and my eyes sting a little. God, I was tired and my butt ached already. Now I looked embarrassed and thus guilty. I wished I had some ice water.

“Your full name please?” he asked.

“Lois Louise Pushkin,” I answered, correctly. One point for me. I wondered when I should ask him for that water. I am allowed one water, right?

“Are you married, Ms. Pushkin?”

“No. What does that have to do with anything?” I was now tired, achy, annoyed, and needing that water. Why should he care if I was married? What did that have to do with the murder? Well, I guess a bit since most married people are killed by their spouses. But Faraday hadn’t been married to me so what relevance did the question even have?

Detective Patrick said, “Hmmm.” He wrote something on his notepad. Looking back up at me, perhaps to check if I was lying, he asked, “How long had you known Kip Faraday?”

“Like I said before, about a year. I remodeled the executive bathroom off of his office,” I replied.

Detective Patrick hmmm’d again and wrote some more notes on his pad. “How involved were you in the actual construction? Did you visit the bathroom regularly?”

I snorted a little and Detective Patrick eyeballed me suspiciously. “Mr. Faraday asked me that during construction. I visited the bathroom once a week and then sent him a weekly progress report wherever in the world he was. He put me in charge as the project’s construction administrator.”

“Was that typical for Mr. Faraday? He certainly had enough assistants to do that sort of work?” asked Detective Patrick. “Why would he choose you to do reports for him?”

“Because that was my job as a construction administrator. I monitored the general contractor and his subs, plus kept the construction schedule and everyone on task. I was Mr. Faraday’s liaison for the project. Besides, I personally don’t think he wanted any of his assistants around the construction. I don’t think he trusted them with anything outside of concierge, clerical, and butt-wiping duties,” I answered.

Detective Patrick twiddled his pencil between his fingers and asked dryly, “Butt wiping duties?”

“Sorry,” I said, “that was rude. Um, Faraday would have his assistants do anything he wanted and they would do anything he ordered. I just meant that if he needed his butt wiped, they would do it.”

“He was that comfortable and trusting with his assistants?”

I thought about that for a moment. “I wouldn’t call it trust. I would say he believed they existed to serve him and if he needed their assistance for such a delicate matter, well, duh, they would, of course, do it.”

“Would Mr. Gerard do it?”

“No.”

“Would Mr. Hansen do it?”

“I’m inclined to answer yes since he was Faraday’s shadow and also rumoured to be in love with the man,” I said. I could see Bruce doing that, with latex gloves of course. Homoerotic images flooded my mind. Think happy thoughts, think happy thoughts, La la la la!

“Are you alright Ms. Pushkin?” asked Detective Patrick as he leaned across the table toward me. “Do you need some coffee?”

Startled out of my mental rendition of “There’s a Hole in My Bucket”, I stared back at him. “Yes, uh, actually, I would like some ice water. Are there any relevant questions you’d like to ask me?”
“You’re the one who started with the butt reference,” stated Detective Patrick. “We know where you were the night Faraday died and that checks out for now. Do you know where any of the other persons of interest were that night?”

“I don’t know your whole list. I only know where Trevor was because he told me, but that’s just hearsay.” Oh, yeah, I need to tell Detective Patrick about my lawyer’s request. “My lawyer will be needing a copy of my statement regarding this case.”

“No, he don’t. What about Paul Atkinson?”

“I only know where Paul was because he told me,” I said. “And yes, he, my lawyer, will. In fact, I’d like to call my lawyer right now.” Who did this cop think he was? This was not right. The hairs on the back of my neck started to prickle and rise.

“No, no that’s OK, Ms. Pushkin. Not until we’re finished,” warned Detective Patrick. “Was Mr. Atkinson with you?”

“No. And I’m not going to answer any more of your questions until I see my lawyer,” I said. The whole interview was starting to creep me out. Detective Patrick pulled himself upright in his chair, rolled up his sleeves, and laid his beefy, sinewy, tan arms on the palette of the green table. His breath was hot and he had a sweat bead on his forehead. His eyes were glassy under his monobrow, and he probed me with them indelicately. It was intimidating and gross.

I had to get out of that room immediately. “If you’re going to charge me, do it now or this conversation is over.”

“I’m going to get a statement from you now, Ms. Pushkin,” Detective Patrick picked up his pencil and pointed it at me menacingly. Was he going to hold it to my cheek and threaten to ruin my modeling career if I didn’t confess?

That was the last straw. I simply couldn’t stay in that room. The chair had gotten harder, my butt muscles were on fire, my head was pounding and my face was still flushed. Bastard had never gotten my water. The walls were getting closer together. Quickly pushing my glasses up against my nose as a distraction, I grabbed the pointy end of his pencil, snatched it out of his grip, and snapped it in two with a ‘crack’.

“You will receive my statement from my lawyer.” I reiterated, firmly. I was so done.

With that, I stood up, wiped the crud from my ass, clutched the broken pencil for support, and headed for the door. I heard Detective Patrick’s chair skid across the floor. Turning to find him approaching me, I stood with the pointy end of the pencil aimed at him and said, “Don’t make me scream ‘rape’ 'cause I will. I took a class and I was the teacher’s pet.”

“Watch yourself, Ms. Pushkin,” Detective Patrick cautioned. He leaned past me and opened the door. His body odor wafted across my nose. “I’ll wait for your statement. If I don’t see it in 48 hours, we will come looking for you. Oh, yeah, don’t leave town.”

He laughed at his little joke. I scooted out that door as fast as I could without looking intimidated. Shit, now I would have to go to the lawyers. Don’t leave town – Jesus, what TV show was I on? Well, that was done. I was so exhausted that I could’ve fallen nose first onto the drab precinct vinyl tile flooring. Thankfully, I had enough strength of hygiene disgust to
overcome that desire.

Paul was waiting for me at the double doors and took my arm. “Why don’t you take those off?”

I looked over at him, pushing my glasses farther up my nose. “I need them to see.”
I hadn’t had the time nor the desire to put my contacts in when this adventure started, so the trusty, back-up glasses got pulled out for service.

“No, not your glasses, your shoes.” He pointed down to my swollen feet and winced with pain for me. I hadn’t really noticed the fatigue or blisters that had materialized throughout the day. My toes started to throb violently, now that my brain was paying attention to them, the way children swarm from out of nowhere when mothers are dialing phones. My heels stung and my ankles itched. I would need an emergency pedicure for sure.

“I can’t take them off in here,” I hissed. “It’s disgusting! Hooker and junkie feet –yuck. It’s worse than a motel room. I’ll wait ‘til I get in my car.”

“I can’t vouch for that being cleaner than a motel room, especially since we’ve used it as a motel room,” reminded Paul with a big goofy smile. (Yuk, yuk, yuk, three stooges abound.) I punched him in the arm. In the car, I took off my Jose Ferrars and rubbed my feet on the floor mats. Paul looked at me questioningly. “You know those mats are full of germs and crap, right?”

“Oh, shut up,” I said. “I’m trying to get over my cleanliness freak, so leave me alone.”

Paul laughed and I was not mad enough not to enjoy the fact that I could make him laugh in spite of the new three-ring circus we had been thrown into. Paul’s interview had gone about as well as mine. His interrogator had tried to get him on threatening a police officer when he wouldn’t give a statement and then on obstructing an officer. He hadn’t had a broken pointy pencil to defend himself, but he had gotten out all right.

We drove back to his place. No way did I want to be alone that night. We decided on a simple dinner with lots of booze and I bought a fresh pack of cigarettes at the 7-11. I called Brian and told him how our interrogations had gone and where we would be. Brian had volunteered that he had already fed and watered Kash for me. Paul then called his lawyer and told him what had transpired at the police station. We made an appointment to meet the next day; he was going to transcribe Paul’s statement as well as mine. Paul convinced me that his lawyer would be at least as good as the one my mother’s ex-boyfriend recommended.

Chapter17

2009-12-26T16:32:00.000-08:00

After Brian returned, we parked Paul’s truck in my apartment building garage and took my Subaru downtown. Brian stayed behind at the condo. ‘To hold down the fort’ as my father used to say.

Trevor kicked the back of my seat almost the whole way there until Paul pulled the car over, like a dad who’d had the last straw, and threw Trevor in the way back, behind the dog screen. Obviously, I don’t have a dog and I have never owned a dog, but found the screen helpful for hanging up drawings and drying sandy, wet bathing suits and flip flops from a day at the beach. It was also now useful for containing Trevor. He didn’t dare draw attention to himself, lest a cop see him in the way back without a seatbelt. He knew that I would’ve been more than glad to get a traffic violation ticket just to have a police officer take him off of our hands. He was becoming a burden to us.

Paul kept glaring back at Trevor, who was trying to light another cigarette. Paul kept all the windows open to keep the light from being successful. I watched Paul with amusement. He noticed and smiled a little. I knew how hard this was for him. Trevor was a painful jab in his side when he should’ve been mourning the loss of his friend and mentor. To be stuck with such a pain in the neck was the worst thing that could’ve been going on for Paul. I was so worried for him and well, selfishly at the moment, for me and for us. I shouldn’t have been thinking such thoughts at a time like that, but that’s when they usually came. We had only been together about a year, but our relationship was still relatively new, mostly still within the honeymoon stage. Would Faraday’s death kill our relationship? Faraday had been such a huge part of Paul’s life. Would Paul throw me over to devote himself to the case full time, wanting no distractions from his sexy new girlfriend? God, I was so in love with him. Losing him, I thought, would send me over the edge of my parapet. Brian would have to stay by my side, as I would lapse into a love coma, unable to cope with a life without Paul. I would subsist on a diet of booze, cigarettes and reality TV, staying hidden away in my condo-cave.

“Dollar for your thoughts?” asked Paul, startling me out of my glazed space-out which I called thinking.
I looked over at him and smiled. “No thoughts. Just very tired all of a sudden. Seasonal Affective Disorder. Need to recharge for the next round.”

That seemed to satisfy him and he returned to driving. We were pulling into the downtown precinct as instructed by the cops. With much prodding, assisted by my tapered acrylic fingernails, we got Trevor out of the hatch back, inside the station, and up to the information desk.

“Excuse me,” I asked the officer behind the counter. Desk sergeant? What did they call them now? In-take officers? Or was that drug rehab lingo? “We’ve brought in Trevor Gerard. He would like to turn himself in.”

“Bitch! Cunt!” yelled Trevor before Paul could clamp his hand over his puckered foul mouth and restrain him.

The officer looked past me at Trevor. Trevor had the officer’s full attention now, “You’d better not be calling me names, sir. That will get you arrested.”

“Oh no, he’s not calling you those names. Those are the names he’s been calling me for the past couple of hours. He has issues,” I informed the officer.

The officer now turned her attention to me. She had all the mannerisms of Jabba the Hut. I’m not saying that she was obese and slug-like with excessive drool and pasty skin. Her movements revealed more the subtle and deliberate benevolence of Jabba the Hut, with an ownership of her power and manipulation. Every gesture and expression was measured and done for an exact purpose and effect.

“And the other one?” she asked patiently.

I looked at Paul and then back at her. “He’s my body guard.”

“And you are?”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I’m Lois Pushkin. We’re here to see Detective Patrick,” I answered.

“He’s unavailable right now. Working on a big case. Can't deal with stalkers right now, even if you did catch them peepin’ in your window.”

“I think he’ll want to see me. It’s about his big case.” I was getting weary of Jabba and I could sense that behind me, Paul was close to snapping Trevor’s neck.

“What do you know about his case load?” asked the officer rhetorically. “Tell me what you have and I’ll relay it to him.”

“No,” I said. “He either sees us right now or we leave. You’ll have to explain your actions later to the DA.” Boy, I really did watch too much television. I didn’t think Jabba would believe me.

The officer held my eyes for a few seconds, sighed, and then picked up the phone to call Detective Patrick. “Yeah, there’s a woman here who says she has information for you about the case you’re working on.” She paused. “Uh, yeah, a Lois Pushkin.” Suddenly, she jerked the phone away from her ear. “Sonofabitch slammed the phone down in my ear!”

The swinging doors to my left flew open and three plainclothes detectives shot through the doors at a full trot. Paul relaxed his grip on Trevor, instinctively pushing him towards the cops. Trevor wriggled his way forward, resisting like a cow to a brand.

“Ms. Pushkin!” said the cop whom I assumed was Detective Patrick. I realized now we had never met in person before. Another officer came around to escort me back through the doors.

“Thank you for coming down and turning yourself in. You have the right to remain silent…..”

“Hey, whoa! I’m not turning myself in. I’ve brought you Trevor Gerard. You said that if I had any information on him, I was to let you know. Well, I have him in person so there you go,” I said as I shrugged off the other officer behind me. Paul was instantly by my side, pulling me into him, creating distance between me and the police. Was it for my safety or theirs?

Detective Patrick looked at Trevor who was now sitting on a waiting room chair, legs crossed, sniveling into his hand, sweat beading on his freckled pale brow, trying to fade into the background. The officer crossed over to him and asked, “Are you Trevor Gerard?”

Trevor looked up at him, defeated, “Yes, I am and I didn’t do anything.”

Detective Patrick began, “Trevor Gerard, you are hereby under arrest for the murder of Christian Harold Faraday. You have the right to remain silent, anything you say can and will be used against you.” Blah, blah, blah, we’ve all watched Law and Order. Another officer hand-cuffed Trevor while Detective Patrick read him his rights. Then the second officer led Trevor through the double doors.

Trevor spun around spastically and yelled at Paul and me. “Bitch, you’ll pay for this! You too, Asshole! God Damn Fuckers!” Then he burst into sobs that racked his entire body, almost pulling the officer down to the floor.

“I need to know if he’ll be all right and when we can see him again,” I asked Detective Patrick.

“We said that we’d be here for him.” God, I hoped I sounded convincing. I really wanted Trevor kept at the station, under supervision. But I definitely didn’t want him spreading lies about me and Paul and pointing an accusatory finger at either of us. Being able to possibly know what he was confessing to the police would be a bonus to us.

Detective Patrick looked at me skeptically, connecting the thoughts after Trevor’s little display. “Be here for him? I think you need to think about yourself right now, Ms. Pushkin. You’re a ‘person of interest’ in this case and I need to take a statement from you. We have never sat down to chat about your version of events.” said Detective Patrick.

“Me?! Why me? I was only the guy’s designer. He paid me in full, always. I had no motive. I’m an outsider to this whole situation,” I protested.

“According to estate security logs and camera video, you were very much a part of the Faraday world and involved with everyone in it,” he revealed. “We’ll need to get your statement.
And while you’re here, since you were able to pull Trevor Gerard out of a hat, would you happen to know the whereabouts of the general contractor, Paul Atkinson?”

I reached over my shoulder and tapped Paul on the chest. Detective Patrick looked at Paul and then back at me and then returned to Paul. Then he said, “I’m definitely going to need a statement from the both of you.”

Paul squeezed my shoulders and kissed my cheek. We followed Detective Patrick through the double doors he so graciously held open for us. He was smiling like the cat that ate the canary. In the corridor, another officer took Paul away from me, and Detective Patrick led me into a tiny, claustrophobic, unaesthetic interrogation room. Martha Stewart, where are your jailhouse hints when I need them? Oh, shitshitshitshitshit.

Chapter 16

2009-07-25T16:10:00.000-07:00

I got into my car and Paul got into his truck. We caravanned back over Laurel Canyon, down to my building on Crescent Heights and into the residents’ garage. Since our relationship had blossomed, I had gotten brave and given Paul his own parking space. Pretty bold move there, Pushkin. Whatever – he doesn’t have keys to my condo yet. We met at the elevators and Paul grabbed my hand and held it. Not resisting temptation, he began caressing my neck with his lips.
He was so warm and smelled like a freshly bathed newborn babe – all musky and sweet. Paul’s behavior was changing as quickly as the weather in the Northwest. All day long, just wait 5 minutes, and he was in a different mood. Or maybe he had just calmed down on the drive over. If the motion of a car could calm down a baby, maybe it had the same effect on adults as well. Paul certainly needed it. The life drama was causing him to be increasingly affectionate at what seemed to me an awkward time. Maybe he was in shock? Post traumatic stress disorder. Was I suffering from that as well? I would have to ask Harshy. She would give me an objective
assessment.

As we walked down the hall toward my front doors, I could hear fresh, open sobbing and urgent murmuring. When I opened the door, Paul and I walked in on Trevor curled up in a fetal position in my living room. He was wailing and clutching the bouillon fringe of my huge ottoman. Brian paced behind the couch quietly beseeching Trevor to ‘shut up!’ I almost laughed, but caught myself when Brian turned our way. He threw up his hands in frustration and pointed to Trevor.

“Thank you, Brian,” I said as I walked over to him. I hugged Brian and told him he could chill outside while we talked to Trevor.

“Thank God! This guy is wack. Good luck,” said Brian as he passed through the slider. I watched the cushions of the couch pop up as he flopped into it and clicked the TV.

Paul walked over to Trevor and squatted down next to him. When Trevor paused for breath, he opened his red puffy eyes, saw Paul, and shrieked, “What is he doing here!”

Paul abruptly stood up and stared down at Trevor, while crossing his arms over his chest. Trevor was like a badger in a hole, teeth barred and snarling, eyes shifting from Paul to me and back to Paul. Tears were running down his red stained cheeks and his breath was ragged from all of his wailing. Paul watched and waited. I went over and knelt beside Trevor.

I began riddling him with questions. “Trevor, what are you doing here? What’s going on? Where have you been? Do you know the police are looking for you? What did you do?” I riddled him with questions.

Trevor sat up, clinging to me so hard I almost fell over into the sofa cushions. At this vantage point I could see Kashmew hiding up on top of my TV armoire behind my plants. He was glaring at me with his golden eyes and his tail was abruptly flicking back and forth. I groaned and pulled Trevor up onto the sofa and I sat on the ottoman. Holding his hands, I shook them so that he would focus and look at me. He was a wreck and, boy, did he smell! Cigarettes, booze, dance club, BO, and vomit?

“Trevor! Answer me.”

Wiping his mouth, Trevor looked at me through his wispy eyebrows and then slid that look over to Paul. I followed his eyes, understanding the gesture. “He’s OK, Trevor. Paul won’t hurt you. Why would you think he’d hurt you?”

“’Cause he’s threatened to before. He hates me!” snarled Trevor, reaching for a cigarette out of his polo shirt pocket. Lighting it, he resumed, “They all hate me. They always have. Well, I don’t care! I may have ripped Faraday off, but I certainly didn’t kill him.”

“What are you talking about? Where’ve you been?” I asked again.

He looked at me and blew smoke into my face. “Why do you care, bitch?”

I stood up. “Don’t pull that shit with me, bucko! You’re the one who came to my place looking for me. You’re on my turf now.” My Mohawk was back for a moment.

Trevor stared at the floor. Eventually, he lifted his head and stared hard at me. “For as much of a cunt as you were to me, you’re the only one I thought would even listen to what I had to say. I didn’t know that that fucker would be here.” He gestured at Paul who moved over to Trevor, possibly to smack him to the ground. I motioned with my hand to leave off.

“So what do you have to say, Trevor, because you’re really trying our patience,” I asked, glaring at him. I had never been a cunt to him. A bitch, yes, but never a cunt. He wasn’t worth that amount of effort.

Trevor settled up against the sofa, the ash of his cigarette one inch long and threatening my ottoman. I motioned to Paul that I needed an ashtray from the kitchen. Kashmew meowed and wrinkled his nose against the smoke, swishing his tail harder against my plants. I glared at him too. I sat down on the ottoman when Paul returned with the ashtray. Trevor angrily flicked his ash into the glass bowl, sending sparks onto my pants, ottoman, and Persian carpet. I sighed, exhausted with this problem already. We hadn’t even gotten decent questions answered.

Trevor spoke in a quivering voice. “The police are after me. They think I killed Faraday, even though they’re calling it a suicide.”

“And did you?”

“No! Fuck. I did not. The reason they think I did is because of Bruce, that sausage prick.” Trevor blew out defiant smoke rings.

“Go on,” I prodded. This was going to be interesting and, I hoped, highly revealing, especially as I was tired of being the one insulted.

Trevor began to glare at me again, but then resigned the look in his eyes with surrender. “Bruce found out I was stealing money and stuff from Faraday.” He quietly confessed and then stared down at the floor for comfort.

I sat straight up on the ottoman and gave Trevor the once over. Little prick. Had to be to screw up a cush job at the Faraday estate. Trevor was small, slight, be-speckled, and freckled. Must be tough getting the hotties to go for him as a sex toy. Napoleon complex – always compensating. Must have needed the money to “buy” himself a new image to be a contender.

“Trevor, where have you been for a whole week?” I asked. Paul and I hadn’t seen him since my last day at the estate, last Friday.

“I’ve been staying at the Rage Club in West Hollywood off of Santa Monica Boulevard. I used to work there as a server’s assistant. My old boss let me crash there for a few days,” explained Trevor.

I was confused. I looked over at Paul. “Server’s assistant?”

Paul laughed. “That’s fancy lingo for someone who busses tables in a restaurant.”

Trevor glared at Paul and gave him the finger. Paul acted all frightened and ran hid behind the kitchen island.

I turned back to Trevor. “Wouldn’t the police have gone looking for you there?”

Trevor laughed, “Yeah, the LAPD goes into a flaming gay bar. Right. I knew that it would be a few days before they turned over that chore to the West Hollywood police. That’s why I’m here. My time was up. They questioned my old boss yesterday.”

I thought this over. I looked over at Paul. He shrugged his shoulders. Another great shrugger in my life. Brian was still out on the patio watching TV. I looked back over at Trevor who was watching expectantly.

“What do you want me to do Trevor? I still don’t understand why you would come to me. We’re not exactly friends.”

Trevor finished his cigarette and stubbed it out into the ashtray I was still holding in my hand. “I don’t know. I knew where you lived because eventually I was going to trash your pool because you were such a bitch to me at the estate.” I raised my eyebrows to him and he shook his head like that idea was a millennium ago.

“When I was ‘escaping’ from the Rage, I just started walking down Santa Monica boulevard and eventually found myself at Crescent Heights. As I wondered where to go, I remembered that you lived up the street somewhere near the base of the canyon. I thought I could sneak onto the roof of your building and hide out in your pool house until I could figure out what else to do.” Trevor narrowed his eyes at the patio, at Brian. “Little did I know that you lived in the pool house and that you had a young, over-eager security guard.”

“I thought Brian let you in through the front door?” I asked. He had thrown me for a loop. I was shocked by this man’s continued callousness towards me. I don’t know why I kept feeling that way. After a year, one would think that I would be used to it.

“He did, eventually. He saw me scaling your fire escape first and rushed me. I almost fell to my death!” He glared towards the patio again. Lighting another cigarette, he continued. “I climbed down and hid out in your lobby for awhile before I decided to call you on your building call box. Stupid kid answered that, too. I almost hung up, but when I told him my name he said to wait there in the lobby. He was going to call you to see what to do now. Guess he didn’t know I was the same person.”

Trevor paused, thinking, and then looked up at me, anger contorting his already pinched features. “Why would he do that? Why would he ask me to wait so he could ask you what to do next? What did you do, Pushkin? Do the police know I’m here? Did you set me up?”

He began yelling and jumped up, looking around wildly for the police to come storming from my bedroom or my bathroom. “How did you know I would be here? Did the police have a tail on me because of you, Bitch? I knew you had it in for me. Bruce put you up to this, didn’t he?”

Like I had any better relationship with Bruce Hansen. Trevor was hysterical. I burst out laughing so hard, I almost fell off the ottoman and spilled the ashtray. Trevor lunged at me in a maniacal, faggy-way: screeching with hands like bird claws, spittle flying from his lips, eyes wild behind the major corrective lenses. Paul scooped me up before Trevor could do any cosmetic or fashion damage and held me behind his body. Regardless, I was still in fits. I couldn’t help myself. Exhaustion and stress had taken over my body. I was becoming hysterical.

Trevor fell across the ottoman, sobbing loudly, wailing with crocodile tears streaming from his face. Paul hauled him up, scaring him silent, and placed him on the sofa. Trevor whimpered and kept his eyes closed, resigned to the feeling of cuffs on his wrists as they sat parallel and rigid in his lap. I had calmed down to a reasonable facsimile of myself, too.

“Trevor,” I began quietly. I was kinda scared of him at this point. Trevor wouldn’t open his eyes. “Trevor, the police aren’t here. No one is here to get you. No one knows you’re here except us.”

Trevor opened one eye and looked at me, warily. “Then how did that kid know who I was? Why would he ask me to wait, pending instructions from you?”

Now it was my turn for some questions. “If Brian asked you to wait in the foyer, how did you get up here?”

Trevor answered, “I snuck in after some people entered. Said I was visiting you. They were very chatty; had nothing but wonderful things to say about you.” He sneered. “I scanned the tenant board for your condo number. Nice place you got here, Ms. Modesty Mouse. Your boy here let me in after I banged on the front doors forever.”

“From what he tells me, Trevor, you were a basket case, so leave off with the attitude. Obviously, you were desperate for help from anyone who had no idea what you’d done.” I held his eyes with mine until recognition bloomed on his face.

“I told you I didn’t kill Faraday!” screamed Trevor.

“I’m not talking about that, Trevor. I’m talking about all the other crimes you’ve committed that you just brought to our attention,” I reminded him.

“Oh, that, yeah. Well, you still haven’t explained how you knew I would be at your place.”
Trevor shot back.

“Trevor, call it a ‘psychic message’.” I looked over at him. “I just had a feeling in the back of my brain. When I get these feelings, I test them out so I told Brian that if, for some remote chance you or Bruce did call here, that he was to call me. Also, the police told me that they were looking for you.”

“Bitch,” Trevor hissed under his breath.

“OK, I have had about enough of your attitude, you little prick,” announced Paul, storming over to where Trevor sat. Trevor immediately curled up in a ball, covering his face with his arms. I did nothing. I had had enough as well. Paul picked up Trevor, who uncoiled like a potato bug, flung him across his shoulders, fireman style, and headed for my bedroom, where he flung Trevor onto my bed and slammed the door shut. “Now stay in there until we figure out what to do with your skinny, freckled, casper-white ass!”

I slumped into the couch. Paul came and sat with me, holding me in his arms. I sighed, listening to Trevor bawling like a baby in my bedroom. He’d better not get snot on my sheets. Or anything else for that matter.

“What are you thinking?” asked Paul.

“I’m thinking we need more information from him,” I replied. “We need to know exactly what he stole from Faraday and why the police suspect him as the killer.”

“Hmmmph. Good luck with that,” answered Paul. “Anyway, we need to keep the police away from here until we can get any information out of him.”

I had an idea. “Call your house voicemail and also your neighbor on the corner. See if the police have been by or left you a message,” I told him.

Paul walked outside to make his calls. I lit another cigarette and reached into the fridge for a beer. As I screwed off the cap, I watched Paul come back in. “You have to quit smoking.”

“Very funny, old man. You and my cat must have mind-meleded,” I replied, exhaling smoke rings around my beer. “Well?” I took another drag and exhaled. My nerves were starting to steady and I felt buoyant on the balls of my toes. Like a boxer dancing around the ring with controlled rhythm waiting for the next round.

“They called my house and left a message. The neighbor says a patrol car has been by a couple of times,” explained Paul. “I guess they’re looking for me.”

“I wonder if they have an APB out on you?” I asked, more to myself than to Paul.

“Who are you - Jack Friday? ‘APB?’ You watch way too much TV.”

“No, really, I had another thought.” I headed to the slider and opened it. “Brian, can you drive?”

Brian popped his head up. “Yeah, but I ain’t driving your piece of shit to no store.”

“Very funny, asshole. We may need you to drive Paul’s truck somewhere,” I told him.

“Cool.” Brian grinned and laid back down.

“What are you doing? I am not letting that punk kid drive my rig!” exclaimed Paul, looking at me like I was crazy Linda Hamilton from Terminator Two.

“I just thought we could send Brian out in your truck to drive back over around your house and then lead the police on a little goose chase through the canyons. That would give us time to quiz Trevor before we take him down to the police station to turn him in,” I explained.

“Fine. OK. That does sound like a good idea. Let’s do it, but if that kid fucks up my truck…” Paul trailed off emphasizing his warning.

“We should do what?” asked Trevor. Both Paul and I loOKed around at the sound of his voice. He was leaning against the entry wall of the hallway, face all blotchy from his crying jag.

“Sit down, Trevor, we have to talk,” I ordered him to the couch once again.

Trevor sauntered over to the couch, fragile confidence propelling him forward. Paul sat on the opposing couch, keeping an eye on him. Trevor looked at us like we were about to betray him. I went out on the patio and spoke to Brian about our little ruse. He was thrilled. I could see Paul watching us, squirming at the thought. I told Brian to be very careful and do the best casual, slow-speed chase driving he could manage. I told him to be back here inside of an hour. We went back into the living room where Paul stood up and gave up his coat, cap, and keys to Brian. Brian inspected the inside of the hat and sniffed at the coat. Paul berated him for it and told Brian to just get the hell out. I shook my head at the two of them, acting more like father and son then they would ever want me to say.

Trevor had been watching us the whole time. “What the hell is going on? Why won’t anyone tell me? This is my life we’re talking about, people. I need to know, who is my Judas?”

“Oh, cut the crap, Trevor. No one is playing your Judas, no matter how tempting!” I yelled at him. “Now listen to what we have to tell you.”

Trevor relaxed a little bit, brushing his wispy hair off of his forehead and straightening his glasses. He looked right at me. “Now, Trevor, we have not called the police, but we are going to be taking you in.”

Trevor’s weak jaw dropped, “Fucking Assholes! I knew you’d fuck me over.”

“Oh, just shut up, you little prick, and listen to what Lois has to say!’” boomed Paul. This caused Trevor to scramble into a ball on the couch again.

“Thank you, babe,” I said turning from him back to Trevor. “We want to talk to you. And we don’t want you to turn yourself over to the police until we know that you won’t try the same little stunt Bruce did and point your finger at us to save yourself.”

“Like, why wouldn’t I do that?” scoffed Trevor.

I held my breath for a second. “You don’t have to help us at all. But we’re helping you, and we could help you further if you were on our side. We know you don’t like Bruce because he put the police onto you. If you don’t help us, you side with Bruce in our minds and, frankly, you don’t want to piss me off.”

Trevor knew Bruce better than we did and I thought that for our best defense, the more Trevor told us about what we were up against, the less threatened we would be by both him and Bruce. Trevor studied me and Paul. He looked to his clasped hands and then brought them to his face. After a few pensive moments, he butterflied his hands down to his knees and began spilling.

“OK, fine. First, I didn’t kill Faraday. “And I don’t know who did.” He paused and we waited again. “Second, it’s true that Bruce has evidence that I’ve been “borrowing” from the estate. I had a lot of debt when I started there, so I pawned some items and also stole some checks from the assistants’ check book. I swear, I was going to pay back the money and get the stuff back, but, well, it was so easy - so much money flew around there daily and Faraday was gone a lot, so I just kinda let it all slide.”

Paul muttered under his breath, “Bastard.”

Trevor scowled at Paul and then let himself fall back into the couch cushions. “Fuck you. You had it made, asshole. Faraday gave you whatever you wanted, no questions asked. You didn’t realize how good you had it and you weren’t even his meat puppet.”

Paul leaped up from the couch and lunged at Trevor who dug into the cushions, shrieking. I grabbed Paul’s arm and cautioned him to stay back. He shook off my hand and left the room, fuming. Temper, temper. That touched a nerve. Was Faraday gay? Would Jasmine have been that clueless? Or maybe that kinky? No. I’d have to resolve that question with Paul later.

Trevor continued, “I overheard Bruce on the phone speaking to Faraday’s accountant. They were setting up a meeting to go over the books and estate inventory to get all of their ducks in a row. They were going to present information to Faraday to prove that I was stealing. That was Tuesday during the day, the day of the night that Faraday died. You can ask my friends where I was that day. I had already packed and left the estate.”

“So, Trevor,” I said slowly, “you say you didn’t kill Faraday, and you don’t know who did. Do you know how he was killed?”

“What do you mean,” he answered, “ ‘how’ he was killed? You mean murder or suicide?”

“No, I mean, do you know if it was a gun, knife, strangulation...?”

“Oh no, I don’t know a thing.”

“Do you think Bruce could’ve killed him?”

Trevor looked thoughtfully at me. “I wish, but he was too much in love with Faraday and too afraid of him to even think about killing him.”

I was taken back. “Did Faraday know about this ‘love’?”

Trevor laughed. “Yes, and the one delicious thing about working for that jack-ass was how he toyed with Bruce because of what he knew of his feelings.”

I looked at Trevor, stunned by this tidbit. Motive for murder? Jealous love? But why in the new bathroom? And how was he killed? We still didn’t know that detail. We would need to know that for any of this to make sense.

Trevor interrupted my silent commune, “Hey, bitch, my life’s in your hands. What’s the deal?”

Before I could answer, my cell phone rang. “Lois Pushkin,” I said. I watched Paul returning to the living room, a cup of tea in one hand and another cup in his other. He offered one cup to Trevor, who had the smarts to accept it for the truce it was.

“Hey, Lois, it’s Brian. I’ve been stopped by the cops. They’re harassing me about being in Paul’s truck and want to talk to him. They think I stole it,” snickered Brian.

I held the cell phone to my chest and turned to Paul. “It’s Brian. The police have pulled him over, and now they want to talk to you.” I extended the phone to him.

“Hello?” Paul said. “Yes, officer, this is Paul Atkinson. Yes, I know Brian. He’s helping me out with some work today.” A pause. “Yes, he has permission to drive my truck. No, I didn’t know that I was wanted for questioning downtown.” Another pause. “You were tailing me? Is that legal?”

I looked at Paul and he was smiling incredulously at me. “You need me to come down to the police station today? Well, I’ll need my truck, so if you could send Brian back my way. Oh yeah, I’ll need to talk to him again. Thank you for your time, officer.” Paul told Brian to come straight back to my condo and then flipped the phone closed.

We were all going to the Police Station with Trevor in tow. Brian would stay at my place to keep an eye on things. The day had been hell. As we headed toward downtown Los Angeles, I was not looking forward to our evening.

Chapter 15

2009-07-25T16:02:00.000-07:00

I drove over Laurel Canyon heading back towards Studio City and Paul’s place. As I crossed over Mulholland Drive, I looked left down the road and down the hillside toward Faraday’s estate. I shuddered involuntarily. That was weird. That was where I had always turned at least once a day for the past year. Would I - could I - ever drive down that road again?

Arriving at Paul’s, I parked behind his truck and walked over to the stucco front porch with its cheery orange door and wrought-iron peep window. I tapped on the front door and waited for him. Minutes went by and I tapped again. Standing on my tiptoes, I finally took a look through the little window in the door. No movement. I tried the latch. It gave way easily, and I crept inside and silently closed the door. Still no Paul. I tiptoed into the living room. Paul was in his leather chair with his feet up, snoring like a puppy. I knelt down beside him and pinched his nose closed with my fingers. He snorted and then swatted my hand away. Bringing his hand to his eyes, he woke up.

“Lois?” he asked the air above him.

“Yep.”

Paul turned in my direction and finally recognized his situation. Sitting up, he pulled himself up from the chair, pulling me up at the same time. He embraced me and rooted his nose and chin into my shoulder for comfort. I patted him on the back and rubbed his ass.

“It’ll be OK, babe,” I soothed him. “They’ll find out what happened to Faraday.”

Paul pulled back from me and looked me in the eye. “No, we’ll figure out what happened to Faraday,” he stated firmly.

“Really? How are we supposed to do that?” I asked. “What can we do?”

Paul sighed and shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. The police aren’t going to tell us much as long as we’re ‘persons of interest’. I don’t know if we can even get back into the estate. I have no idea where Bruce is and what his status is at the estate now. According to the police, Trevor’s on the run.” He threw up his hands in frustration.

How did he know Trevor’s status? Had the police actually called back? That would explain why he was out of bed. “Did the police call you while I was out?”

“Yeah, ‘clarifying information’ they called it. Detective Patrick told me about Trevor. He said they may not be considering this a suicide anymore.” Paul informed me. “That’s why we have to do something, Lo. “I can’t sit around if someone murdered Kip.”

I paused and wondered how to tell him that I’d already engaged the services of Guy, PI. I bit the bullet. “Would you be interested in the work of a private investigator?”

“Who, Colombo?” joked Paul, in a not funny way. “Is Paul Drake still available? Maybe Perry Mason could be our legal counsel.”

Was he making fun of Perry? I’d have to let that slide ‘til later. “Very not funny. You know, I have a friend. You’ve met him, Guy from the Formosa. Well, he’s a private investigator.”

Paul spun my way, his face full of disbelief. “You mean the geek who is always at the Formosa ogling Harshy like she would even give it a thought? The one who does work for the insurance company?”

Well, that was rude, but given Guy’s similar response not so long ago, apparently typical for men. Yeah, Guy was a bit of nerd, but that was a little uncalled for. I paused and let Paul calm down before I said, carefully, “Yeah, Guy, the one with the crush on Harshy. (As if?) He’s actually a very nice man and very professional. He only does the insurance work because he’s not well established as an independent PI yet and can’t get the big celebrity divorce scandal cases that get all of the publicity.”

Paul snorted, “So where does he fit in, Ms. Lois? Is this his big celebrity case that will shoot him to fame and fortune?”

I didn’t like Paul’s tone, but I continued just to get it all off of my chest. “I asked Guy to look into Faraday’s death. I figured he might have some outside contacts that we didn’t have. Plus he would have easier access to police and insurance information. He’s doing this because I’m his friend. And by helping me out, he’s helping us.”

Paul stared at me before speaking, his eyes crinkled. “Thanks. That was very smart of you. I’m sorry for being an ass.”

He sat down on his leather ottoman and cradled his capless head in his beautiful hands. I loved those hands. They created such beauty out of the rawest of materials. I reached for them and cradled them in my own. I looked at his ring finger and imagined a thick, hammered platinum band on the slender, tanned finger. Good God, what am I thinking? Step off, Pushkin, you’re moving way too fast for yourself.

Paul caught me looking at his hands, “What are you thinking about?”

“Something that would definitely get me in trouble,” I replied with a smirk on my face.

Paul cocked his head and managed a “melting Lois” smile, “Like what?”

“Nothing. Never you mind. We’ll talk about it much later. So, are we cool with Guy checking out the – um - situation?” I asked.

“Yeah, at least it’s something. I don’t like waiting, but what else can we do?”

“I’m sorry babe, but I guess nothing,” I offered.

Paul stood up, grasped my right hand firmly, and led me down the hall to his bedroom. I stood in the doorway to the room and hung back. “Do you really want to do this right now?” I asked. Memories of our perfect weekend were still fresh in my mind.

Paul led me to the bed, “I just need to sleep. And I want you here with me.”

I hugged him. “Sure,” I replied. I pulled back his ivory colored, waffle weave comforter and slid in. Paul slid in right up next to me. I wrapped an arm around his broad chest and rested my head against it. Paul’s arms enveloped me and he kissed my hair. Lifting my chin, he lightly kissed my lips. I kissed him back a little harder and he responded in kind ‘til we are making out like horny teenagers. After a breath of air, Paul lay back and closed his eyes.

“You’re killing me, babe.”

“You invited me here.” I reminded him.

“I need to sleep.” he murmured.

“So sleep, babe.”

With that, we settled into a much-needed late morning nap. Paul occasionally cried out in his sleep and somewhere off in the house the phone rang a couple of times. After a while, I became aware that the sun was shining through the slats of the wood blinds onto my closed eyelids. I opened them, groggy and disoriented. Slowly, I realized that it was mid-afternoon. I looked over at Paul who was still sound asleep. Staring at the ceiling and sun lit window, I willed myself to stay awake. Carefully extracting myself from the bed, I padded out of the bedroom and into the kitchen.

I quietly opened cabinet doors and made myself some Earl Grey tea in a thick coffee mug from The Spot. Wandering around in the quiet of Paul’s little bungalow, I looked at all of his framed pictures, inspected his CD rack, snooped through his mail and rummaged through his magazines. That day’s newspaper was on the sofa. I could work on the daily crossword to distract my cluttered mind. We were in a holding pattern now and could only wait for something to happen.

I rummaged in my purse for a pen (I lived dangerously) and I picked up my cell phone as well. As I sat back on his big, comfy, leather sofa, I checked my cell phone. Three messages. I reviewed the ‘missed calls’. They were all from my house.Quickly dialing the myriad of numbers to retrieve cell phone messages, I got to the first one. It was from Brian.

“Lois, hey, it’s Brian. I wasn’t going to answer your phone, but then I thought about those dudes you told me about and one of them being a fugitive and all or maybe I just thought that, but whatever. Anyway, so I picked up your call and it was him and he said he had to talk to you, that they’ve got it all wrong or whatever. So anyway, I told him you weren’t home, but I’d let you know he called. Then the fucker told me to fuck off. Man, that ain’t right. So there, there’s your message. Thanks for the leftovers. Peace.”

I erased that message and went on to the next message. “Lois, it’s Brian again. Same dude called back, totally fucking hysterical! Call me OK?! I can’t take the bad mojo. Peace.”

I raised my eyebrows at that message, erased it and went on to the last one. “Lois, Lois come on! Pick up your goddamn phone. Ooops! Maybe you’re having sex – sorry. Anyway, that dude, Trevor, is here at your condo, and he’s pacing around the pool like a crazy wack. I can’t take it. Come home! Call me or whatever. Peace.”

I erased that message and called my house. Brian picked it up on the first ring.

“Hello?!”

“Brian, it’s Lois.”

“Hey, you have to get over here now! This guy is driving me fucking bonkers and I would leave and all, but I’m freakin’ that he’ll drown himself in your pool or jump over the side of the building and I know how you hate complicated messes – ‘zero tolerance’ and all.” Brian was being sent over the edge himself. I would never intentionally inflict Trevor on anyone as I had to work with him weekly for the past nine months and knew that horror.

“Thanks for the favor, Brian. You’re a sweetheart,” I replied. “We’ll be over as soon as we can. Keep Trevor there. Let him know we’re on our way. There’s some Valium in my bathroom medicine cabinet.”

“Will do, boss lady. Hurry! He’s making my brain hurt,” pleaded Brian. He may be from Chino, but I didn’t know how much longer he could stand to be around the bitchy, little fag.

I hung up the cell, tossed the crossword to the couch, and walked back to the bedroom. Paul had rolled onto his side and was snoring softly. I knelt down at the side of the bed. “Paul, babe. Paul, wake up. We gotta go now.”

“What?” Paul put his hands to his eyes and then propped himself up on one elbow. Pushing his hair up off his face, he squinted at me. “What’s going on?”

“Trevor is at my place and he’s freaking Brian out,” I explained. “We have to go back to my place now.”

“Shit!” Paul swung his legs out to the side and sat up. “Fuck, yes, come on, let’s go! Little Prick! I want to have some words with him. Um, why the hell is he at your place?”

I pushed him back to reality. “Hey, calm yourself. I don’t know why he’s there. We don’t even know if Trevor had anything to do with this. He’s at my place for some reason, and I would rather pump him for information than use him for boxing practice.”

Paul visibly relaxed and then took my hand. “You’re right. OK. All right. I get it. I’ll behave. How does he know where you live?”

“Thank you. I don’t know how he knows where I live. It’s kinda freakin’ me out.”
I shuddered at the thought of Trevor watching me through my windows or following me around in my neighborhood, spying on my every move, my friends, my dates. Oh, shit. I wonder if he’s known about Paul and me all along? I guess we’d find out soon enough.

“Probably the same way you found out where I lived.” I pointed an accusatory finger at him.

“Ah, yeah, right. Well, let’s go, then,” said Paul, changing the subject.

Chapter 14

2009-07-25T15:14:00.001-07:00

As soon as the lock clicked shut, the phone began to ring. I paused, hesitating to re-open the door. No, I’ll pick up my messages from the office. I turned and walked down the hall to the elevator. The phone died as I pushed the button. Then it began again seconds later. I looked down the hall toward my condo. The elevator arrived and the doors opened. As I stepped inside, the phone was still ringing. The doors closed and the elevator descended to the parking garage.

The past Labor Day weekend had been a fantasy. Paul and I made love bathed in the bright glow of the full moon outside our hotel bedroom window every night. Our shadows on the wall copied our every rythym and stroke. The heaviness of the ochre moon reflected our passion and intimacy. The ebb and flow of the tides echoed our lust and love. No room or surface in our suite was off limits to us. Paul and I ordered room service constantly. We left the room only to run el commando to the ocean to engage ourselves in the warm, salty womb of the sea. As our energy waned, we held each other through much-welcomed naps. Early morning hours was time spent revealing our closest-held secrets. I began to believe that the phenomenon of this second harvest moon was full of kinetic energy. That was the only way I could’ve been the kind of lover I had never been before. Our connection was so beautiful. I knew that I would never forget how Paul looked at me the glow of the moonlight. I would never forget how our bodies felt or what our shadows revealed in its presence.

That day I was feeling pretty sore, the side-effects of what my mother used to warn me about: “honeymoon sex”. She had always made it seem like it was supposed to be a bad thing. Why, at my age, did I still hold on to what my mother had told me from my youth? My mother would never know the good of anything that was pleasurable. I started to sing ‘There’s a Hole in My Bucket’ to get my mother’s words out of my head. (Works every time; I am not making this up.)
Entering the main lobby of the Wiltern, I waved to Joe at the desk, retrieved my mail and picked up a business journal. Thumbing through the latter, looking for possible leads, I waited for the elevator to return to the lobby. When I got off on my floor, I could hear phones ringing. No, not phones, one phone. As I neared my office, I realized that it was my phone. I dropped my mail and bag to the floor. Hurriedly, I turned the key in the lock, pushed the door open, and lunged for the phone on the desk. It had rung its last ring.

“Hello?!” I answered, out of breath. Then I cleared my throat and continued,
“ ‘Pushkin Atelier’.” I really needed an assistant.

“Lois, is that you?” came Paul’s voice, tight and hushed. He sounded like he was under a duvet. Maybe I had drained him to the point where he had become incapacitated and couldn’t leave his bed. I’d have to check on him later to make sure he could still walk.

Relaxing, I went around my desk and flopped into my chair, “Oh, it’s you. I have been plagued with ringing phones all morning. What’s up?”

“Lois, are you sitting down?” Paul asked.

I sat up straighter in my chair, pulling my body towards the desk. “Yes.”

What was this all about? Did he have a big announcement to make? Surely he wouldn’t do it over the phone.

“Lois, Kip was found dead this morning in his bathroom,” Paul revealed quietly. “The police think it was a suicide.”

I stood up quickly, sending my chair slamming into the wall and yelled into the phone, “What? What the hell! Faraday is dead?” I started pacing the length of the phone cord, back and forth across my office. A brain cramp surged over me. I suddenly felt faint. I steadied myself against the desk as gas began filling my intestines. Fight or flight. I used to feel this way every time my mom would call me. It was never a good thing.

“Faraday wouldn’t kill himself, Paul.” I calmly and firmly stated this as a fact.

“Yeah, I know. I think that too, Lo. I think he was murdered,” he added after a weighted pause.

“Where are you now?” I hoped he wasn’t at the estate. Had he found the body? I had to get to him first before anyone started questioning him. He shouldn’t be harassed so soon.

“I’m at home. I hadn’t even left for work yet when I got the call,” said Paul.

“Who called you?” I asked, picking my bags up and slinging them over my shoulder. I shoved the mail inside my office and under my desk with my feet. My mail addiction had instantly gone into recovery.

“Bruce,” he replied.

“I’m coming right over. Don’t go anywhere and don’t answer the phone,” I said and hung up. I stood at my desk, arms crossed over my chest and stared out the window. Faraday was dead, really dead. Dead as a doornail. Gone. Poof! What day was today? Tuesday? What did it mean to die at the beginning of the week, or for that matter, what did it say about someone’s death? Were suicides weekday events and homicides for the weekends and holidays? Had Faraday died during the day or night? Oh, had he died last night? I had forgotten to ask Paul. Maybe he had died over the weekend while we were out of town? That suddenly put a wet blanket on our glorious weekend.

Shit, had Faraday been on the toilet? Oooh, like Elvis. Then it hit me. Oh, oh, oh, my bathroom, my lovely bathroom. I imagined all of the fixtures covered in blood. Or worse, smashed and destroyed. Paul hadn’t mentioned how Faraday had died. Damn it, Lois, forget your bathroom – a man is dead! Does that mean my privacy contract with him is void? Oh, shut the fuck up, Pushkin.

I mechanically locked up my office, my thoughts going all over the place and a mile a minute. I exited the building, habit guiding me, and drove over Laurel Canyon to Paul's bungalow. I was still in shock over the news, slowly absorbing it into my brain as I drove as fast as I could. I had to call Harshy.

“This is J’Neene,” she answered.

“Hey, Harsh, it’s Lois.” I spoke quietly into the phone.

“Who?”

“Lois, Harshy, Lois,” I said louder as I rolled up my window to block out the traffic noise in the canyon.

“Oh, hey, what’s up?” Harshy asked.

“Harshy, are you sitting down?”

“What the hell?”

“Girl, Faraday is dead,” I told her, flat out. I was running out of time as I was nearing Studio City.

“No fucking way!’ she yelled into the phone. I knew that she was standing at that point, Janet Jackson head piece in her ear.

“It’s true. He was found in my bathroom. My newly finished, designer bathroom. We think it was murder,” I explained. “The police are putting it up as a suicide.”

“What do you mean ‘your’ bathroom? Was Faraday at your condo?” asked Harshy. “Did Brian kill him? I always thought that kid was wack.”

“No, no,” I backtracked, “Faraday was killed at his estate in the new bathroom that I designed for him.”

“Oh, well, that makes more sense then.”

Rocket science. “I’m on my way over to Paul’s and he’s a wreck. I want to be there with him when the police talk to him.” I told her.

“Who do you think did it?” Harshy asked.

“I don’t know. I don’t know anything at this point. Paul is freaking and I really have to be with him right now,” I explained. “I just wanted to call you before you found out from anyone else.”

“Cool beans, lady,” said Harshy. “I’m here for you, so call if you need anything. This place can suffer without me.”

Cool beans? Who says cool beans? I know I know someone who says that, but their face is just on the cusp of my brain. “Thanks, lady. I’ll talk to you later, ‘kay?”

“Sure. Call me the minute you know anything more,” and Harshy said and hung up.

I made it to Paul’s seconds later, parked behind his truck, and ran to his front door. I rang the door bell like it was a Vegas slot machine. Slowly, Paul opened the door. His eyes were rimmed red, his hair was a mess (and with no baseball cap on), and his face was ashen. I took him into my arms. He rooted his face into my shoulder and held me tightly. Gradually, I pulled away and led us over to his couch.

“So, tell me what you know,” I asked him, searching his eyes, stroking his face. His stubble was fierce.

Paul ran his hand through his hair, rubbed his eyes and composed himself as best he could. “It was Bruce. Bruce called me. He was hysterical! I think I spent ten minutes trying to calm him down and decipher what he was telling me,” Paul told me. “When he thought I understood, he hung up. Then I called you.”

“Go on,” I encouraged him, holding his hands and stroking his fingers.

“That’s all I know. Apparently the police were at the estate investigating the scene, taking notes, taking photographs, getting everyone’s names and promising to call them for interviews. According to Bruce, they didn’t seem to care too much about Faraday himself. Bruce believed the police thought that it was another “celebrity” suicide.”

Paul hung his head and shook it back and forth in disbelief, studying my hands. There had been a rash of suicides and overdoses in the city lately. Mostly drug overdosed, B-List actors and actresses. Fodder for Fox News.

“Why do you think its murder, Paul?” I asked, stroking his jaw so that he lifted his head.

“Faraday wouldn’t kill himself. You said so yourself. Besides, he had enemies. All powerful people do,” explained Paul.

“Business enemies?” I asked.

“Any type. Business, personal, lovers, whoever, whatever. Faraday lived all aspects of life and affected and influenced a lot of people everyday. Anybody could’ve killed him!” Paul exploded.
“Even you, Lois.”

I pulled back, eyeballing Paul for sincerity. He held my hands firmly, weighing the seconds and measuring this new idea, wanting to truly know if I was capable of killing Faraday. I believed that he really only wanted to know if he could trust me completely with everything that was him at this precise moment in his life. He knew that I trusted him completely as I had worked through the idea that, yes, he could actually love me for who I was. Now it was his turn to trust me with his soul.

“I did not kill Faraday, Paul,” I assured him. “It is against my company policy to knock off my best-paying clients.”

“Bad joke, babe.” Paul looked away and then looked back at me. “This isn’t funny, Lois. A man was murdered.”

I pulled my hands out of his grip and laid back into the couch. This was going to be a
long day and after an already exhausting weekend. “Then don’t accuse me of killing him. Why do you care so much, Paul? Yes, your best, long-time, wealthy client is dead, and that’s a shame for you and your business, and yes, you suspect murder, but why care so much beyond that and basic human empathy? Let the police investigate and do their job.”

Paul was quiet for a long time. He looked into the fireplace, looking far away. I got up. He grabbed my hand. “I’m just going to make us some drinks,” I assured him. I came back with some gin and tonics and slid close to Paul, offering him a glass.

After taking a sip and letting the cool briskness calm him, he began to talk, quietly, “I worked for Faraday for many, many years. I started working for him as part of a construction crew in high school. When I started at UCLA, I left the crew, but Faraday still called me to do small jobs for him at his various estates. I don’t know why he remembered me out of the whole crew, but he apparently liked me and the money helped with tuition.” Paul paused, remembering. “When I graduated, Faraday asked me to work for him full time. I had said no. I had some ideas I wanted to follow career wise. He asked me if I would still do handyman jobs for him and I agreed. Long story short, construction became my full-time career and Faraday my best and most loyal client. I don’t owe the man anything, but for all of his faults and plethora of screwed-up relationships, he was a good man at heart and a true friend to me, always. I feel obligated to take an interest in his death as his friend. I owe him that.”

I sat, stunned. Revelation bloomed slowly over my brain. This was like Paul losing a brother or even a father. With this history, no wonder he had had a direct connection to Faraday over Bruce and Trevor. This explained his free run of the estate and autonomy for all projects. This train of thought quickly jumped me to my next thought.

I blurted out, “Did you kill Faraday, Paul?”

Shocked, Paul looked me in the eyes for sincerity. “No,” he finally said, quietly. “No, no, no, of course not, no.”

His eyes drifted to the void in the fireplace again. I grasped his thigh and put my arm around his shoulders. Sighing, he turned back around and slumped against me, chin on the back of the sofa, staring into the morning sky. I stroked his hair and tugged at his ears. After a while, Paul told me that the police had called when I was on my way over. Damn! He had given the police my name because I had worked at the estate and let me know that they’d be calling. Paul hadn’t mentioned our relationship to them, figuring that would come out later, as need be. I told him not to worry about me and that he should probably go upstairs to sleep. I would join him later after I made some phone calls and cleared my appointments for the next few days. I wanted to stay with him during that time and help him through these next difficult days.

When I heard his bedroom door close, I sat on the couch, phone in hand, staring at the same fireplace void and wondered what the hell was going on. How could I handle this? My first great, well-paying client turns up dead. Bad kharma? Perhaps the kinetic energy of the harvest moon was both good and evil. Yin and yang. As my rubber band was expanding, had Faraday’s snapped? What had he done that would make someone feel so passionately as to want to kill him? Or was it really the passion of suicide, as the police suspected? Was there passion with the desire to kill one’s self or was it a lack of passion? I would never suspect Faraday to be without passion. I was beginning to feel more comfortable with my belief that Faraday had indeed been murdered.

I also believed in Paul. I could believe Faraday was murdered, but by whom? And why? Why? By a guy? Guy! I could call Guy. Should I? I thought about this for a long time before I
finally dialed his number. The phone rang a good while, and I was about to hang up when a breathless voice answered.

“Hello?”

“Guy?”

A throat cleared and then there was a pause. “Yes, this is Guy Arbuckle, Private Investigator. How may I help you?”

“Guy, it’s me, Lois Pushkin.”

“Lois! How’s it going? Long time, no hear. Miss ya at the Formosa. See Harshy a bit, we talk some. Well, I talk more than her really. Anyway, what’s up?” asked Guy.

“Guy, I’m calling about something serious.” I paused, rethinking my decision to retain him.

“Guy, I don’t know how much information is already out, but I must have your word for discretion now.”

“Sure, of course. Are we entering a PI-client relationship over the phone now?”
“Why?”

“I need to know if I’m doing you a favor as a friend or if you are a paying client. Defines my scope of work,” explained Guy.

“Yes, then we are entering a client/PI relationship as of now. I need your professional service,” I said, “as a friend.”

“Way to complicate it,” replied Guy. “So, Friend, what can I do you for? Someone stalking you?”

“No, nothing like that. This is bigger than me. Guy, do you remember my client, Kip Faraday?” I asked.

“Yeah, the wack job on Mulholland Drive. The one with the goofy contractor you had to work with,” he confirmed. “Harshy told me that job was finally over. Bet you’re glad you don’t have to deal with that bozo anymore.”

Well, this was news. Goofy? Bozo? Who the hell did he think he was? George Clooney? Who was he calling a bozo – Faraday or Paul?

“Yes, well, anyway, we found out this morning that he’s dead. We think it was murder,” I revealed.

“Oh shit!” yelled Guy. “Freaky Faraday is dead, murdered? Holy crap!”

“He’s dead, Guy,” I affirmed, “but we’re the ones speculating that it’s murder. The police are calling it a suicide right now.”

Guy was suddenly quiet. “Who is ‘we’? Is Harshy with you? The two of you aren’t sticking your noses in this, are you?”

Oh shit, I thought. So much has happened and so much time has gone by that Guy doesn’t really know about Paul and me. He would naturally assume it was Harshy and Me.

“No, no, ‘we’ is Paul, and me. Paul is – was- Faraday’s ‘goofy’ contractor. We’re, um, actually dating now.”

“Oh, ho! So he got his apartment re-designed, did he? He could afford your rates?” sneered Guy.

I was quietly debating whether to hang up. The line was dead silent for a time.

“I’m sorry, Lois. That was low and uncalled for. I’m sorry.”

“And none of your business,” I added stonily.

“Touché. I am sorry.”

"Apology accepted. I’m sorry you had to find out this way,” I said. “I didn’t know you felt that way.”

“Ah, you weren’t my type anyway. So okay, I’m serious now. Let’s let bygones be bygones. You called me. How can I help you?” asked Guy, trying to redeem himself and stifle his bruised and embarrassed ego.

“Could you do some research for me on Faraday? Find out who could’ve wanted to kill him?” I asked. “I haven’t told Paul that I’m asking you to look into this. I don’t even know if I can afford your rates. Especially when I don’t know the status of my career if I become a person of interest to the police. But I knew this would pique your interest. Maybe if you’re successful this would give you some publicity to start your own firm. I know you have that goal.”

I was desperate to find any hook to get him to take on the job. I needed to know and keep track of what happened in the bathroom, how the murder took place, and what direction the police investigation was going.

“Yeah, that sounds doable. Hadn’t thought of the marketing angle,” replied Guy. ”If I needed it, do you think you could introduce me to people from the estate I think could provide me with information? I would also need my expenses paid as they’re incurred at the least.”

“No problem on the expenses. As far as introductions go, I’ll try. But I’m still a newbie in this billionaire circle, so I don’t know how many useful people I would know. I think you’ll have to be resourceful and creative. Plus, we’ll have to watch each others backs. Everything involving that estate is part of an inane three-ring circus.”

Guy laughed. “Yeah, I know how you are. I’ll be watching my own back.”

“Very funny. So you’ll help?” For my peace of mind, I needed to know right then. I didn’t know what else at that point. I wanted to show Paul that I took his concerns seriously and that I was with him in this all the way.

“Of course. Let me snoop around and I’ll call you if I find out anything,” agreed Guy.

“Thanks, man. This really means a lot to me.”

“No problem. Talk to you soon.”

I hung up the phone and stared at it, trying to remember my office number. My day was mentally shot. As I started to dial, Paul’s cell phone rang. More ringing phones. I almost dropped it to the floor as I answered it.

“Hello?” I said, fumbling to get it set to my ear.

“Mr. Atkinson, please,” a man’s voice inquired.

“He’s not available right now. Who’s calling please?” I answered in my receptionist voice.

“This is Dectective Patrick from the Los Angeles Police Department, Downtown Division. Who is this?” the voice came back.

“This is Lois Pushkin. What can I do for you, officer?”

“Oh, OK. Well, I actually need to talk with you as well. I’m calling regarding the Faraday suicide,” explained Detective Patrick.

“Suicide? Was it really suicide?” I was completely taken aback by his matter-of-fact statement. Had the case been closed already? That was quick for the LAPD.

Detective Patrick cleared his throat and adjusted his receiver on his phone. I could hear muffling and then he was back on. “Well, no ma’am. It hasn’t been officially declared a suicide. I apologize for that. It is officially still an open case, but we’re pretty convinced that that was the situation.”

I propped myself up on the couch with pillows for what I could tell would be another trying phone call for me today. “Okay, so why do you want to talk to me? What could I possibly tell you that’s any different from what you already know?”

“Just procedure, ma’am. I’ll just need to ask you some general questions. Are you ready?”

“Yes, go ahead.”

“How long did you know Kip Faraday?”

“Almost a year,” I answered.

“What was your relationship?” asked Detective Patrick.

“I am, I mean, I was his interior designer. I designed the remodel of his executive bathroom…”

He briskly interrupted, “Could you please repeat that?”

“I’m an interior designer…”

“No, the part about the bathroom. You were closely involved with the bathroom remodel construction?” inquired Detective Patrick more aggressively.

“Yes, I was. I worked with Mr. Faraday’s general contractor, Mr. Atkinson,” I offered.

“Interesting,” he murmured and I could hear the clicking of his keyboard over the phone.

“Detective, I know Faraday was found dead in the bathroom and…”

He cut me off again. “Where were you Monday night, Ms. Pushkin?”

I relayed my whereabouts and he noted my alibi. I was back in my condo by Monday
night. “Do you know where Mr. Atkinson was?”

“Monday? No.” I lied.

The detective suddenly changed his line of questioning. “Do you know Trevor Gerard?”

“Trevor? Yes, I know Trevor. He was one of Mr. Faraday’s assistants,” I acknowledged.

“Have you had any contact with this man or do you know of his whereabouts since Monday night?” Detective Patrick inquired further.

“Trevor? No, I’m not his mother.” I wanted in no way to have any association with Trevor.

“And what was your relationship with Bruce Hansen?” he asked, going down another road.

“We had no relationship other than a working one. He was Mr. Faraday’s first-tier assistant and I typically communicated with Mr. Faraday through him,” I explained.

“Have you had any contact with this man or do you know of his whereabouts since Monday night?” Detective Patrick asked about the time again.

“No, neither.”

“Thank you for your time, Ms. Pushkin. Please remain available to us should we need to contact you for further questioning,” concluded Detective Patrick. “Is this a number we can reach you at?”

“No. You can reach me at my office.” I gave him that number.

“Ms. Pushkin, I appreciate your cooperation with our investigation. One more thing if you don’t mind. Why are you answering Mr. Atkinson’s phone?”

As I had been talking to him, I was hoping that he’d forget that he had called me at Paul’s. “Mr. Atkinson was using the facilities and couldn’t come to the phone.”

“That doesn’t explain why you’re at his house.”

Good point. I bullshited my response as any inkling of Paul and I’s relationship would surely spark further interest in our relationship with Mr. Faraday. “Mr Atkinson and I were going through project files to close out Mr. Faraday’s project. Tuesdays were our standing project meeting days.”

“I see. All right. Is Mr. Atkinson available now?” he asked.

“No, Paul’s still in the bathroom.”

“I see. All right. Please have Mr. Atkinson call me as soon as he is available. I have follow-up questions from my interview with him this morning.” Detective Patrick left me his direct number and told me he would be calling back if he hadn’t heard from Paul in the next hour.

I hung up the phone for the third time this morning. Standing up, I stretched my fingers as high as they could go and stood on my tippy toes. The police can just leave messages. Paul and I don’t need to be bothered right now. Not that the police are that adept anyway. I doubted Detective Patrick would call back. He didn’t even verify if it was actually me on the phone. I could’ve been the murderer. Could a woman have killed Faraday? How was he killed anyway?

I tiptoed down the hall and went into Paul’s bedroom. I whispered in his ear that I was going over to my place to get some clothes and overnight things. I definitely didn’t want him to be alone for the next few days. He murmured something in recognition. Gathering my bags, I left.

All the way home, I blasted Sleater-Kinney trying to drown out the hamster wheel of speculation in my mind. The up and down cadence of Laurel Canyon road relaxed my body like a lullaby relaxed a baby. At home, it was quiet in the parking garage and my ears rang from the music. I slumped out of the elevator at the top floor, trudged down the hall, and melted at my front door. Kashmew wasn’t waiting for me when I opened the door, but came racing out from my bedroom, startled by my untimely return. I petted him, laid my stuff on the counter, and went straight to my bedroom.

I changed into my Donna Karan sweats and a Gap tank. Then I returned to the kitchen for a light snack of apples, cheese, and chocolates to stabilize my blood sugar and calm my brain. Setting the plate on the island, I reached for the phone. I’d forgotten to check my messages and clear my calendar. God, I needed an assistant right then. I also needed to call Harshy.

With the line ringing, I heard a tap on my slider. I looked over, phone in the crook of my neck, and saw Brian. He waved. I waved back and then pointed to the phone. He motioned to the TV. I flashed the OK sign. No new messages. I called my appointments and postponed them all until the following week. It was really no biggy. Fall was my slowest time of year, and people were so busy with the pending holidays that many were glad to have the reprieve. I usually used the down time to entertain clients, do my marketing, and clean and organize my office. My stomach growled menacingly. I obeyed and inhaled my snack followed by a cold, Starbuck’s bottled coffee chaser.

Stomach and brain sated, I walked across the living room to the slider. Kashmew caught up with me and hopped out onto the warm patio as I slid the door open. Brian popped his messy blonde head up from the couch. Had he gotten highlights? Lois, get real.

“Is something wrong? Why are you home now? Are you sick? I don’t want to catch nothing, no offense,” he said.

“Hello to you, too.” I flopped down onto the couch next to his stretched-out body. I looked at him a while before I spoke again. “Faraday was found dead in his bathroom Tuesday morning.”

Brian stared at me. “What?! The bathroom you just finished? Did he off himself on the john?”

Such tact. “That’s nice, Brian. Actually, no one really knows, but Paul and I think he was murdered.”

“That’s heavy,” opined Brian. “Are you OK?” He straightened up and turned toward me.

“Yeah, I’m dealing. Sort of. I’m really just shocked and overwhelmed. Plus, my curiosity to know what really happened is driving me nuts. I can’t sit still. I feel like I’m vibrating all over inside, like a meth head.” I leaned my head back into the couch cushions.

“So what are you going to do?”

“Nothing. Right now, I’m going back over to Paul’s. Don’t expect me home tonight or for the next few nights. If it gets cold, you can sleep in the guest room. I’ll leave the slider unlocked. I need you to feed Kashmew, ‘kay?” I said.

“Cool.” grinned Brian in spite of himself. “Yeah, sure, no problem.”

“If anyone calls here looking for me, tell them I’m unavailable ‘til tomorrow.” I was thinking about Detective Patrick and his innuendos.

“I am not answering your phone,” countered Brian.

“Cool. Whatever.” I got up and walked back inside to get my things for Paul’s place. I suddenly had a thought that perhaps it would be prudent to contact a lawyer. But why, Lois, if the police think it’s suicide? Because you know it’s murder. And the police will find out it’s murder and they’ll want to question you. Better to have a plan before it gets to that point.

The only lawyer I’d ever known was an old boyfriend of my mother’s in Portland, Oregon. I looked him up on the Internet and dialed the number, leaning over my kitchen island picking chocolate-covered pistachios out of my aunt’s 1920’s silver candy dish. After a grilling by his personal secretary, the old lawyer came on the line. I explained who I was and he remembered me. Course, what he remembered most was the pink Mohawk and the safety pin through my ear. I told him where I was living and what I was doing for work before I told him about Faraday’s death. After I explained to him my relationship to the situation, he advised me to contact colleagues of his in Los Angeles, The law offices were in Westwood. That gave me confidence. He told me to call his colleagues if the police came to question me in person or hauled me down to the district precinct. He advised me to also give them my new lawyer’s card at the onset of any interviews.

I thanked him for his advice and hoped he wouldn’t be sending me a bill. My mother dumped the man because he was a miser. Always made her go dutch with him. You can bet I was writing this off as a business expense if I did get invoiced. Someone died in one of my design projects – I’d call that business related. Especially if my business was now going to be compromised because of it and police-related activity.

My thoughts drifted to Detective Patrick and to what he had said to me. I returned to the patio and got Brian’s attention.

“If, for some bizarre one-in-a-million chance a guy named Trevor or Bruce calls here or comes by, call me on my cell immediately. The number’s posted on the bulletin board next to the fridge. Check the caller ID at least if you’re not going to answer the phone. It could be me as well.”

“Will do, boss lady.” Brian saluted me stiffly. I frowned, he smirked, and I left.

Chapter 13

2009-05-11T14:17:00.000-07:00

It seemed as though an hour had passed since it had all begun. She was sure that it was probably only minutes. Five minutes? That would be typical with this sort of incident. Twenty minutes? Everything was moving so slowly. Opening her eyes, she focused on her hands, splayed out in front of her. Was that blood? Glints blinked back at her. Glass shards. Some were darker than others. Mirror shards? Both? She noticed there was dirt under her right index fingernail. She blinked and refocused on the nail. Yeah, dirt. How had she not noticed that before? And after such a recent manicure appointment.

Brushing her hair back from her face and holding it there with the same tainted finger, she raised her head and turned slowly back and forth to look around. The lights were still on, bright to her eyes. She brought her hand forward to shield her vision from the distracting dancing dots in front of her. There were more glass and mirror shards everywhere around her. What the hell? Scanning the room, her eyes darted around, stopping at a blackish lump on the floor. Her eyes settled on a figure - on him?

He was still there in the room. He was lying on the floor near the shower. She squinted at him. Was he OK? Had he gotten knocked out from the shaking? Was the earthquake an omen? Should she have quit while she was ahead?She started to crawl over to him. Immediately, she felt warm air coming down from above. She looked up. The air blew her hair around in a matted, damp swirl. Hesitating only briefly to control her fly-away strands, she continued forward. She kept thinking about a couple panes of the domed skylight being shattered. Was that the glass on the floor? She looked back behind her and saw that the vanity mirror had been shattered as well. She shuddered as the air goose-bumped her skin and she kept crawling towards him.

When she had almost reached his side, she stopped. He was awfully still. She placed her ear to the floor and, from that angle, watched his chest for breathing. Tentatively, she reached out, grabbed his shoe, and shook it. Nothing. She shook it harder. Still nothing. He must’ve really knocked himself out. She watched his chest again. Nothing that she could see. As she pulled herself up next to him, pain seared through her ankle. She gasped and grabbed her leg, pulling it close to her body. Her ankle was tinged with purple and blue and already swollen. She had to have twisted it when she fell. How had she fallen? Gingerly holding her foot, she shimmied her way up to his head and shook his shoulders. Still no response. She laid her head on his chest. No heartbeat that she could hear.

As she lay there on him, she smelled something burning. What could that be? She looked around the bathroom with her eyes focused, the dancing spots faded by this time. Nothing. Was the estate on fire? She turned her head sharply towards the door. Where could it be? Would she be able to escape? She wouldn’t want those Brats to find her there. She listened again. Strangely, there were no alarm devices going off and he had a ton of them for every conceivable situation be it a simple burglary to World War III. Malfunction? Not likely in this house. Would it have gone off for a quake? Yes, he would have thought of everything, she was sure. So, then why did it smell like burnt hair?

She ran her hands through her own tresses, searching for embers or crispiness. She pulled the longer lengths in front of her face for inspection. Nothing. She turned her attention back to him, tying her hair up in a knot to keep it out of her eyes. She put her head to his chest again. Still nothing. Always nothing with him! Did she know CPR? She pulled herself up slowly, very aware
of her ankle, and positioned herself, as she had seen on ER, to attempt to do CPR. At this new angle, she looked at his face assessing whether or not she wanted to put her lips to his. Could she shake her hygiene issues in an emergency? As she moved in for the first trial breath, the stench of burnt hair became stronger. A mark caught her eye at the left of his temple, above his ear. She turned his head and shrieked, putting her hands straight to her mouth at that instant. The high pitched sound reverberated on all of the hard surfaced walls, escaping only through the shattered, custom-made glass panes of the dome in the ceiling. Smoke wafted from a perfectly round, scorched hole in the side of his head off-gassing the stench of hair and skin.

She kept her mouth covered and peered closer, curiosity overcoming shock. The sharp smell of cauterized flesh caused her to gag and she fell back onto the floor, willing herself not to retch. Once more, searing pain from her twisted ankle shot up her body and made her heart beat faster as adrenaline rushed down to the injury. She willed herself to breathe and calm down.
He wasn’t knocked out, he was dead! She looked around the room for a weapon. Surely, this was a gunshot wound. Who would shoot at him? Well, anyone and everyone. They were lined up behind her and she was in line behind many others for sure. How had anyone done this?

She looked up at the skylight and instantly freaked. Had someone shot him through the skylight? Were they still there? Could they still see her? Were they watching her right now? Had an earthquake really happened? Holding her ankle, she dragged herself as quickly as she could into the open plan shower stall. Fuck, the tile was cold! She waited. For what? An attempt on her life because she had been a witness to his murder? Where was her cell phone? Her bum had gotten cooler. The cold had also made her ankle feel better as well. She slowly crept out again on all fours, looking this way and that, and moved towards The Body. Whoever was around surely had to be gone by now. When she had reached his side again, she opened his jacket and felt him up for a gun, a wire, even a camera. He wouldn’t have agreed to this meeting with nothing up his sleeve, literally. Roughly, she frisked him all over and then riffled through his pockets. He was already stiff. Even more so than when he had been alive, if that was possible. She pulled out some cufflinks and an old business card, which she recognized immediately. Finding nothing more, she straightened him up as best she could.

She needed to get out of there, now. Gingerly standing up, favoring her injured ankle, she took stock of herself. Hair was fucked up, proof provided in what was left of the shattered mirror. The dress was ruined, but the shoes would do for now. What was missing? Clutch. Fuck! Clutch. She looked around the room for the bag. Spotting it in the tub, she picked it out, shook the glass off, and shoved in her souvenirs. Pausing in the center of the room, she focused on their two highball glasses, still on the vanity, surprisingly still intact. She rinsed them out in the sink, running the water for a good while. The less evidence that she had been there, the better. The Brats would have a field day. Shit, were they there already? Surely they would’ve gotten some silent, secret alarm at their “stations”. Listening intently for footsteps, voices, or phones ringing, she paused, holding the glasses up high. Hearing nothing, she smashed both against the floor, highball glass shattering and mingling with the existing mess. She stopped and listened again. Still hearing nothing, she tiptoed, as best she could with a swollen ankle in high heels out of the room and down the hall to his office.

Opening one of the French doors, she crept inside and closed it quietly behind her. Covering her head with a scarf from her clutch, she limped to the opposite wall, deftly pushing open the concealed panel behind velvet drapery. The night sky was queerly lit. The search lights must have come on, scanning the blackness for unwanted “ghetto birds”. She stepped through and limped down the patio path, daphne bushes perfuming her escape and erasing the stench of burnt hair that lingered in her nose. The coldness from the tiles was wearing off and her ankle began to throb painfully. She reached the corner of the house and stopped to peek into the car turn-around. Her car was still there, alone. She looked this way and that, habitually subconsciously aware of the cameras. She stepped forward and then stopped abruptly, remembering to also check for security and the Brats. Where were they? Not like them to not come running to their master’s call. That was weird, but fortunate for her tonight.
Unlocking her car door manually, she silently slipped into the driver’s seat. Keeping the door open, she put the car into neutral and pushed it towards the front gates with her good foot. Obediently, the gates whooshed open and she coasted out onto Mulholland Drive.

Feeling safe at last, she brought her foot in, shut the door, and started the engine. She checked her breathing, hand to her heart. She looked out the windshield – left, right, forward. She checked her rear view. The gates had closed. Still nothing, no one. She listened for sounds other than her car. A bright light tripped her eye up at the top of her windshield. She craned her neck to see, afraid it was a ghetto bird and she’d been spotted. A bright, full, harvest moon hung in the sky, an illuminating witness to this past hour of her life. That damn dentist office magazine had been right – the second in two years.

Chapter 12

2009-05-11T14:08:00.000-07:00

Since Jasmine’s and my encounter on the daphne path, a few months had gone by and the project was finally drawing to a close. At that point, we were only waiting for the final building inspection sign -off and the cleaning crew. Faraday was very pleased with the final result, almost giddy. How anyone could be so excited about a bathroom, I didn’t know. But, as Faraday first confided to me, it was his source of inspiration, his place for brainstorms, his thinking spot, or should I say, pot. So, I guessed that he was really glad to have it back. I wondered if his work had really suffered at all because of its absence. He had been gone an awful lot during the construction.

All of the finish work had been completed by Paul. All of his subs had been long gone by then and the estate was nearly empty of work crew. Trevor and Bruce had quit circling us like flies on shit and generally left me alone, except to remind me when the project would be done and when I could leave, permanently.

Back at my office, I was cleaning up and organizing my paperwork for Faraday’s project into bins for reference. Unfortunately, this project wouldn’t be making it into any design magazines or trade papers. I had signed the confidentiality agreement with Faraday that I would never publish my pictures or plans. At our last meeting, I felt like he was already ordering my cement shoes at the last meeting. Just business, he assured me, but the hairs standing up on my neck and spine didn’t hear it that way. I guessed that he had just wanted to press the issue and make sure his words and our agreement had made a permanent indentation in my brain.

This was supposed to have been a project that would make my name in the design community and get me some real “money” clients. Especially after the circus folk I had endured through it all. Jasmine had said that it would be good for me and my business, and I believed her. Through the leaks, I had received a few more clients to help fill the expense coffers. But once this project was over and, unless all of Faraday’s friends and associates used his crapper, how would anyone see the fantastic bathroom design and want to hire me? I could only hope now that Faraday would refer me to his friends and that Jasmine would continue to follow suit more publicly. To give both of them props, Faraday always paid and he never questioned my fees or expenses. Jasmine was always a good referral and really hadn’t let me down (if she indeed was the leak). I myself had put up the high hopes for the exposure. Four steps forward, one and a half back.

I was telling Paul all this after a final meeting with Faraday before he went off to Asia for the millionth time. We were driving up Highway One towards Malibu on a beautiful, sunny Saturday headed for Paradise Cove to spend the day at the beach.

“The jobs will come. Don’t worry.” Paul reassured me. “This whole year has been a good experience for you. When I started doing work for Faraday, the jobs trickled in at first, but
then they gushed in and I had to turn a lot away before I hired a crew.”

“Well I hope you’re right. I love having my own design firm, but for the rough, penniless slogging, misery does love company. The design work is trickling in. If it gets to be much more, I’m going to have to hire an assistant. Until then, I can’t afford to have anyone share the trenches with me. It does get overwhelming,” I said.

“You have me.”

“I know and I love you, but you’re not in the office everyday with me and my other projects,” I said. ”Just having someone to chat with would be great and it would boost my moral to see another face in my office when I come through the front door. Especially one that would do my bidding.”

“I thought that was my job already,” Paul teased me. Then, seriously, he said, “What’s really wrong, babe? Are you unhappy with how things turned out?”

“No, no, I’m not unhappy. I think I’m just exhausted and talking out of my ass. My own way of relaxing. What I really need is this vacation weekend we’re taking and some stiff drinks.”

“And a lot of lovin’, I hope?” added Paul, placing his hand on my thigh and giving it a warm squeeze.

“Oh, yes, I need lots of that!” I laughed, releasing some nervous tension. I snuggled down into the bucket seat and lit a cigarette.

“Oh, God, smoking! And in the car,” Paul said, exasperated. He was really trying to get me to quit. Although I had once gotten him to confess that he secretly did love the smell of whiskey, cigarettes and my perfume all over his shirts. Hee, hee. He’s just looking out for my longevity

“Hey! It’s a convertible and a rental,” I defensively and took a long drag.

We arrived at Paradise Cove, paid our twenty bucks to rent butt space on the beach and spent the rest of the day alternately lounging, drinking, laughing, and napping. At one low population point, we snuck around the outcropping and indulged ourselves in some vertical mambo action. That was exhilarating! Secretly, I wished someone was watching us. I was such a horn dog with that thought. Paul thought he’d really found my ‘On’ button. He came twice with me. God, I loved that man.

Around dusk, after a relaxing soak in the warm ocean, we made our way into the restaurant and ate a leisurely dinner, discussing future career plans and even a bit about our own future together. That was tenuous, but not as uncomfortable as I thought it would be. He started it so I guess I was off the stereotypical hook. After dinner, we went out onto the beach deck with our drinks and settled into the deck chairs with complimentary blankets.

“God, I would love to live here,” I sighed.

“Yeah, it would be the greatest. A real bum’s life that I could get used to,” replied Paul. “You know Faraday has a beach house here, just down the road actually.”

“Really? Would he ever let us stay there?” I asked, visions of sun-drenched mornings and celebrity-studded beaches.

“I don’t know. I never had any reason to ask him before,” said Paul. Never had a reason before, huh? This guy is nuts to still dig me so much. I'll have to remember to get his head examined.

“You know we’ll have to tell him about us soon,” He added. I hadn’t thought about that and had forgotten that Paul and I were still keeping our relationship mum. It had become so routine, every little cover up, every white lie. It would feel weird to finally reveal it to the world. Would that be the jinx?

“Well, now that we aren’t working together anymore, what does it matter?” I asked. “Faraday can’t make me sign a contract to stay away from you.”

“I know. It doesn’t. I just thought of that important detail. You know, that he still doesn’t know,” said Paul.

“You make it sound like Faraday’s your dad.” I laughed. “And we’re not supposed to be together because I’m not worthy.”

“Well…” Paul chuckled. “I’ll ask him about staying at the house when he gets back from his trip.” He leaned over and kissed me under the jaw while cupping my bikinied breast with his warm hand. Electricity surged from my tail bone to my molars.

“Cool,” I said. I wrapped the deck blanket around me and sipped my hot toddy to quench the flame rising from below. I would need some rest for the highly anticipated morning sex of our vacation, my favorite.

The air was getting crisp as summer was again ratcheting down to fall. The moon hung close to the ocean, the waves below like the fox jumping for the grapes. I hoped our view from the bed and breakfast was as good as this was from the bar deck. The moon looked like it was ready to give birth and a thousand spiders would spill from its womb.

Chapter 11

2009-05-11T13:53:00.000-07:00

When Paul left me the Sunday evening of our first weekend together, it was only after we had lain in bed figuring out how to proceed with our professional lives together. Or separate? After the weekend, we totally knew how we wanted to spend our personal lives. Together. We agreed that, for right now, we would act as if nothing were going on between us other than professional courtesy. Paul understood how important the Faraday job was for me and I knew that he wanted to keep his working relationship with Faraday tight and uncomplicated. Me – complicated? Ha, ha! I had always suspected I was complicated. I guess now I had the proof. Paul felt that Faraday would be uncomfortable around us if he knew we were in a relationship. Didn’t fit with his rigid estate protocol for the hired “help”. So demeaning and just as pathetic for this day and age. As far as I knew, Faraday was in no relationship except for booty calls
with Jasmine, but even that information was speculative. I certainly wasn’t going to call her to confirm.

The two people we worried about the most were the assistants, Bruce and Trevor. We also had to be careful around the rest of the estate staff because any gossip would surely rocket its way to the assistants’ office; brownie points in the micro-class fiefdom. I also couldn’t tell Jasmine any of this nor anyone affiliated with her. Boy, was this going to be tricky. I’d have to watch everything I said to everyone. Well, not everyone. I had Harshy as my confidante and, now, I also had Brian who had caught us in the “act”. Sort of.

Stiff and fatigued, I managed to make my way into the office the next day. I was a wee bit late for my usual standards and didn’t make it in til almost eleven. I missed Paul’s presence the second I sat in the seat of my car. Phantom limb syndrome. Yeah, I missed that limb. I could still smell him in my clothes so I comforted myself with that and with the thought that I would see him again that night. Paul had invited me to dinner at his house in Studio City. I hoped it wasn’t some skanky bachelor pad with the requisite black leather couch and chrome-and-glass tables. Resist the urge to snoop, Pushkin.

Settling into my desk chair, I figured I’d get all of the “I told you so’s” out of her system, so I called Harshy.

“GGMC,” answered the receptionist.

“J’Neene Harshbartle, please,” I said.

“Oh hey, Lois, its Bernadette,” Bernadette was one of Harshy’s A&R people. “I’m filling in for Marsha ‘cause she’s in the bathroom with girl problems. (Like I needed to know that.) She’s in. I’ll transfer you. TTFN.”

There was that damn TTFN again. I was going to get to the bottom of that mystery that had been plaguing my language skills. I waited through the elevator music of the GGMC hold. You’d think that a major record label company would have a little more flash. I guessed that it was better than listening to hold music that was an actual radio station complete with shock jocks and DJ idiots who were so not funny. I enjoyed the companies with the finer sensibilities, the ones who put NPR on as their hold music. Much more enjoyable and informative, not a waste of one’s precious time.

Harshy finally got on the phone. “What’s up girl? I am so busy. Hold on a sec…” She covered the receiver, but I could hear her yelling at someone. “I’m back.”

“Hey, just calling to say “hi.”

“You never call just to say “hi,” said Harshy suspiciously. “What’s with you? Are you OK?
What’s wrong? Did things go bad already with that contractor guy?”

“Everything’s fine,” I said. “Time for lunch? Houston’s?”

“Whoa! Some’in bigs goin’ down. We’re going upscale so this ain’t no shits and giggles chat,” said Harshy. “It’s that contractor guy, isn’t it? More than just a kiss was it?”

Fuck! I smiled on the phone, “You got me.”

“Shit, woman! I want to hear everythin’. Meet me there in five. Screw this place. They can suffer without me for an hour,” said Harshy. The phone muffled again. I think she was yelling at Bernadette this time.

“Harsh, I can’t drive there in five. This is LA. Give me thirty,” I said, gathering up my stuff and shoving my cell phone and cigarettes into my bag.

“Oooh! I can’t wait. Somethin’s finally goin’ on in your life and it may be worth paying attention to. Lo-is got luck-y. Lo-is got luck-y!” Harshy went on and on before she finally hung up the phone releasing me from my red-faced, but giddy torment.

When I got to the restaurant, Harshy was at the bar (faster service, cuter guys). When she saw me, she was all smiles and giggling and pointing fingers at me, SNL Roxbury style.

“Stop it.” I ordered. “You’re making a spectacle of yourself. If anyone who knew you saw you like this they’d think you’d been slipped a rufie”

“So tell me everything,” tittered Harshy. We ordered drinks and then lunch, and I told her everything that had happened since the “kiss” in the stone yard. For a while, Harshy couldn’t remember who Brian was and kept thinking I was having a ménage a trois. This really excited her until I finally set her straight after the nth time. When I’d finished, Harshy kept smiling and shaking her head and picking at her shrimp cocktail.

“I’m very happy for you, Miss Lois,” said Harshy. “Couldn’t have happened to a more deserving person.”

“Thank you.” I blushed, not used to the excitement of new found “like” and with a guy who actually liked me back. “I hope he calls me. We’re supposed to have a real date tonight.”

“Oh shut up, woman,” expounded Harshy. “Of course he’ll call you again. He survived your hat, your cat, and your transient. If they didn’t scare him away, you certainly wont.”

Well, maybe my mother would. And Paul did call. Many times over the following months while we worked together at Faraday’s estate.. And we enjoyed each other very much. It was great. I was actually dating a guy who really liked me. I was walking on the clouds, smelling the flowers, and wearing rose colored glasses when I looked at the LA horizon’s smog line. The
downside of it all was that we had to keep everything so close to the vest and not expose ourselves as lovers to the people we worked with or to the friends we hung out with weekly. I took Paul to the Formosa a couple of times to meet Harshy, Guy, and Drew. Several times, Harshy had to kick me under the table to keep me from blurting out the secret. Guy still mooned over me, more so when he was sloshy drunk. Paul noticed, but dismissed it as Drunken Man Flirting, (a usual guy thing, I guess).

After a while, Guy stopped asking me out, drunk or sober. Maybe he’d gotten the message or perhaps he’d found someone new. He never mentioned anyone. Maybe he was just really busy with work. Maybe insurance fraud crime was really on the upswing. I didn’t go to the Formosa as much as I had before. Harshy made excuses for me all around – my job was keeping me super busy, my apartment building was having major upgrades done, or I was sick. She was so good about keeping secrets and telling fibs. A seasoned pro because of her job, I supposed. I was grateful for it. I felt sad, though. I felt like I was moving on, away from my life at the Formosa. I’d forgotten how much personal time relationships consumed . Most of my free time was spent with Paul, my secret lover. I wasn’t complaining. I was just recognizing, finally, that I was missing my time at the Formosa and the ease of a Friday night after work with friends. Would they welcome me back if things bombed with Paul? They didn’t seem to miss me. Maybe they had found someone new? I’d have to ask Harshy if she was cheating on me with the boys.

One day, after getting the latest gossip from Harshy about the happy hour gang, I asked her why she still went there when she knew I wouldn’t be able to make it.

“Well, I actually like the dweebs,” she confessed. “It’s so hard to find intelligent men who can talk you under the table about current events and debate politics so heatedly. It’s such
sport and I love it. After dealing with the bozos I work with, it’s like getting high. Those guys can handle it, too, and I, in turn, am helping them handle their liquor better. Especially poor Drew. He’s hanging in there though, got to give him props.”

“Uh-huh.” There had to be more. I knew Harshy as well as she knew me.

“Oh, and they are complete gentlemen. They always pay for my drinks.” Harshy snickered and then we fell into laughter together at our inside joke. Never pay for drinks if there’s a man around. Their money’s better than yours.

“I worry that you miss me and that I spend too much time with Paul.” I laid my guilt out onto the table. Harshy and I had been together so long that I felt as though I was cheating on her.

“Lo, you deserve your happiness, This is the honeymoon stage of the relationship. I wouldn’t step in between you and that unless I had a death wish,” Harshy soothed my fears. “It’s good to see you so happy. I miss our girl time together, but I’ll get you back someday. When you’re old, and married with a paunch.”

I promised to make more time for her especially when the Faraday job was over. That would turn out to be many months. Faraday had made some minor changes to the original plan and finishes that ended up delaying the project. It was really all of his newly required electronics that caused the most schedule shifts. Paul was constantly meeting with electricians, technicians, alarm specialists, electronics technicians, and other more specialized specialists specializing in who knew what? Sometimes, Paul and I and all of the specialists would have a meeting with Faraday to clarify details and resolve minutiae. I myself was a detail freak, but this went beyond the inane sometimes. Over late night dinners or early morning coffees I’d ask Paul what it all meant and what was finally resolved, but he told me he only focused on exactly what they needed him to build or his head would explode from the jargon alone.

So Paul built Faraday’s and the specialists’ specifications into the bathroom, not really knowing what he was creating and feeling like he were an employee at the KFC special seasoning factory and adding his spice to the packet that came to him on the assembly line. The results of the meetings went into the floor, the walls, the ceiling, and the skylight. Some days, I would stand in the half-finished bathroom and look at all of the mumbo-jumbo of wires, cables, connectors, and filaments. None of it made sense to me, but why would it? I wasn’t a rocket scientist. I remembered a time when bathrooms were just for crapping.

One evening I went to the job site for my weekly inspection so that I could make my weekly progress report to Faraday and was surprised to find him in the bathroom. I hadn’t seen in him at the estate except for the construction meetings. I honestly thought he was somewhere in Asia at the moment. I knocked on the door frame. “Excuse me, Mr. Faraday?”

You’d have thought I just goosed him way up his ass from the way he gasped, jumped, and spun around on his heels to face me. “What are you doing here?” he barked at me.

I clutched my notebook to my chest, defending myself against further onslaught. “I come here every week to do my inspections for your weekly report.”

“Oh, yes, yes, I see, of course,” replied Faraday, nodding his head and rubbing his hands together. “Do you always come in the evenings?”

I unclutched my notebook and took a few steps into the room. I looked Faraday over as closely as I could without seeming to be staring. “No, an appointment I had ran late, so I’m here late.”

Although I had signed a privacy clause, it had leaked out that I was doing a project for Faraday and now clients were trickling out to me from the Los Angeles underground culture (at
least to me) of non-celebrity wealth; the real power in the city. My only link to that circle before had been Jasmine and she projected to be only the tip of the iceberg. Where had all those people been a year ago when I needed them?

I’m suspected the leak was Jasmine. Or it could’ve been Harshy. She was an unintentional gossip with all the right connections. Pushkin, unintentional? Really? Well, that was what I would tell Faraday if he ever suspected me of anything. Wouldn’t want to be blacklisted in that town. Might have to go home to my mother. I involuntarily shuddered.

Faraday hadn’t noticed my inner diatribing. He seemed to be trying to control the noticeable uncharacteristic fidgeting he was doing. Was that sweat on his brow? He was wearing a black track suit and, I noticed, the newest runners from K- Swiss, also black. Hideous shoe shape. Maybe he’d been running and his adrenaline was still pumping? There were veins bulging from his neck and arms. God, did he even have a bulging vein running straight down from the middle of his forehead to his nose?

“Ms. Pushkin?” When Faraday addressed me, I looked straight down at his shoes.

“I was just noticing your shoes. New, aren’t they?”

“Yes, the newest. Just breaking them in before I head back to China to run the span of the Great Wall,” said Faraday. He said it like running the Great Wall in China was like circling the track at the Y.

“Great, yeah, cool,” I replied. I stood looking around the room, waiting for more. “Should I come back or will you be done soon?”

Faraday shuffled around the bathroom, looking this way and that. “Yes, I only stopped by for a minute. I flew in from Tai Pei early and thought I would check out the work while I had
some time. Please continue with your work, and I look forward to seeing the report tomorrow.”

“Sure,” I said, “As usual then?”

“That would be fine.” Faraday hurriedly looked around one last time and then retreated down the hall to his office.

As odd behavior was becoming the norm or, more exactly, revealing itself as the norm in this circus I called a design project, I immediately moved on from Faraday’s surprise visit and resumed my inspection. I jotted down notes, took progress pictures, and “blue taped” areas of issue for Paul and his sub-contractors to attend to the following week. Paul and I were working seamlessly as a team on the project and no one at the estate was the wiser about the other project that we were working on just as seamlessly.

I was in love with Paul. He was in love with me. It was that simple. I had to pinch myself almost daily to believe that I was with such an awesome and hot guy who, for some crazy reason, really liked me and thought I was hot, too. I swear the first two weeks of our being together in the biblical sense, I couldn’t walk straight. The honeymoon was still not over yet. I feared the day it would be, and I would suddenly see a beer belly in the place of six-pack abs.

Being together was easy, fluid, and languid. Where I stopped, he began, and back again; an infinity loop. Site meetings were difficult at times, because we were always wanting to touch each another, say something indecent, hold each other’s eyes for a second more than we needed. Phone calls were a little easier, although Paul had to watch it on his end, and he’d already hung up on me several times when I went too far and he couldn’t hold a straight face. I’d imagine him yelling “Fuck!” into the air to break the spell and then telling the guys that it was a supplier or another sub. He’d tell me things like this when we were finally together at day’s end. He
explained that he had to yell immediately to calm himself down quickly enough so that no one, especially Bruce and Trevor who would consistently appear out of nowhere, would think he was talking to a girlfriend.

One day Paul and I were in the side yard off of Faraday’s office discussing plans for a date that night when we heard a car pull around the drive. I peeked around the corner of the house. It was Jasmine. She saw me and called out. I popped back around the side and shoved Paul through the panel door into Faraday’s office. Smoothing my hair and skirt, I stepped out from around the house only to almost step on Jasmine’s Manolo Blahniks.

“Dahlin, what are you doing back here?” purred Jasmine, holding her hat to her head as the winds were trying to snatch it away. She was looking around and behind me.

I smiled, “Don’t you just love the daphne back here? When Bruce or Trevor get on my last nerve, I come around over here and the smell the flowers. Free aromatherapy.”

“That’s lovely, Lo. Project getting along well?” Jasmine inquired, tilting her head and really waiting for an answer.

“Oh, yes, it’s going great. We’re almost done, finally,” I said. “Thank you so much for recommending me, Jas. This has been one of the most satisfying jobs I’ve done in a long time.” More than she knew.

“Can’t wait to see it,” Jasmine motioned to me. We stepped around to the front door and Jasmine rang the bell. “Kips returning today. Called me for drinks and dish time. I’ll swing by the bathroom and take a peek.”

“That would be great,” The door opened and the butler welcomed Jasmine in. “I have to head back to the office. I’ll call you for lunch and we’ll do our own dishing later, ‘kay?”

“Very good, dahlin’. TTFN!” chimed Jasmine in her “just for the help” voice. Damn that TTFN. I called my voice mail again to remind myself to ask Harshy about the anacronym.

Once again I found myself in the familiar little outdoor room of the entry. Placing my phone back in my bag, I breathed in the daphne and reflected for a moment on Paul and I’s last romantic encounter. Time for me to go home. As I stepped off the patio, I heard a soft whirring sound. Looking up and around the domed ceiling, I spotted the camera. I gave the brats the finger as I smiled wide.

Chapter 10

2009-05-11T13:41:00.000-07:00

My door buzzed. Then it buzzed again. I looked at the clock. 10 PM. After my crazy lunch with Harshy and the inevitable lingerie shopping, I had come home and gotten my nap. I had overslept considerably. It was dark outside. The door buzzed once more. I realized then it wasn’t the lobby buzzer. It was my actual condo door bell. What the hell?

If that’s Brian wanting to stay here because it’s raining, well… I pulled the top sheet around me Roman style and staggered to the door. I didn’t bother with my new Nick and Nora lounging pajamas. Those could wait til morning for putzing around the kitchen. Wait, Brian wouldn’t use the front door. Leaning with my back up against it, I asked through the door, “Who is it?”

“Paul.”

I opened one eye. It throbbed. Once again, too many cocktails with Harshy. Damn
that bitch! “Who?”

A sigh. “Paul.”

I looked through the peephole. Yep, Paul. I opened the door a bit and held it against me. “What do you want? It’s late.”

“You left me at the stone yard,” he explained.

“Am I your babysitter?” I yawned. Hastily I covered my mouth. I am somewhat humane and wouldn’t want to kill anyone with my morning(?) breath.

He lost patience and stepped forward. I watched his shoes. He stopped. Looking at me, he said, “I want to be with you.”

“We can meet tomorrow at the estate,” I yawned again. “I told you that at the yard.”

I rubbed my eyes and pulled the sheet tighter around me. At that moment, I noticed Kashmew at the door. He bolted.

“No! You stupid cat. Shit!” I yelled as Kashmew went leaping down the hall.

Paul took off after him and ran four strides before he tripped and fell on his face. Groaning, he rolled over onto his back, clutching his ankle. I ran out into the hall over to Paul, the sheet still draped around me, and crouched over him.

“Oh my god! Are you OK? Oh, god, did you hurt yourself?” I asked, checking his ankle out, looking at his head for concussion and making sure his glasses weren’t broken.

Paul lifted his head and kissed me full on the mouth. Surprising myself, I automatically kissed him back. Shaking him off, I pulled away, checking to make sure the sheet was covering all of the good parts. “Damn you. This was all a ruse cooked up by you and my stupid cat to get
me to kiss you again!” I yelled. I tripped on the bed sheet trying to get up and fell back on top of Paul. “Shit.”

At this point, Kashmew had sauntered back down the hall, pissed that no one was chasing him anymore. I glared at those shiny gold orbs with threats of punishment later. Kashmew jumped over the threshold back into the condo. If he had possessed hands, I’m sure he would’ve slammed the door. Paul and I both sat up. I held the sheet tightly around me, shielding my eyes against the glare of the hall. The lights were so bright and fluorescent, I must’ve looked like death warmed over. Note to self: change fluorescents to dimmable cans for ambience. Paul took my free hand, helped me to my feet and walked me to my front doors. I looked at him over my shoulder, still unsure as to why he was at my door so late.

“I want to be with you, Lois,” he said, again.

I checked his eyes for concussion. Why did he keep saying that? Maybe he was really one of Faraday’s secret technological advances – CarpenterBot – Hot and a Carpenter. One in every home. Housewife’s Delight. Better than Mommies Little Helper.

I sighed, “Come in already. At least have something to drink, and we’ll check for rug burns.”
Kashmew sprang away from the door just before I could slam it on his sassy ass. He’d better not try that again. Paul sat at the island and I poured him and myself some whiskey and soda with ice.

“Little strong isn’t this? Strange drink for an LA gal.” He lifted his glass. “What about your ladies usual ‘Cosmo’ ?”

“Go stuff yourself.” I rebuked. Like I had time to make him a mixed drink. Fuck Cosmos. And, no, I don’t smoke Capris.

Paul smiled. He seemed to be savoring the burn of the whiskey. I picked up my drink and sipped it slowly, watching him stare at his ice. Why was he really here? Where was he going with this ‘I want you’ business? Or was he a serial killer who wanted me to put the lotion in the basket? How did he get into my building any way? Lois, your tenants, duh. They never listen to me. They’d let John Wayne Gacy in if he said ‘please’.

I came back to the situation. Paul seemed troubled.What did he want to say? He turned to me, started to say something and then stopped. He smiled at me and shook his head.

“What?” I murmured, actually still sleepy after all the commotion. I hoped my bed was still warm.

Paul stood up and came over to me. He took my glass and put it on the counter. He pulled the sheet down around my shoulders and pulled me toward him. His eyes were so bright and warm with little crinkly crow’s feet at the corners. His hair had gone too long without a cut, the salt-and-pepper strands were curling under his ears. Paul kissed me softly, savoring my lips and the booze. Now I was sweet and icy fresh. Gently, he slid his tongue into my mouth, pulling my head back by my hair and cupping my jaw with his other hand. A slow passionate kiss, the kind that I hadn’t had in forever. I was so thirsty for him I felt like a dry vessel after sitting in the hot desert sun for eons. An underground spring was suddenly starting to flow. I grabbed and held onto his hips so that I wouldn’t fall over from the strength of his need, his wanting me. His warmth engulfed me like a Santa Ana wind: convection heat. Paul’s knee moved forward into the space between my legs, me still covered with the sheet, closing in on my body. I immediately
sensed this man believed in foreplay and took his performance seriously. We kissed for a long time, kisses that were like eating a really good meal; sating us fully.

I pulled away for a moment to correct my head and realize where I really was. I opened my eyes to find Paul searching mine. I smiled and he returned it. I slid out of my chair and put my arms around his neck. He picked me up and began eyeing my possible bedroom. Following the cat’s lead, we went down the hall into my bedroom. The small lamp on my Palecek nightstand shone dimly. Paul carried me to my king-sized custom-made platform bed and laid me down on the duvet. I was still swaddled in my bed sheet. He stood by the side of my bed and took off his tattered coat and holey white t-shirt. All the years of construction had made him wiry and developed; his nipples stood out in excitement. He leaned down as I leaned up and brushed my lips over one standing soldier. He groaned with pleasure.

(the following lovemaking scene has been taken out of this post so that those who purchase the novel when it is published in hardback or e-book can enjoy the passage for which they paid. its really good.)

A short and incredibly fantastic time later, I lay on top of Paul with the first orgasm that I hadn’t brought on my self in this bed alone.

“You can’t ever leave,” I whispered into his ear. Last time I blurted that out, the guy did leave. Forever. Oops.

“I’ll try not to,” he replied, holding me close and stroking my ass.

In the morning, I awoke on my side of the bed with the duvet snug around me. I rolled over and Paul wasn’t there. Oh, lovely. Bastard! I sat up in the bed, ready to throw my pillow at the fully loaded dresser, begging to crash everything off of it. As I cocked my arm, Paul appeared in the doorway holding coffee and toast for two.

“How’d you do that?” I asked, quickly pulling the pillow down, pretending I was doing some sort of new exercise maneuver.

“Do what?”

“Get breakfast. Why didn’t I hear you messing around? How’d you know where everything was?”

“I’m a contractor. I know where all you women put things in your kitchens.”

“Seriously. I’m atypical.”

Because I didn’t cook much, I had a lot of junk drawers interspersed with the usual kitchen drawers. An entire magazine collection lived inside my china cabinet where my dishes should’ve been. Mostly I just shoved my groceries into the fridge, even canned goods or bags of pasta. Although I do keep my butter out on the counter which grossed Harshy out.

“That is not a lie. You are a little weird,” confirmed Paul.

“So how’d you navigate the obstacle course?” I asked, trying to let his freaky girl
comment slide.

“That guy you were with the other night was in the kitchen,” Paul replied.

“What?”

“Yeah,” he said, ”Is that a normal thing? Like Kramer and Jerry?”

“No, no, no,” I stammered. “Did he say how he got in? How long has he been here? What’s he doing here?”

Paul shrugged his shoulders and climbed back into bed with me. I propped up the pillows and cupped the coffee mug in my hands.

“Toast?” he offered.

“Thanks,” I said as I took it, eyeing the door warily. “Is he still here?”

“No, he took off – didn’t want to disturb you further. He said ‘thanks’.”

“Don’t you think that’s weird?” I interrogated Paul. Surely, he must have been somewhat unnerved by the sight of Brian in my condo, making himself at home.

“Hey, I think you’re weird, but I still want to be with you.” he replied. “You’re an enigma wrapped in a mystery… however that line goes.”

“Thanks a lot!” Wait ‘til he meets my mother. If this relationship lasts that long. Don’t jinx this with thoughts of your mother, Pushkin.

Paul smiled and flipped on the TV. We watched cartoons and the news, flipping back and for the for the rest of the morning. In fact, we spent the whole morning eating the contents of my fridge in my bed and doctoring our coffee with kahlua til we were getting silly. We then napped away most of the afternoon until dusk. When I awoke in the twilight, Paul was still in my bed, snoring softly and fighting rabbits in his sleep. I kissed him lightly on the mouth and he wrapped his arms around me and kissed me back. Act One, repeat.

Chapter 9

2009-05-11T13:15:00.000-07:00

The next morning it was pouring. I’d never seen Los Angeles like this before. As I sat up in bed, I flicked the radio on. “The weather in five minutes.” Dragging my limp body from the bedclothes, I swayed into the bathroom. By the time I had brushed my teeth, the weather report was on. Pouring today. Pouring tomorrow. Apparently, it was weather from the rust bucket Northwest. Fie on them and a pox. As hung over as I was, I still had to go to work. I was supposed to go to the granite and marble yards that day for another client and I’d been putting it off until now which made it late. “Yards” meant “outdoors”. Did I still own an umbrella? I hoped I’d find the perfect granite quickly. I dressed weather appropriate: all-black Lucy yoga pants, a light weight, knit, V-neck sweater with high-calf, black boots and my black “Buffy the Vampire Slayer” slick, reefer coat. Searching through my closet, I found an old Gorton’s fisherman’s vinyl rain hat - in black. Left over from my aunt’s things, I guess. I didn’t dare look
at myself before I left the house.

For an hour I sat in traffic heading towards Burbank. I passed the Krispy Kreme donut emporium, daydreamed for coffee relief, but denied myself as I wanted to get all my errands done as quickly and dryly as possible. Although… I could stay dry in the donut shop ‘til the rained passed. That was seductive, but I resisted. I would need a nap this afternoon for sure. One perk of self-employment was flexibility. I had called myself in sick a few times. The world hadn’t collapsed. I was more insulted when people hadn’t noticed that I hadn’t been at the office. Not even reliable Doorman Joe mentioned my absences half the time. I guess he saw me running in and out so much that he figured I was with a client. Today would have been one of those days if I could've helped it. I just wanted to hide under my duvet and cat nap til dinnertime.

As I passed the used car lots, I thought of Guy. Oh, crap. I forgot to call him back. Flipping open my phone and scrolling through the received calls, I found his number. While it was ringing, I begged, Please don’t be there, please don’t be there. It will be less painful.

His voice mail picked up. “Hey, Guy, it’s Lois Pushkin. I checked my date book and I’m actually going to a design awards banquet that night, so I’m afraid we’ll have to do it another time.” Lie, lie, lie. “I’ll see you ‘round at the Formosa. Why don’t you call Harshy and set up ‘after work’ drinks? Thanks. I’ll talk to you soon.”

Harshy was going to kill me. She thought Guy was the biggest dorkus in town. Well, Harshy had said that she would be there for me, and I did need some mental support to juggle all of those emotional elephants.

At the marble yard, the owner, Reno, greeted me at the door, took my umbrella and fisherman’s hat (he looked amused by the hat) and offered me hot, black coffee.

“Good morning, Ms. Pushkin. Helluva day to be out. What can I help you with?”

“I need to review some slabs,” I said.

Reno looked at me good and hard, “But it’s raining!”

“I know, but I’ve put this client off long enough, and we’re just going to have to bite the bullet and do it, OK?” I pleaded. Working on Faraday’s project had cut into my other clients’ design time. I couldn’t let them fall through the cracks; they were still my bread and butter, no matter how small.

Reno took my coffee and gave me back my umbrella and hat and said, smiling, “You go out and have a look. Stick this duct tape on the slabs you like and I’ll have Roman chip you off samples.”

“You’re not coming out with me?”

“No,” Reno replied, laughing. “Not in this weather. I get all my work done in the sunshine. If you need help, Roman or Matt are in the yard loading in new slabs. Just shout out to them if you need slabs moved.”

“Thanks a mil, Reno,” I snorted as I stepped into the yard. I headed over to the colors I already knew and began making my way down the isle. Black Absolute, Uba Tuba, Galaxy, Russian Blue, Jerusalem stone and, oh, a new color. I tried to make out the label, but couldn’t.
Looking around, I spotted a man over in the next aisle struggling with a pallet. Making my way over to him, I tapped him on the shoulder.

“Excuse me. Could you help me with this label? I can’t read the writing.”

He turned around. It was Paul.

“Shit!”

“What?” he asked, holding his hand to his ear. The yard was next to the highway which made normal conversation practically impossible. Thank God for me.

“Nothing. I sneezed,” I said, making my voice louder.

He gave a look that said bullshit , “What are you doing here?” The traffic noise with the rain was making it even harder to hear. He stepped closer to me, looking down his nose into my eyes. Rain was getting in the way of my vision. I could feel the rainwater channeling off of my fisherman’s hat down the back of my coat. I leveled my eyes at his waist. He smelled good. Gay men usually did. And married men did, too, because of their wives.

“What? Me? What am I doing here? I thought you were a yard employee. I didn’t know it was you. I’m looking for granite for another client,” I answered. I turned my back to him and went to look for the yard employee. I couldn’t handle this today. Not after last night. Right back into the frying pan.

“Wait a minute.”

I felt his hand on my shoulder. Must he always touch me? Do I project accessibility? Thank God today I was wearing grubbies and looked like shit. I definitely couldn’t handle this touchy-feely today. I whirled around to face him, very agitated, “What?”

“Are you OK about yesterday? I didn’t tell you that story to hurt your feelings. It just all came out wrong,” he asked, concern in his baby blues. Stupid married or gay man, quit that!
I studied his face for sincerity. God, I had really worried him. I hadn’t meant to. It was just a job and we had to work together because of Faraday. Why should I care what Paul said or thought?

“I’m sorry. I was feeling like an idiot after you told me everything and dealing with my subsequent deflated ego in the process.”

Paul smiled. “I’m sorry about all that. I’ve never been very articulate around good looking women who scream in foyers at pissy, little, gay men.”

And how red am I just now? I just looked at my shoes. Yep, right where I left them. And covered in wet muck. Did he just say I was good looking? A long pause. Paul stepped toward me and boldly, never mind inappropriately, lifted my chin up with his fingers, forcing me to focus my eyes on him. Why am I letting this happen? “

Are we OK now? I mean, we do have to work together and all. I can’t stand passive-aggressive tension.”

I sighed, appropriateness going to hell. I, too, hated passive-aggressive crap. I had years of therapy under my belt all because of the Queen of Hot and Cold: my mother. Paul definitely wasn’t my mother. And, he was easy on the eyes, even if he was in a committed relationship with a wife or gay billionaire. “Yes, we’re fine. I’m sorry. I’ll be better tomorrow when we’re back at the estate.” My eye caught the figure of a yard employee going past our aisle. I excused myself and started in his direction.

“Wait!” Paul called out again.

I waved my hand and kept walking toward the employee. Whatever more Paul wanted would have to wait. I wanted my sample and I wanted to get out of the rain as soon as possible. I was getting cold. Suddenly Paul was at my side, trying to grab my wrist. Startled, I turned and stepped back, flailing out of balance. He stepped forward, caught my back with his arm and pulled me into a shelter space between stacks of pallets. We stood there, breathing at each other. Well, actually I was breathing into his chest. God, did he smell good. I breathed him in again. I could see chest hair curling out of his white t-shirt. That instantly drove me nuts. I tried to keep my breathing even. It was an effort. I looked up to see him looking down at me, the water running off his nose and lips onto mine. I reached up and kissed his top lip. He was surprised and pulled back, watching me. I stood and waited. What the fuck had I done?

“I guess we’re on the same wavelength? I couldn’t let you leave…” he couldn’t finish his thought. Paul just kept staring and breathing, his breath even more jagged than mine.

“The fisherman’s hat really got you hot?” I asked. What was he saying?

“Hmmm? Oh, that? No. You’re so hot. You just don’t care what people think of you. You’re always purely in the present; emotionally raw, vulnerable, and selfishly honest. There’s, like, always a meteor shower going on around you and one has to watch their flight path if they want to get to your planet,” Paul explained. “Ever since the foyer incident, I can’t stop thinking about you. And when you’re around the estate, I spend my time trying to think about how I can make you stay longer. You’re messing up my construction schedules. My other clients are starting to complain.”

“Hmmm, OK,” I said as I kissed his bottom lip this time. A meteor shower? Now that was a line I had never heard before. I liked it. Made me sound dangerous and cool. Don’t know about the vulnerability part. Didn’t want to have that as part of my psyche after all the years of shrinks.

“Hey, I don’t even know you yet,” he protested.

I pulled away and held him at arm’s length or at least as much as I could in the small space we were squeezed into. Paul stared at me, saying nothing. I made to leave again. Before I could take a step out, his lips were on mine, sweet, cool, and hard. His tongue flicked at my teeth and danced with my tongue. He went in deep and ate me up. I was drowning in this rain of passion, but didn’t want to be saved. He pulled away to look at me. I took his lower lip with my teeth and held it there. His eyes met mine and I held his securely. Paul pulled me very close again, almost too close, and I got another heady breath of his scent. God, he smelled good and nostalgic and all that my memory ever retained and wanted me to have for happiness. I continued to drown. He was warm and very hard in all the key areas. I had let go of his lip. He ran his tongue across it, made sure it was still there.

“I want you,” was all he said.

Shit, I wanted him too, but not in this rain. I heard Reno calling my name. I guessed that I’d been out there longer than he thought anyone should. Poor Reno, I’ll catch shit for this if he sees us. I wrenched myself away from Paul and maneuvered my high-heeled boots quickly, but deftly down the aisles in the direction of Reno’s voice. Please, PTB, don’t let me slip and fall.

“Ah, my lady, there you are. I thought you’d drowned or gotten trapped under a heavy object,” scolded Reno.

He didn’t know how close to the truth he was. “No, no, but I did find the granite I wanted. It didn’t have a legible label.” I pointed in the direction of the slabs I was at. “It’s near the Black Absolute.”

“Ah, yes. That is new. Good eye. I will have a sample for you in a minute,” said Reno. He went off to yell at his new yardman for abandoning clients in the rainy, wet yard. If anyone had seen Paul and me, they would’ve wondered who actually needed any help.

I waited in the shop, feeling pretty sure Paul wouldn’t come in anytime soon. I’m sure he would wait for his ‘lust’ to cool down. Cold rain is good for that purpose. A bit later, Reno came in with my slab sample and I headed back to my office to drop it off. Once there, I would also schedule an appointment with my client before heading home to my warm bed.

Back at my office, Harshy had already invaded. So much for my nap. She sat in my chair drinking coffee, risking catastrophe upon my desk. She waved a “hello” in my general direction as she was also on my phone, “No, no, no! I want it the way I told you and that’s it!” she yelled. “I haven’t worked this hard on this blitz for you to fuck it up!” She paused, listening. “Oh yeah? Well, I can walk, bucko!” she shouted and she slammed the phone down.

“How are you sweetie?” she asked pleasantly. I looked at her and then at the phone. “Oh that,” she said, “That’s my job – pppfff! Where have you been? I call, I leave messages, E-mails…”

“I talked to you two days ago. Get a life.”

“Oops.” She giggled. “I think I’ve been up for two days. I need to crash. I knew if I waited here long enough you’d come around and we could catch up about the progress of the guy and your new client.”

I looked at her and she did look like shit, “I ran into him at the marble yard today.”

“Your client?” asked Harshy, twirling her hair while twirling in my chair. It was making me dizzy.

I frowned at her. “No. The guy! We kissed.”

“What? Whoa, now wait, sister. What the hell? The guy kissed you? Why, you’re practically a virgin again.” Harshy waggled her eyebrows at me lewdly and spun around once more in my chair finally stopping to assume her best Madonna pose (the singer, not the mother of Jesus).

“Oh, fuck off, Harshy!” I shot her the finger. Even if she was right. I busied myself with cleaning out my bags and making messy piles of the junk on my desk. I could feel those large
brown eyes on me. I couldn’t see myself, but my face was getting warmer. Surrendering, I straightened up and looked her dead on, exposed.

“Oh, you must really like this guy to be talking to me like that,” beamed Harshy. Ignoring my hue or just treating herself to its rare occurance, she danced around the desk and stood in front of me. “Wow, girl, you are red. You really dig ‘em, doncha? Makes your toes curl? Did you kiss him back?”

I continued blushing so hard a passerby would’ve called the fire department by now. I fanned papers in front of my face. Was this what menopause was like? What’s that new thingy – perimenopause? Am I old enough for that? “Maybe. Let’s drop it. It’s nothing. It will be nothing after a few dates. I don’t have a chance in hell. I’m high maintenance and that’s so not sexy for guys like him,” I said. “Remember, he already gave me the freaky girl look the other day at the estate. It’s hopeless. After a few dates, I remind them either of their neurotic mothers or their favorite sister. Cool to hang out with, but too girl- next- door to have sex with much less thinking about a long term relationship. I’m not relationship material and I’m cool with the cat lady future.”

“Well, he must have an Electra complex, because he seems hot for you if he’s going to go after you in the rain in some dirty rock yard,” countered Harshy. “Well, if it doesn’t work out, at least you have Brian on the side.”

“Gross! Harshy, you bitch. I’m old enough to be his mother,” I yelled at her. That was a disconcerting idea. I felt dirty. Brian was a kid. I was no Stella wanting her groove back. Harshy was looking at me as though maybe I should want it back.

“You are not,” laughed Harshy. “You’re just afraid you might have two guys who have the hots for you. Maybe this new one will put up with your Vin Diesel obsession as well?”

I stared at her as if she had two heads and were singing Celine Dione covers.

“All right, let’s forget about this hot topic for now and have lunch. Drive me home afterward? I’m needing to go to bed,” begged Harshy, schlepping her bag up and opening the office door.

“Fine. You’re buying lunch, though,” I demanded. “By the way, where is your car?”
“I left it at a bar, but I can’t remember which one,” Harshy laughed. “I actually called that Guy guy to help me track it down. Hone his investigative skills.”

We drove to PF Chang’s at the Beverly Center. This was one of Harshy’s favorite restaurants. She swore up and down that this was where all the young, new celebrities tried out their disguises before deciding which ones would work while they shopped on Rodeo Drive or ate at Prizzi’s with their agents. I thought it was more like a geeky role playing game she played soley with herself. I swear Harshy missed her calling as a member of the paparazzi. Harshy revealed that Britney Spears was rumoured to be there today, but I think she was really trying to trick me into going to the mall. Harshy had to deal with that little twit enough when Britney was first starting her career. I doubted she’d want to spy on her now.

I could see the gears working in her brain and heard the way she was talking to me. She thought I should get some ‘sex’ clothes, especially lingerie. Harshy was definitely itching for the mall.

“Remember you friend that lived down the alley from George Eads?” asked Harshy.

“The actor from the gross crime scene show?”

“Yeah, that was Angel,” I confirmed. “She had the two dogs.”

“Now if that girl had just walked her dogs down that alley in some hot clothes, I think she would’ve gotten George to do more than just scoop poop,” said Harshy.

I doubted that because I personally thought George was gay, but I did think Angel should’ve followed up on this guy. She was walking her dogs down the alley one evening after work as usual and spotted George coming out of the back of his house. She recognized him from the show, so she waved ‘hello’. Right when she did, one of her dogs took a crap smack in the middle of his driveway. George was getting ready to go somewhere and was packing up his SUV at that very moment. Angel was so embarrassed that she would’ve scooped up that crap with her bare hands and shoved it in her pockets. She told George she was sooo sorry and that she lived only a few houses a way and would come right back with a bag. Turned out, George was a consummate gentleman. He told her not to worry about it, that he had two Labs of his own and he would pick it up with one of his bags he had in his truck. Angel had been so embarrassed. George scooped up the poop into a Gelson’s plastic bag, and tossed it in his trash. He smiled and told her not to worry about it, it was nice to meet her, blah, blah, blah. She was too stunned to remember all he said. Then George got in his SUV and drove off. I think Angel would’ve stood in his driveway all night if a car hadn’t come cruisin’ through the alley and almost killed her. Angel never went back that route with her dogs. Man, I would’ve been there every night wearing clothes to kill and my doggies in diapers if I thought I had a chance.

“I’m not buying a ‘sex’ wardrobe, Harshy,” I declared. “He kissed me when I was wearing the Gorton’s fisherman hat and if he can see me in that relic and still like me, then what I own is going to do just fine.”

Finally, the hostess took us to our table and seated us in the center of the room amongst the happy crowd. All along the wall were empty booths. I seethed as I hated sitting in the middle of restaurants in little wood chairs. Harshy jerked me back into reality.

“What hat?” She hissed from behind her menu.

“An old hat from my aunt’s things. It was the only rain protection I could find this morning. Let’s order.”

“You were wearing duds of your crazy aunts in the rain out in the boonies of LA and he still kissed you?” Harshy was incredulous. “This guy is as cuckoo as you are.”

“The boots were hot,” I slipped in.

“Thank God for that, girl,” Harshy sighed. “I can still call you my friend.”

Suddenly Harshy put her head down and spoke in rapid, hushed tones, “Shit. There she is. I was just making that rumor shit up.”

I was about to turn my head when I was jerked back by my hair, “Don’t look. I don’t want that crazy bitch coming over here,” Harshy spittled into my face. Now she had pushed me over the edge. I pushed my chair out, stood up, and walked over to Ms. Spear’s table. She was seated alone in a booth in some crazy disguise that looked like Marisa Tomei’s character in “My cousin, Vinny”. I pulled out my business card and a pen.

“Could I have your autograph, please? My niece is a big fan.”

I could hear Harshy gnashing her menu behind me.

Chapter 8

2009-03-31T16:02:00.000-07:00

I arrived at my office nine minutes past nine the following Monday. Overslept a wee bit. After dropping my bags on the chair, Mocha Grande safely ensconced on the credenza, I clicked on my computer and picked up the phone to check messages. Five new messages. Wow. I went through them all, mostly from my mother, and then the last one came on.

(Pac Bell – ‘Next message received today at three thirty am’ ) “Hi, Lois, it’s Paul. I received a call from Mr. Faraday about a half hour ago.” he huffed into the phone. “He’s back in town and wants to meet with both of us at the estate today. Call me to set up a time. Thanks.”

I instantly got goose bumps at the sound of that thick, sweet molasses voice purring into my ear. Yowza. Did I still have a spine left to call him? I wrote down his cell number and dialed, sipping my mocha for strength and looking over my mail from the week before. I loved getting mail and actually used to stalk the mail man while I was waiting for mail delivery when I first
moved into my office. I couldn’t wait for 1 PM everyday. I jonesed for the mail. I hated legal holidays when I still had to work. With no mail service, it seemed as though I were forgetting something all day long. But then I loved the day after, because that meant more mail to sort through, open, and review. The envelopes and packages were my treasures, my daily surprises.

But, lately, I had been so consumed with my new project that I let it overshadow my mail impulses. The feel of the number 10’s in my hands gave me the sense of control I needed right then.

“This is Paul.”

“Hey, it’s Lois Pushkin,” I replied as casually as I could, even though I threw the letter I was reading up into the air and almost dumped my mocha into my lap. No more Valdez’s, Lois. “I’m returning your call about a meeting?”

“Oh, great. I’m glad you’re calling early. Mr. Faraday wants to have the meeting at 11AM.”

“Fine,” I replied, again trying to keep my cool over the persuasion of his voice, “I’ll see you at the estate then.”

“Okay. Uh… well…,” he started, “um, would you like that coffee now? Maybe even some breakfast?”

“Oh..,” I sputtered, not so calm a lady now. ”Um… let me call you back. I need to review my date book.”

“OK, I’ll be here.”

I hung up the phone. Did I just say “date book”? Would he think I thought we were going to have a date? No, that’s stupid, Pushkin. I stared at my calendar. Nothing. He can’t see you,
Pushkin. You don’t have to actually pretend you’re looking. I leaned back in my chair and spun around to the window. Putting my boot heels on the window sill, I sipped my mocha and thought this through. Should I go to breakfast? Where would he take me? Should I eat eggs? Do I have coffee breath? Why am I caring? I sat for a good five minutes watching the clock and inhaling my mocha before I called him back.

“This is Paul,” he answered again.

“Lois again.”

“Oh, good,” he answered with a smile (I swore I could hear it). “OK for breakfast?”

“Yep, a girl’s got to eat. Might as well be on your dime,” I answered. He would be buying my meal with all the crap I’d had to endure with this project. “Where should I meet you?”

“Hmmm.” He was thinking, his breath slow and steady on the line. I was melting through the little holes in the receiver. “Meet me at The Spot on Melrose at 9:30.”

“OK, see you in a few,” I agreed and hung up. I hoped I hadn’t been breathing too obviously into the phone.

I sat at my desk, continuing to sip my mocha. Turning to the computer, I went through my E-mails. Nothing exhilarating, except for an E-mail from Jasmine. It read, “Oh, honey. Don’t you worry about Faraday. He is a big, old pussycat. Granted, he’s a weird pussycat. As for his assistants, I could personally piss on them, and you know I can hardly go to the bathroom without my own assistant. Stick with it and E-mail me if he gives you any more problems. TTFN!”

TTFN? I’d have to ask Harshy. Probably some Teen People slang that I was so out of the loop with. I checked my watch and saw that it was 9:28. Crap. Picking up my bags and draining my mocha before 2-pointing the paper cup into the hall garbage can, I skittered to the elevator in
my kitten heeled mules and rode it down to the garage. God, I hoped I still had Faraday’s design folder in my bag. I pulled my car up, around, and onto Wilshire, heading south. Soon I had crossed up and over to Melrose and searched for The Spot. Was that a sexual innuendo or was it
to mean a “cool place to be? Both would’v been fine with me as both situations concerning the
“spot” were all right. I finally found it - the restaurant that is - and parked a couple blocks down, narrowly averting “permit only” parking.

As I entered the restaurant, I saw that it was dim, with retro décor, and that every table was occupied by a scenester under thirty. I immediately felt overdressed and old. I searched the booths while looking as cool as I could, and found Paul in the back, squinting at me. He waved as I walked over.
“Hi,” he said.

“Hey there,” I said back, trying to sound nonchalant. I sat down opposite him, facing the back of the restaurant. At least I had figured out where the bathrooms were located.

“How’s it going?” he asked. “Find the place all right?”

“Yes, I’d heard about this place before although I’ve never been here. Didn’t some celebrity shoot her husband near here and they found her gun in their garbage?” I asked.

“Yeah,” he replied. “They even have the story on their menu.”

I looked at the back of the menu. Then I opened it up and searched for my breakfast of choice.
The server came by and asked, “What’ll ya have?” She looked like quite the scenester herself. Pierced in every visible orifice and all the way up both ears with crayon red streaks in her hair and a flat stomach I would’ve killed for, naturally tanned, LA style. I looked over Paul’s way. He was looking at me and waiting.

I looked back up at her, “I’ll have the full serving of biscuits and gravy and coffee, black.”

Paul looked at me, like a deer in headlights. “Damn, I was going to have the same thing. I’ll have the Melrose Minute instead and coffee, black as well.”

After she left, I turned to find Paul still watching me. I raised my eyebrows at him. I hope he didn’t think he was going to get any of my breakfast.

“Sorry,” he said. “I don’t have my glasses on and couldn’t see you real well when you came in the door.”

Doesn’t explain the staring, dude. “So,” I began, “does Mr. Faraday want to sort out our roles in this meeting or…?”

“He has some specific instructions for you and me for part of the design,” he answered. “Some midnight brain storm he apparently had.”

“Hmmm,” I replied. “Happen often with him?” I didn’t like surprises or clients designing as we went along.

“No, he’s usually not so involved. That’s how his bathroom became the fiasco it is.” Paul said, shaking his head and smiling. “I think he was gone for three months and that lady went nuts taking liberties with his sanctuary.”

I almost melted. That smile was going to be the death of me. He looked up to find me staring at him now. His smile broadened and he chuckled. “Like what you see?” he asked.

“That’s very forward of you, Mr. Atkinson,” I replied feeling heated color swarm my face. “But, yes, I do,” I replied as I looked around to see the server with our meals. He looked at the server in surprise and then back at me. Did he wonder if I was talking about my food, her, or
him?

I dove into my food. God, how I loved biscuits and gravy. I would be back at this place no matter how old and uncool I felt. Paul’s order was potatoes, eggs, and bacon. After a bit, he offered me some bacon. I accepted. We were mostly quiet as we ate because his cell phone rang
frequently, and he ended up fielding calls for his other projects. This gave me moments to study him when he wasn’t paying attention to me. I read the paper the server gave me and actually relaxed in my seat, not one thought of work or other worries popping into my head. Being with Paul was both alarmingly calming and disconcerting at the same time. I kept feeling as though I were forgetting an appointment or that I was still wearing my slippers. Occasionally, my foot would brush Paul’s leg under the table and he would look up at me while talking on his cell phone. I gave nothing away, keeping my eyes on the crossword puzzle.

After his fourth call, I said, “Could you please turn that off? I thought we were here to talk about Faraday’s meeting.”

“Sorry,” he said. “I’m so busy these days and I rescheduled a lot of these people so I could show up for this meeting. Lots of hand holding and babysitting in this business.”

“Yep, that’s true. That’s why I charge the big bucks.”

Paul laughed at that. “So, Ms. Pushkin, let’s get down to business. I wanted to see you before the meeting with Faraday so that we could be a united front for this project.”

“OK,” I said, warily.

“Faraday knows about your banshee yelling in the foyer,” explained Paul. “As much as he admires you for that, I think he wants to make sure that you and I don’t have any more ‘problems’.” He made air quotes with his slender tanned fingers. No ring.

“I didn’t think we had any.” Now I was confused. The circus family idea was starting to hone in on me. Run away, run away, Pushkin. I stayed in my cushy seat, my toes inches from his leg.

“Oh, no, we don’t, but he’s going to ask anyway, so I thought that you and I should be on the same page before entering the den of iniquity.”

“That’s fine with me. How do you want to handle it?” I asked in my most professional voice. This was all new to me. But then again, I had never had to work with a general contractor so closely before. I had to stay professional and not get personally involved. Emotions were my downfall. I couldn’t fall for this grubby guy who worked with his hands. Slender, tanned hands with, once again, no ring.

“Well, let’s play it by ear, but when he confronts you about potential problems, dazzle him with confidence, agree with whatever I’ve said, and sell your skills,” suggested Paul.

“Is that all?” I asked. God, who did this guy think I was? Martha Stewart? “And I’m not agreeing with everything you say if I don’t agree with it.”

“Exactly why I wanted this meeting,” said Paul. “I know how Faraday thinks, so if you don’t want to agree with me, at least follow my lead, OK?”

“Fair enough,” I said. He did have a valid point and I wasn’t stupid enough to not take that into consideration. Just how well did he know Faraday? Were they lovers? Would he have acted like he did the other night at my place if they were? This was way too confusing. Retreat, retreat.

As we finished up our meals, Paul offered to drive me up to the house with him. “No thanks,” I replied. “I have a one-hour parking spot out here and need to move my car anyway.”

“OK,” said Paul, “I’ll see you up there in a few.” He strode off to his car and I stayed to watch. He turned around after a bit, but I pretended I had dropped something from my bag. Jasmine had taught me that. Never let them see you looking. Why was I looking? He probably
was gay. Or even married. I hadn’t thought of that. Too obvious for my brain. I was sure that would be just my luck. In construction, no ring on his hand really meant zilch.

A while later, I pulled through the massive gates of the Faraday estate. Paul’s truck was already in its usual spot, but he wasn’t in it. I rang the Vatican style doorbell on the enormous wooden doors of the house and the butler led me into the foyer. As I waited for my usual escort, I could hear the tippy toeing of an effeminate man on the black and white marble checked floor. I turned to see Trevor as I had expected.

“You are late.” He sneered at me.

“I am not. And what do you care? Faraday certainly would not flog the messenger would he? Unless, of course, you enjoy that sort of thing,” I teased Trevor.

“Bitch,” he muttered audibly. “And it’s ‘Mr.’ Faraday to you.”

I simply rolled my eyes at he had turned his back. Trevor led the way to Faraday’s office, opening and closing the doors as we strode the gauntlet. The last set of doors opened revealing Paul and Mr. Faraday at the enormous conference table standing over my drawings, finishes, and fixture selections. They were speaking in hushed tones and instantly quit when Trevor and I entered the office. Mr. Faraday came around the table to me, pulling me in with his left hand and gesturing towards Paul with his right.

“So you both have met and ironed out your differences?” he asked me, alternately looking at Paul. What? Did Faraday think that we were to blame for this little snafu? Or was he placing
blame solely on me for the miscommunication? Turn the mirror around, buddy, and reflect that.
Of course, I knew Faraday was too crazy for me to argue the point. And he did pay his invoices. I smiled agreeably and he continued, “I have been reviewing your plans with Paul so that
he understands them fully and there should be no miscommunication in the future.”

Oh, don’t go there again, Mister. I can take only so much cuckoo-ness. Paul caught the flexing of my lips and, with a minute gesture narrowed, his eyes in caution. I put the brakes on. He melted into a smile. God, I was beginning to hate that affect he had on me now. I turned back to Faraday.
“Mr. Faraday, I believe that Mr. Atkinson and I will work together seamlessly and effortlessly from this day forward.” God, lets hope any chance of sex with Paul is just as so. Yep, it was starting to take effect. “And I know we’ll be able to resolve any discrepancies or conflicts without having to involve you. Per Mr. Atkinson and my earlier meeting, we both understand how busy you are and how this project cannot be an issue for you.”

“Earlier meeting?” asked Faraday.

“Yes, I thought that Mr. Atkinson had told you. We met before this meeting to make sure that we were working as a fluid team and strategized how best to make this project succeed to your highest satisfaction.” I bullshited, effortlessly as if my throat was full of laxatives.

Mr. Faraday paused, not something he did often, I was sure. He did a double-take on my expression. I held my fake sunny, professional disposition and gestured with a nod for him to continue with the meeting. He looked at Paul who nodded agreement with me. Finally feeling at last that everything was OK to proceed, Faraday invited me to join them at the table and the meeting continued. We spent the remainder of the time finalizing details, jotting down schedules, getting all pertinent phone numbers, and agreeing on suppliers and materials. When we were finished, Faraday barked orders to Bruce and Trevor who scattered like roaches to their respective new tasks.

“I’ll be out of town for a couple of weeks. Ms. Pushkin, please keep me advised of the job progress,” directed Faraday. Paul stood to say something, but Faraday cut him off. “Keep your nose to the grind stone, Paul. I know how you hate dealing with Bruce and his assistant, so communicate all of your needs through Ms. Pushkin. I know she can handle my assistants.”

Did I just see Faraday wink at me? No. Yes. A definite wink! I’m sure now because Paul is starting to laugh under his hand. Faraday winked at me. I studied Faraday who was putting on his suit coat, smoothing down the sleeves, pulling stud-linked cuffs from the openings and sliding on his Burberry overcoat, the famous plaid flashing for an instant, before cinching the belt across his wide-plank waist.

Faraday turned to me, deadpanned. “Good day, Ms. Pushkin.”

He turned to Paul. “As always,” Faraday said and then he exited through the velvet drapery. What? No, not the drapery. He was not Oz. I craned my neck around and saw that he had actually exited the house into the garden via a door hidden behind the drapery. It was faked like a wall panel and a lingering scent of daphnes hung in the air around it, like the ones at path at the front of the house.

Paul let out a holler: “Whoa! What an act,” He laughed. “Look, here, it’s just a door to the garden. The path leads around to the front drive. Faraday thinks he’s being so cool when he does that vanishing act. I have to put in little things like that for him all of the time. He’s such a geek at heart. I’m wondering what he’s going to have us put in the bathroom that’s major cheese ball.”

Us? Did he say “Us”? Was I part of the gang now? I liked being “us” with Paul. Not so much with Faraday and definitely not “us” with Bruce and Trevor.

“Did he wink at me?”

“Yep,” answered Paul, smugly smiling.

“And why would he wink at me after saying that I could ‘handle’ the assistants?” I asked, arching my left eyebrow questioningly.

Paul chuckled and then came clean, “I told him about your pissing match with Trevor in the foyer the other day. He pulled the video and watched the show for himself.”

So, there were cameras everywhere. “Great. Thanks. Real professional. Now I look like I just ate a shit sandwich,” referencing my act with Faraday during our meeting. Maybe that’s why the double take. He thought I was goosing him.

“You know, Faraday thought you were a real snooze before I told him about your.. uh…discussion with Trevor. He actually only hired you as a favor to Jasmine because he missed his booty calls with her.” explained Paul.

Fantastic. Great. Wonderful blow to the self-esteem. Its OK, Pushkin, breathe. Faraday pays bills. Faraday pays bills. Faraday pays bills. Money, money, money. That will be my mantra from this day forward. I looked up to find Paul staring at me.

“Are you going to cry?” he asked, suddenly very gentle with me.

“No, no I’m not,” I whispered, dabbing at tears in the corners of my eyes. “I’m just a little deflated at the moment and think I have to leave.”

“Hey wait. I only told you that first part as history.” Paul stepped forward towards me. “When I told Kip that you had ripped Trevor a new asshole and were ready to toss the
job because of the bullshit, he said that he had misjudged you and wished he could’ve been there to see it go down.”

Paul was smiling as he put his hand on my arm. “Are you OK now?”

Kip? He gets to call him Kip? Do I get to call him Kip now that I’m part of the gang? Or does he call him Kip because they’re really lovers? Then how do the Jasmine booty calls fit in? Good grief.

“Hey, are you still with me?”

I looked at Paul and pulled my arm away. His sensitivity was starting to rub me the wrong way. “Yes, thank you for that. I now feel like the screwed up daughter whose father always praises her to other people by her father, but never to her face.” Actually I am that daughter, but it’s by my mother.

“You are a funny lady. What the hell does that mean?” he said. I knew that look. This gal is freaky.

“Never mind. Forget what I said. Thank you. I feel better, but I really do have to go. Call me tomorrow so that we can set up a time to meet to go over demolition,” I said.

“Cool, yeah, I’ll call you,” said Paul. Now he looked so confused. I was confused. I needed a drink and a dish with Harshy. She would bring me back to reality, make me sensible. I was emotionally unstable. What the hell was I thinking? Entertaining romantic thoughts about a colleague? A possibly gay one at that. Stupid.

“Thanks. See ya.” I left the estate, catching Harshy on my cell phone as soon as I exited the gates onto Mulholland Drive. We agreed to meet at Prizzi’s and scope celebrities while tossing back cocktails and bitching about our work lives.

I was seated outside the restaurant when Harshy finally showed up. I was sitting on the chair like a Chihuahua – nervous. Too many celebrities in attendance and everyone eyeballing me,
trying to figure out which celebrity in disguise I was.

“Hey, babe, sorry I’m late. Damn assistants,” explained Harshy, as she deftly sat down, making sure she flashed a little thigh at Matt Dillon who was sitting across the way from our table, looking like a dork with his sunglasses mounted on his forehead. Did he forget he put them there? He smiled at me, acknowledging Harshy’s maneuver. Oh God, please don’t come over to our table. Mr. Dillon’s attentions were quickly and simply diverted by the server in the short pleated skirt who was weaving her way around the tables. Whew.

“Don’t need to explain assistants to me,” I bemoaned. ” I know all about them and I don’t even have any of my own.”

Harshy turned around to see if Mr. Dillon was still looking our way. She sighed when she saw that he was deep in small talk with the server in the short skirt. Thank fully, the woman had the sense to pry his sunglasses off of his head. I didn’t need to endure that sight anymore. As the server walked away, Mr. Dillon frowned and stuck the sunglasses right back on. Get a clue, buddy. He turned his eyes back to me and our table. I was dumbstruck. Here was a guy I had fantasized about when I was twelve years old. His pictures had been plastered all over my locker. Now here he was, making eyes at me. Was he serious? In Los Angeles, its hard not to brush up against the celebrity set, but to have one of them actually focus on a civilian was unusual. We typically had the unspoken code of yes, Cameron Diaz was picking up cucumbers right next to you in the vegetable aisle, but you moved about as if she were Mrs. Wickham, your elderly neighbor down the hall, even though your pulse was racing and you began to pick up every cucumber she’d set down. It was a sign of respect and also placed you, as a member of the adoring outside world, a little closer to the secret world of the famous. One day, one of those
celebrities might feel so comfortable with you as a member of the outside world, but friendly frequent neighborhood grocery shopper, that they might ask you to squeeze their cucumber. He must be desperate to be trolling for civilian tail. Oh, I think I just insulted Harshy. Or myself.

“Lois, snap out of it,” said Harshy, snapping her fingers in my face. “You know if you keep spacing out on him, he’s going to come over here.”

I looked away from Mr. Dillon to Harshy. She was looking at me with great concern. God, what was I doing? “Yeah, you’re right. I don’t want a famous celebrity coming over to my table trying to pick me up.”

Now it was Harshy’s turn to frown, “OK, lady ‘nuff said. I know you had the hots for him when you were a ‘tween, but you know what a doofus he was in realilty. I don’t want him drooling on our table top. What’s got you down in Dumpsville?”

“It’s this new project, the Faraday estate,” I explained. “I don’t know if I’m coming or going. I’m confused and things are wacky with those people.”

“Uh-huh. What else?” asked Harshy. “You’re holding out on me.”

I looked into those big brown eyes and almost started crying. Breathing deeply, I pulled myself together. “I really like the contractor, but I think he’s gay.”

Harshy pushed herself away from the table, stood up and threw her arms wide. “You like a guy? Who cares if he’s gay! You actually like a guy.”

That got Mr. Dillon’s attention. Now he was fixated on us, especially Harshy’s junk in her trunk. I started laughing, more at Mr. Dillon than Harshy. She sat down and scooched herself
in, ready for some good conversation about my confused love life. Crossing her elbows on the table, Harshy focused on me. Mr. Dillon was still focused on her trunk.

“Yes, I have feelings for the contractor. I don’t want to, but fuck it, they won’t go away,” I said. “His name is Paul.”

“Finally, a name to this hottie,” said Harshy. “So, do you think he could be into you too?"

I paused and sucked in my teeth, resisting spilling my guts. But it was Harshy, my best friend in the whole world.

" Why the sad face?”

“I just don’t know. This project, these cuckoo people, and now a guy who, every time he looks at me, sends me into a tailspin.” I was exasperated. “It’s all too much at once. I’m afraid that he’s gay. I couldn’t handle it if he was gay. I don’t want him to be gay. I want things to go my way for once.”

“Sometimes that’s the way it happens, sweetie,” soothed Harshy. “Just go with it. It’ll work itself out. He might not be gay. What makes you think he is?”

“He calls Faraday by his first name and no one else is allowed to that. It’s very casual between the two of them. Faraday isn’t casual with anyone else. No one,” I explained.

“Could he be married to a relative of Faraday’s?” Harshy asked.

Duh. Maybe that was it. “Its just that its been so long since I’ve felt this way about anybody and with the possibility of it actually turning into something,” I moaned. “It would suck if he was married, but at least I would know I didn’t have urges for a gay man.”

“Do you really think it could turn into something?”

Before I could answer, my cell phone went off. Harshy waved me to answer it. I didn’t recognize the number.

“Pushkin Atelier. This is Lois.”

“Hey Lois, its Guy.”

“Who?”

“Guy Arbuckle. From the Formosa?”

“Oh, hey, Guy,” I said, rolling my eyes at Harshy. She giggled and made goo goo eyes at me. “How’d you get my number?”

“I’m a private detective. I have my sources,” he replied. Great, I thought. Nothing is sacred in this town. “Hey, I was wondering if you would like to have dinner and see a movie this Friday?”

“Oh.” Shit. Now this? “Can I get back to you? I’ll need to check my date book.”

“Uh, yeah. Sure. Call me back at this number.” Guy was now sounding awkward. “I’ll talk to you soon, ‘kay?”

“Yeah, sounds great. Talk to you soon.” And I flipped the phone closed.

“Girl, when it rains, it pours. What the hell are you doing that men are coming out of the woodwork for you?” asked Harshy. She turned around to see if Mr. Dillon was still ogling us. He had moved to the bar, schlepping for face time with the server in the short skirt.

“Harsh, what the hell am I going to do?” I asked. “First Paul, then Brian, and now Guy?” The song, ‘It’s Raining Men’ started playing in my head. Sogay. Yes, and that was a pun. Ouch.

“Hold, up there, babe. Who is Brian?” asked Harshy, wiggling her bum on the seat to get more comfortable for this portion of my story. Or was it for Matt’s attention?

“I haven’t told you about Brian?” Aw, shit. Cat out of the bag. “Brian is the young homeless guy I found sleeping on my patio the night you and I went to La Boheme. Actually that was the second time I had seen him. The first time he scared the shit out of me when he appeared
at my slider and I nearly had a coronary.”

“What the fuck? Girl, how could you keep this from me?” Harshy was indignant. “So you’ve got something going with him too? I thought I was your best friend?”

“Oh, fuck it, Harshy. It all happened so fast.” My voice rose. “And no, nothing is going on with me and Brian. He’s too young. We just watch movies together on the patio. Paul thought we were a couple, though. That was kind of funny.”

“Paul, the contractor, has met Brian? What am I - chopped liver?” Harshy leaned back in her chair, disgusted with me and my new, not normal, Harshy-esque behavior. Was that jealousy I saw?

“No, its not, so get that out of your head, Ms. Pushkin.” Harshy could still read my mind. “I’m just hurt that I don’t know all of this stuff first. You know how I love this stuff! It makes my life worth living.” Harshy didn’t always follow the grocery shopping code with celebrities. She made us civilians all look bad sometimes.

After Harshy had sufficiently calmed down and was ready to listen without interrupting, I told her the whole story starting with Faraday, explaining about Brian, and ending with my last conversation with Paul. That was a sticking point with me and I couldn’t get that man out of my hair. Harshy was amused because she hadn’t seen me like that in a long time. I needed her more than ever and she was enjoying that idea.

It was late when I had exhausted every last detail and Harshy was satisfied. I agreed to call her whenever I felt overwhelmed and to not fly off the handle when I was emotionally overloaded. She was my grounding rod and I needed to remember that. She assured me that everything happening was good and that I had three guys in my life when she didn’t have any. I was still
doubtful and frankly scared. I didn’t want my heart broken nor the emotional exhaustion that followed my constantly failed relationships. Even if they were just fleeting thoughts breaking me down.

After I drove Harshy to her car, watched her get in safely and waited as she drove off in the direction of her house, I remembered that I had forgotten to ask her about TTFN. Shit. Now that was going to keep bugging the hell out of me. I called my office voicemail to remind myself to ask her about it. I didn’t want to be out of the trend loop. I wondered if Faraday knew what it meant. Why did I think he would? I already knew that Paul wouldn’t. How did I know that? Ugh! This guy was under my skin. I decided to take a long hot shower when I got home. I needed some control over my life again.

Driving home, I realized that I had drunk too much alcohol and not enough water. My eyes stung and were dry, and my lips opened and closed over the rancid, cotton state of my mouth. I was drunk. Not even buzzed, but very alcohol weary. My head was sure to pound soon

Chapter 7

2009-03-01T13:28:00.000-08:00

Back near my house, I stopped off for a video, a personal pizza from Pizza Slut, some wine, and cigarettes. I’d been trying to quit smoking because of the new job and its prestige and all, but screw it. I needed a lift that night and loved to smoke while I drank. Too many old black-and-white movies. The nostalgia would kill me. As I usually camped my ass outside with my TV, my house was never smoky. I opened the door to my condo to find Kashmew sitting on the mat. He sensed that I was pissed and moody. The whole situation that day had me unusually agitated. Normally, I could blow stuff off, but the current situation wasn’t settling with me. Course, I had fucked up something that could’ve really boosted my career. Naturally, it wouldn’t be sitting right with me. Two steps forward, four steps back seemed to be the story of my life. I couldn’t seem to catch a break. I couldn’t give up though. I wouldn’t go home.

Had I been hormonal that day? Could I use that as an excuse the following week? That would set the feminist movement back. What the hell. I was a femme fatale, fatal to her own self
with a size 6 in her mouth as an accessory. I was going to need all the excuses and stereotypes I could muster to get this job back. Although, as I’d gotten older, I’ve noticed (finally) how PMS has affected me more and more. Right now I was seriously wondering if I was having a PMS
episode? I didn’t usually really notice things that affected me physically. You know, define them and give them a name.

I had allergies for years, for example, and didn’t even know it until my doctor ran some tests when I was in for what I thought was a brain tumor. I just thought that sometimes my nose ran for a week, sometimes my eyes itched for a day, and other times I had really bad head colds in the summer. That time it had been so bad that I was convinced it was cancer and finally went to the clinic. The good doctor set me straight about the symptoms of allergies and I am alive today thanks to modern medicine. Not good at putting 2 and 2 together for myself; personally clueless. I was much more interested in other people’s details. I guess that was what made me a good designer. Professional objectivism, personal denial. Maybe that should be my mission statement. I think it was Ayn Rand’s actually.

So, did this general contractor, Trevor, and Faraday really piss me off as much as I thought they did or was I just feeling pissed, terrible, and stupid because of PMS? All I knew was that my anger toward Trevor had never before involved hormones. And Faraday hadn’t even been there so draw your own conclusions. Stupid Lois.

I pulled open the patio slider and made my way over to the couch with my pizza, wine, video and cigarettes. I nearly crapped my pants when I scared myself with a, yet again, couch-sleeping Brian.

He woke up after I whistled loudly into his ear. “What? What? Oh hey, I’m gone already. Peace.” His feet landed on the patio, and he was up before I could say anything to him.

“Hey, no, it’s OK,” I assured him. “I just didn’t expect you and didn’t see you ‘til I was right on top of you.”

Brian sat back down, leaving room for me on the couch, rubbing his ear.

“You can stay if you want. Pizza?” I offered.

Brian smiled and shrugged, “OK.”

“Fine, go in and help yourself,” I directed him, “but no wine.”

Sheepishly, Brian made his way into my kitchen and took a couple slices of pizza. He was eyeballing the wine when he caught me watching him. He smiled and I mouthed ‘no’. Shrugging his shoulders and grabbing some paper towels, he made his way back outside and sat in the recliner. I put the DVD in – “XXX” with Vin Diesel. I love that man. Maybe a little less than I love Josh Lucas, but that’s another story. Vin would do right by me for now.

Brian groaned. “Not again. Even before we met, I saw you always watched this movie. You killed me.”

“No, no,” I corrected him. “That was the ‘Fast and the Furious’. This is newer.”

Brian berated me with his eyes. “You’re as bad as my mom and her obsession with Steven Seagal.”

“At least Vin Diesel doesn’t run like a chicken and have a stupid, limp ponytail,” I retorted. “Besides I’m pissed and blue and need a quick pick-me-up so shut up.”

Brian did just that and we watched the movie. When it was almost over and I was on my second glass of wine and half way into my pack of cigarettes, my buzzer rang. I looked at my cell
phone – 9:30 PM. Who could that be? I looked over at Brian and the great shrugger did it again. Sighing, I got up and padded across the patio, through my living room, and to the front door. I looked through the peephole and my fists immediately curled. I opened up the door the width of my face, “What the hell are you doing here? And how’d you find out where I lived?”

Faraday’s general contractor scrunched his eyebrows and stepped back. “Sorry to bother you. I know this is unannounced.”

I waited, assuming my “duh” stance, watching him watching me. I had no patience for idiots.

He tried again. “After your exchange with Trevor, I called Mr. Faraday myself. I don’t much care for Trevor or Bruce, so I try to get all of my information from Mr. Faraday directly. That’s why Trevor was so pissed today. Faraday is never ‘incommunicado’ with me.” He looked at me for understanding and I stared right back. The situation was getting a tiny bit interesting. The guy seemed to be more than what met the eye. Opening the door wider, I crossed my arms and leaned on my own door frame. See, I can do it too, bucko.

The general contractor went on. “Mr. Faraday said that you were always still on the job and that I was to work with you. Trevor failed to tell me this.”

I shifted over to lean on the other side of the door frame and stared at my shoes, studying them for muck. He continued, “I’m sorry we got off on the wrong foot. I’m here to apologize on behalf of myself and Mr. Faraday.”

“Not Trevor?” I asked with a tilt of my head, watching his eyes, which were like an oasis of water looming in the desert.

The general contractor eased into a smile so quick that it caught me off guard. He didn’t
notice the recovery of my poker face. He laughed a little and shook his head. “I will never apologize for that little prick.”

He looked at me. I couldn’t help, but smile myself. Those eyes were so bright and definitely a sea green. I could sail away in them for a month. I suddenly noticed that he was wearing glasses. Funny metal frames that made the lenses look like they had popped out and were hanging on by a wire. Very Picasso-esque. The general contractor looked at me questioningly and I realized that I was now staring.

“You have the most amazing eyes,” he said. “They’re like a Siamese cat's.”

“Thank you,” I replied. “You know a lot about cats then?”

“Not really,” he answered. “My sister has a Siamese and it has blue eyes.”

I looked at him, waiting for more. He looked back, saying nothing further.
“Are you finished then?”
The general contractor shifted and then looked over my shoulder. “Oh, I’m sorry, you have a date. Sorry to bother you.”

“A date?” I turned around, perplexed, and looked back into my condo. Brian was in the kitchen. I turned back around. “No, no, no date. Just Brian, my … (My what?)… neighbor. We watch DVDs and hang out.” Brian nodded his head, hip-hop style, my way. The general contractor was torn between watching me and looking at Brian.

“OK.” he said and made to leave. Then he suddenly turned around and extended his hand. “By the way, we never formally met. I’m Paul Atkinson.”

I grasped his hand like a real lady. It was strong and warm. “Lois Pushkin.”

“Thanks.” Paul smiled and he turned again to leave.

Impulsively, I called out after him, “Let’s have coffee some time? Since we’re working together now and all.”

Paul turned and stared at me again. “Yeah, coffee, sure.” He finally left and I watched him go. And go. And go.

I closed the door behind me after Paul got on the elevator. Brian stood at the island and looked at me with raised eyebrows. “Who was that?”

“That was the new general contractor for the job that I haven’t even finished designing.” I sighed. God, I was suddenly hot. I touched my hand to my forehead. It was a little moist, as was another place down south. I shuddered and got goose bumps. Brian’s voice interrupted my reverie.

“What is it that you do again?”

I stared him down to make sure he wanted to go down that path. I swore I told him the night after La Boehme. “Good grief, how many times do I have to explain this to you. I am an Interior Designer. I design interiors and do space planning.” I explained to his still blank expression. “I design and draw the pretty pictures that the contractor uses to build rooms.”

“Ha, ha! I know.” Brian laughed. “I just wanted to see you all pissed again. You’re hot when you’re pissed.”

“Aaaarrrggghhh! Men!” I yelled. But Brian was sweet for saying that even though he was a weird homeless guy. At least I knew he had liked my taste, choosing my condo to trespass at and that’s all a designer can ask for. We went back to the movie, which was almost over. By then Brian was ready to go home (wherever that was – I was too tired tonight to ask). I packed up the outdoors as we were expecting a little more LA spit (what the weather people here called
rain.)

“See ya later, Lois.”

“See ya, Brian,” I yelled back as I toddled off to bed. I slept OK until the witching hour of 3:00 AM. Always, I awoke at this time and then lay in bed thinking about my projects, my clients, my personal life (briefly, as usual), or what other nagging issue that wouldn’t go away. So annoying. Especially when thinking about all of this in between dreamless sleep and under the wire of consciousness. I wish they had a drug to turn the brain off, so that you could get a decent restful sleep without the emotional baggage. Especially after bouts with my mother. Round and round her voice would screech in my head. Or the scathing E-mail would repeat itself in my minds eye, as I tried to discern if this was all really coming from someone who claimed to be my mother. Other times, I kept hearing my cell phone ring. It never rang.

That morning I woke up thinking about Paul. Was he really trying to apologize last night? How did he find me? Did Trevor give me away? How much does Paul know about me? What did he tell Faraday? Do I still have a project to go back to? Oh, why do I even care? Paul’s a boob. A gorgeous, sexy boob, but I’m sure that, like all men, an idiot. I wonder if he’s bald under that cap? Great teeth and strong jaw line. The way he swaggers around in those lovely, dirty, holey jeans with that tool belt– mmmm, delicious. I snuggled deeper into my comforter with my nether bits tingling at the thought of that annoying man who stilled curled my toes even when he wasn’t around. Hand must get busy – that always helped with the sleeping.

Chapter 6

2009-03-01T13:10:00.000-08:00

Mr. Faraday wasn’t home. His assistant’s assistant, Trevor, led me into the foyer, briskly and in a perturbed manner after he let me into the residence. I liked saying the word perturbed: it sounded like a dirty word. Heading towards the hall that led to the offices, he suddenly stopped and turned on his heel, a wry smile on his face, delighting in a suddenly retrieved memory. “Oh, by the way, Mr. Faraday has already hired the general contractor for your bathroom project and he’s started today.” With that, Trevor was off again, a new, flaunting spring in his step.

What? I haven’t even finished designing the project yet! What was Faraday thinking? Shit! I marched down the hall after Trevor, got lost, back tracked, made the right decision, and went that direction. Eventually, I could smell sawdust and drywall as I got closer to the executive bathroom. Turning the corner, I could see someone crouching under the vanity with a drill, making test holes around the existing plumbing. As this person was covered in steel spirals
from the sheet metal wall panels, all I could make out was a nice ass in faded and holey jeans, a frayed Carhartt workman’s jacket and brown work boots if the same brand. Underwear looked to be Calvin Klein. Was this the general contractor?

During a drilling interval, I knocked on the wall next to the door. Out from under the vanity unfolded the mystery man sporting a frayed and holey baseball cap covering salt and pepper hair with the bluest eyes staring at me that curled my toes on sight! Then he broke into a smile that made me cream my jeans that instant. I didn’t care why he was there anymore. I only wanted to know who he was.

He cocked his head and studied me. Keeping that smile going, he said, “Hi. Can I help you? I know it’s easy to get lost in this house. The maid’s workroom is down the hall the other way.” He jerked his thumb down the direction of the hall.

Shock, shock! Horror, horror! The cute guy thinks I’m a maid? Do I look that terrible? I admit I might be getting a cold and didn’t take a shower today, but…“No, no,” I said, pausing. “I’m Lois Pushkin, Mr. Faraday’s interior designer. I’m the one designing his bathroom remodel.”

The contractor’s eyes tightened and he stood to his full height, “Mr. Faraday told me he’d hired a designer for this project. Usually he just lets me do what I want with the house. Especially after the results of the last ‘designer’.” He waved his hand around indicating the room we were in. “When he asked me to start this, I thought that he had fired you already.”

Fuck that shit! “No, Mr. Faraday has not ‘fired’ me and this is the first I’ve heard of your involvement in the project as well. Nothing regarding the new design has been finalized or approved by Mr. Faraday as of yet.”

This was obviously the general contractor Trevor told me about. He took a step back from me and put up his hands in mock defense. “Whatever.” God, I hated that phrase and I especially hated it from men.

“No, no ‘whatever’,” I replied. “We need to sort this situation out with Mr. Faraday and you need to stop what you’re doing right now.”

“I’m not stopping anything until I hear from Mr. Faraday,” he came back at me. He crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back up against the vanity, eyeballing me with his baby blues. Was he daring me?

Now my eyes tightened and my lips became sticks. You looked so good from the back, buddy. Don’t you double-dog dare me, bucko! I turned to leave and felt his hand on my shoulder. He had touched my clothes. Now I was really pissed. I turned back around.

“What?!” I hissed into his face, removing his hand from my person. I couldn’t believe this guy had the balls to touch me and with his dirty, metal-scraped hands on my new Coco Toulouse suit. I would be adding the dry cleaning expense to my invoice.

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“Where do you think? To find Mr. Faraday and get this cleared up,” I explained, stepping backward away from him and brushing his crap off of me. “You do what you want.”

The general contractor didn’t seem to like that. He came towards me and leaned against the door jamb, thumbs in his pockets, tool belt slung low across... oh God, Lois, stop staring. Catching my eyes with his, he said, “Fine, I’ll wait until you and Mr. Faraday come back.”

He stepped off and returned to his tools. As he crouched down, I snuck a peek. Damn, no plumber’s butt. I stomped down the hall to the foyer after getting lost in the walk-in closet. In
the foyer, I yelled Trevor’s name as loud as I could. I didn’t care. This job was so frustrating with assistant’s assistants, assistants, and now a macho, chauvinistic general contractor in cahoots with a crazy, cuckoo client. I couldn’t take it anymore. Again and again I yelled until both Trevor and the general contractor showed up at opposite ends of the foyer.

“Goddammit, woman, who the hell do you think you are yelling like a banshee in Mr. Faraday’s house?” snapped Trevor, shaking his mean, little, fag finger at me. That’s right- fag: a little, mean, gay man. Trevor was a fag and I fucking hated fags. Oh! I had had it with him and his boss and his boss’ boss. As furious as I was, I could shake his little fag finger off. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw that the general contractor was now leaning against the door jamb across the foyer with his thumbs still hooked into his pants, his tool belt swinging around his hips, watching Trevor and me fight. Was that the only pose he could manage? It took all of my effort to pull my eyes away from the peek-a-boo of hair on his tanned, flat stomach and focus on reaming Trevor.

“Trevor,” I began as calmly as I could because I didn’t want to be unprofessional in front of the help i.e.: the general contractor. “I had no knowledge that there would be a general contractor on the job at this time. I need to speak to Mr. Faraday right away so that we can clear all of this up now.”

Trevor smirked at me, “Mr. Faraday is away for the rest of the week and ‘incommunicado’.”

I smirked back. “Fine. Then let Mr. Faraday know that when he is back and available for an audience, he will be writing a check for my final bill.”

Trevor balked, put a hand to his glasses, and started chewing on the pinky nail of his
other hand. The general contractor shook his head, turned from the doorway and went back down the hall, tool belt swinging slowly to the rhythm of his walk. I had to pull my eyes away again when Trevor finally found his voice.

Trevor stared at me. “You can’t just do that.” He wagged his finger at me again. “This is Mr. Faraday we’re talking about. Nobody quits on Mr. Faraday.”

“Ciao.” I said as I heaved open the enormous front door (by myself, for once.) I wondered how a ninety-eight pound weakling like Trevor did it?

Trevor ran after me, still wagging that finger and yelling, “You’ll never work in this town again!”

If I had a nickel… I stomped down the driveway in my Stuart Weitzman’s (I didn’t know how much more stomping those petite kitten heels could take) and got into my car. Adjusting the rear view mirror, I took a good look at myself and sighed. This was a great job, Pushkin, no matter the circus freaks. Good money, too. You could’ve traveled to a tropical locale for a month or more. Could’ve even taken Harshy. I thought the scenario over again. Trevor’s bulging eyes and ‘nails on chalk board’ voice. Confrontations with a smarmy contractor. Problems with the construction; possible job site sabotage. No, Lois, this was a good decision, a sane decision. Only fucked-up shit could result from this kind of project. I would have to call Jasmine and explain. She wouldn’t like it. Not at all. Maybe this was a bad idea? Maybe I should’ve been more diplomatic, less diva. He just burns my britches. Trevor, not the contractor. Maybe I
could tell Faraday when I come back next week that Trevor is lying. That I hadn’t really quit. Like George on Seinfeld. What about the GC? Would he rat me out? I could say he misheard me while eavesdropping on my ‘meeting’ with Trevor regarding the project. Oh, shit. There were
probably cameras and microphones recording every image and every word. Shit! I was sunk. I would have to call Jas and explain what happened. Maybe she could talk to Faraday for me, make him understand how I work. Explain that I'm a temperamental artist. As a techno geek, would he even understand that? Way to go, Pushkin. You sure know how to keep your career in a rut. Just keep sticking that size 6 in your mouth. It’s familiar territory.

I started the engine, pulled out, and turned onto Mulholland Drive. In the rear view, I saw the general contractor loading gear into his truck. He had paused and was looking after me. What the fuck do you care, buddy. The job’s yours now. I waved my finger into the rear view mirror.

Chapter 5

2009-02-08T14:03:00.001-08:00

A couple of weeks later, I had my second appointment with Faraday in his office. Bruce and Trevor were buzzing around like flies on shit. Sitting across from each other, the huge expanse of his desk separating us, Faraday and I reviewed my preliminary lay-outs, the new finishes and their applications, elevations of all of the walls, and a new lighting plan to make the thinking spot less gothic and more enlightening. Naturally, the fabulous plumbing fixtures would stay.

After studying the proposal for about an eon, Faraday startled me. “I like it,” he said.

I waited for more, but nothing came. Faraday leaned back and motioned for Bruce. “Please see that Ms. Pushkin has full access to the bathroom to finish her design work. Review with her the daily schedules, security procedures, etc. I am leaving the coordination of this up to you and your assistant.” ordered Faraday.

Turning back to me, he pulled out his platinum Waterman pen and inquired, “Do you have your contracts ready, Ms. Pushkin?”

I pulled the documents from my bag. “Yes, right here,” I said as I slid them across the desk. Barely glancing at them, Faraday flipped to the ‘Sign Here’ tabs and penned his name in triplicate. Thoroughness was the one nerdy trait I did share with him.

Faraday motioned for Bruce again and handed him the documents. “Please take care of these.”

I stood and extended my hand to Faraday, thanking him for the opportunity to work with him and to be involved in such a great project. Graciously, he shook my hand and nodded, saying, “No, thank you, Ms. Pushkin. A great weight has been lifted from my shoulders. I feel more at peace with the space now that it is in your capable hands. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Bruce will take care of everything for you.” He stood up and left without a glance back.

I took my drawings, finishes, and catalogues off the desk and put them back in my bags. Remembering my contracts, I turned to Bruce. “Should I wait here or in the foyer for my contract and retainer?”

“You may wait here in the office, Ms. Pushkin”, replied Bruce, cordially. “I’ll have Trevor make you a drink if you like.”

“That would be great,” I said, settling myself back down into one of the Empire side chairs. “Hey, you can call me Lois since we’ll be working toget….”

Bruce cut me off. “No, I’m sorry. That won’t happen. That is unacceptable here at the estate.”

“Well…,” I replied, “but I’ve been calling you Bruce.”

“And that’s the way it is,” stated Bruce and left down the hall to take care of the start of my future successful design career. Money, money, money! Finally, a job that paid big bucks. I could rest easy for a month at least. No fretting over next month’s rent and bills at the Wiltern. If Faraday retained me for construction oversight, then I could make some good hourly fees. I wonder who he’ll be using for a general contractor? That would be key for this project. Hopefully, no overweight, smelly, butt crack of an attempt at fine carpentry idiot. I couldn’t bear it. I’d have to charge double.

Anyhoo, the remainder of the design portion of the project was going to be exhausting. Not the design work per se, but the people and the protocol. What was up that Bruce’s ass? “That is unacceptable”. Was I now caught up in a rendition of the ‘Sound of Music’ and would he come in with a whistle to command my attention? Oblivious to my inner dialoging, Trevor shuffled into the office and set about making me a drink. He was about to pour something when he paused and turned to me, “Um, what would you like to drink, Ms. Pushkin?”

“Isn’t that in your notes?” I asked, coyly. He obviously was having a hard time with the formality as well.

Trevor turned back to the bar, patted his coat pockets and then dropped his head back and sighed. Turning back around to me, he sneered. “Very funny. We don’t keep crib notes on the guests or the hired help.”

I raised my eyebrow at him. Hired Help? “Well then, I’ll have an old fashioned.”

He parried my eyebrow with a wispy one of his and returned to the bar to make my drink.
I noticed he didn’t even need to reference a bartender’s bible to make my un-trendy drink.

I sat back in the comfy chair and made a new list, sipping the wonderful burning beverage, allowing the stress from my neck and shoulders to flow down into the plush cushion
cradling my ass. Bruce finally returned with my signed contracts and retainer which I immediately put in my bag as I tended to lose important papers or unknowingly recycle them.
I retained him as I handed him my list that contained the things I needed to start and coordinate the design of the project, i.e.: the assistants’ cell phone numbers, fax numbers, and email addresses, etc.

Then I stood up, extended my hand to him, and told him that I looked forward to working with him and hoped that all would go smoothly with the project. Bruce shook my hand in the way men shake women’s hands that makes my skin crawl and showed me to the front door. Once again, I was in my outdoor room on the porch, staring back at the house. Would I have to go through this escort process throughout the entire project? I felt like I was 6 years old and in a chinaware exhibit. I wondered if they watched me? Pretending to take an interest in the landscaping, I snooped around for hidden cameras. Nothing to the naked eye, but sprinkler heads and outdoor lighting fixtures, although I was sure some of them could be a camera.

I got into my car, drove around the curve and made to exit onto Mulholland Drive. As I straightened out, I glanced into my rear view mirror to see a car pulling up to the gates. A silver Jaguar. Must be Jasmine, I thought. As I rolled my window down to shout ‘hello’, the gates opened and the Jag pulled through. I couldn’t back up as my gates had already closed, so I put my car in park and trotted over to the entry gates. They, too, closed on me, but I could see a woman approaching the front door. I studied her to see if it was Jasmine. Unfortunately, she was wearing a large hat, the kind you see on women at Ascot during race day. Bruce opened the door as I began yelling Jasmine’s name. Bruce, startled, looked up and glared at me all the while firmly herding the woman through the entry. Hmmm. Must not’ve been Jas after all. I waved at Bruce’s angry face and trotted back to my car. Idiot! Him, not me.

I drove back to the office intending to prep work for Monday. I made more lists, in my head of the job priorities and ordering procedures. I spoke into the recorder of my cell phone as these lists came to mind. I swear I don’t have a brain anymore. All of it is either on paper, in the computer, or in the cell phone. More often than not, it’s written on my hand. I remember one time, while still working late nights at Williams, Markel, and Frack Architects, I was at Gelsons grocery store standing in the express line to buy some frozen dinners. A couple was in line in front of me. The man leaned over and asked me if I had bought stamps that day. I looked at him in disbelief and asked how he had known that I had to buy stamps. He pointed down to the top of my hand where I had written ‘Stamps’ and ‘Library’. I laughed and said yes, but I hadn’t been to the library yet. The woman looked at me and grinned an apology for her partner. He said to me, “In this age of computers and gadgets, I find it very charming to see that people still write notes to themselves on their hands the way they did when they were still in grade school.”
That is how much of my brain is not with me as of today. As long as I have it all written down or recorded somewhere readily accessible, I never have to remember anything on my own. As if I could anyway. This is my use of technology. A new way to be lazy. Now I just filled up that space between my ears with TV, useless trivia, and daydreams. I think computers and gadgets gave us more time to be brainless and less responsible for the competent functioning of our brains. No wonder people have ADHD and allergies.

I parked in the garage of the Wiltern, hustled through the breezeway to the lobby, waved hello to Joe, and zoomed up the elevator to my office. I had stopped along the way for a grande
mocha and set that on my desk as I put my bags down. Déjà vu and a vision of a mocha all over Faraday’s project. I’d try to remember to be more careful. I moved the drink from my desk to
the credenza. Then I pulled the contracts out of the Faraday estate’s embellished manilla-sized envelope and a couple of checks came fluttering out. Picking them up from the floor, I saw, to my delight, that Faraday had paid my entire design fee to date, plus my retainer, and 100 percent of my reimbursables as remitted to him at our meeting that morning. Suddenly, I liked him even more. Jasmine was right about Faraday and I was glad.

Getting money from most clients was like pulling teeth. They couldn’t seem to understand why they should pay you any money for something they thought they could do themselves. General contract your first remodel or build your first house and then you’ll see why I get paid to do this. People pay attorneys and CPA’s for their services, no questions asked. Why? Because they are relying on their education, expertise, and experience to do a job for them that they will not or cannot do themselves. Well, people, same goes for designers. Just like doing your taxes or suing your brother-in law, you could do it yourself, but you wouldn’t want to. I wish more people felt the same about designers because I’ve seen a lot of botched “do-it-yourself” jobs and they were dangerous and offensive to the human condition. I am the defender of the world through good design. I think I’ll make that my mission statement. I laughed out loud to myself. The song “Neverending Story” by Llamal popped into my brain.

After who knew how long with my nose to the design grindstone, I rose up out of my crouched position and looked out the window. It was dark and not 5 PM dark. I looked at the
clock. It read 10 PM. Crap! I’d been here that long? I sat back in my chair, stretching my arms over my head and my legs under my desk. My lower back cracked in relief. My body ached. No
ergonomically correct furniture here. Well, if this job goes well, I’ll be able to afford some new furniture. I slid my shoes off and scratched my toes with my feet. I limped to the window. God, my butt hurt and the nylon sting on the backs of my thighs wasn’t helping my situation. I raised
the sash of my window and leaned my head out. I surveyed Los Angeles with her worker bee cars and their flash of red, white and amber lights. I stared down at the people below on the sidewalk and watched where they went, back and forth like a tennis match.

I closed my eyes and yelled at the top of my lungs, “Yahoo!” and “Yee haw!” and “Woo hoo!” I opened my eyes and looked down to find people puddling under my window, staring up at me. I waved down at them and ducked back inside. The phone started to ring.

“Pushkin Atelier,” I answered, spinning around in my desk chair.

Joe’s voice came on the line. “Are you all right, Ms. Pushkin? I’ve been getting calls that there is a crazy lady yelling on the roof.”

I laughed. “No, no, I mean, yes, I’m fine. That crazy lady is me, Joe. I’m yelling out of my window.”

“Well, knock it off please,” he implored, “The tenants are getting pissed.” I could hear a basketball game going on in the background. Yeah, right Joe.

“Right –o! Yes, sir!” I shouted and hung up the phone. I finished my mocha, naturally stone cold now, and put my suit jacket on. When I came out of the kitchenette, I found Harshy sitting in my chair.

“Who let you in?” I asked, jokingly.

“Your door man. He said you were going nuts, screaming out your window or some such shit,” she quizzed me, raising one eyebrow.

“Yeah, that was me. I had a long day and I wanted to blow off some steam and feel my blood pumping again,” I explained. “It felt good watching those people watch me. I felt much more important, more than anybody else at that moment.”

“OK, sister, whatever. Let’s blow this corndog stand,” ordered Harshy.

“OK, but no Formosa tonight,” I pleaded. I dreaded seeing Guy there again.

“Fine. Let’s go to La Boheme and melt into some hot toddies.”

“Mmmm, sounds delicious. I’ll call and reserve a table.” After I placed our reservation, I clapped the lights off and we drove off to West Hollywood for our night cap.

It was very late by the time I left Harshy and La Boheme. One night cap had turned into four. Harshy worked for a record label and had drunk way too many people under the table. I had fallen for that only a couple of times. Having peeled myself off of several bar floors, not knowing who I was or who I was with, I had learned to monitor myself. Well, most of the time anyway. I was letting my hair down that night and wanting to celebrate a little. A good, goddamn, decent job that was going to pay the bills. I felt legit. And Harshy was treating. Having an expense report that is primarily booze and bar food was never under suspicion in her line of work. If I didn’t watch it, I could really get into the swing of things with her and lose track of my imbibing. Harshy always had tons of stories about both the people she worked for and the people she worked with. It was a great business for her because it fed her celebrity whore habit. And, thanks to her, I knew intimate details about certain pop singers that I could’ve blissfully lived my whole life not knowing. Now that useless, annoying information pops up in my head at the most inconvenient times. That night I received more of that kind of info. Thankfully I was drinking fast and laughing a lot, causing much air to course through my veins and get me looser and drunker quicker than usual. Then I had to put on the breaks when I caught sight of my bawdy self in the bar back mirror. Whoa! I had too much work to do the next day to call myself in sick.

It was time to jet. I made sure that Harshy got a cab and was well taken care of. She was going to take a personal day after this night. I left my car at the lounge and took a cab to my condo. I slumped into and out of the elevator, braced myself on the walls down the brightly lit hall to my front doors. I fumbled my keys in the lock and let myself in. Kash was sitting on top of the kitchen island, very disappointed in my tardiness and shooting his eyes to his bowls.

“Shit, cat, feed yourself!” I cried. I plunked my bags onto the island and put kibble and water into his bowls. Squatting down at his level, I watched him eat. Then, after shrugging my blazer off, I stood up and stretched to my fullest bodily extent. It was then that I noticed a light on out on my patio. It wasn’t a light, it was the TV. Weird. I could’ve sworn I’d turned that off the previous night. I shrugged my jacket back on, opened the slider, and proceeded to the couch. I looked around in the darkness for the remote. Well, that was stupid. I went back to the slider and flipped the patio lights on. Their brightness scared the shit out of the night. I returned to the sofa and scanned for the remote, pulling off pillows, blankets, and tugging at shoes. Ah, there’s the remote. Wait. Shoes? I jerked back to the edge of the couch. Yep, shoes and not mine. I pulled off the rest of the blanket. There lay the stinky, transient guy from the week before, sleeping like a baby on my couch. I nudged his foot and he murmured and snorted. I pulled his leg and called out to him. He drew himself up in a fetal position, pushing his butt deeper into the back cushions.

Defeated, I sighed, went around the couch and sat at the end where his feet had been. My head hurt and I wanted a cigarette badly. Lounging back against the cushions, I lit up a smoke and exhaled into the fake bright sky. I smoked for a while and then decided that I had waited long
enough.

“Hey!” I yelled straight up into the night. “Buddy! Wake up!”

His eyes fluttered open, and then his hand came up to shield his eyes from the brightness, “What the fuck? What’s going on?” He looked my way. “Who are you?”

Looking closer at me, he bolted upright, “Oh shit, man! I mean, lady, look I’m sorry about being here. I’m not sleeping on your couch or nothing…”

“Cool your jets, man. Take it down a notch. Chill out,” I said, lolling my head on the cushions towards him. I watched him and waited.

He sat up straighter and picked up the blanket and started to fold it up. “Peace, lady. Uh…Sorry about being here. I thought you were already in bed.” He didn’t make to move off of the couch, just sat there fiddling with the corner of the blanket.

He was young, maybe nineteen or twenty, tall, with curly blonde hair and soft, brown eyes. He nervously smiled at me taking stock of him. Great teeth. And reasonably clean, too. In fact, he really wasn’t as dirty or smelly as I had earlier assumed. His clothes were the same as the other day, but not filthy. His shoes were new – freshly stolen? He followed my gaze and propped his feet upwards on the patio deck to show them off more.

“Yeah, I stole ‘em. Had to. You need good shoes to live on the streets. I don’t steal regular. I try to do odd jobs and stuff. Hard to get steady employment with no address and employers don’t call you back when you give them a shelter number,” he explained.

“What’s your name?” I asked. Didn’t look like he was going anywhere soon and I knew it would be a while before I could get my butt off the couch anytime soon as well. What the hell was I doing drinking with Harshy?

“Brian.”

“Brian what?”

“Brian Marcs.”

“Where are you from?” I asked exhaling the last of my cigarette. I managed to lean forward, without falling, to swipe an old pack off of the Philippe Starck coffee table I had scored on eBay. The table maintained itself very well in the outdoor elements. Apparently my cigarettes had, too, although they looked a little warped from the recent moisture system passing through the city. I pulled one out and lit it from a match proffered by my new guest.

“Chino.”

“And why are you on my patio?” I asked.

“’Cause it’s private, it has a couch, and a TV,” came his cheeky reply. He put the match out in the ashtray I had made when I was ten. He stared at that for a long time. Maybe he had one just like it?

“Well, that’s an obvious reason to be here now,” I replied. “Why are you in Los Angeles then?”

Brian looked down at his hands, rubbed them on his thighs, and stuck them under his legs. “Long story short, I left Chino to pursue acting and now I’m homeless. The only acting jobs I was offered were porn and I ain’t about that so I got zilch right now.”

I looked him up and down. Actor- poor idiot. “Why don’t you go home?”

“Ain’t nothing for me in Chino neither. I was thinking about it a few weeks ago, but then I found your place. You were pretty predictable before you saw me the other night, so I thought I was doing OK for a while. After you freaked your shit on me, I was being more careful. Blew it
tonight, though,” concluded Brian. He stopped and waited for me to say something. After nothing came, he pulled on his coat and zipped it up. He started to get up.

“Wait, you can stay out here for tonight. We’ll figure out your shit tomorrow,” I suggested. “Do you like ‘Conan’ ?”

He smiled sheepishly. “That was already on. It’s really late, you know.”

Oh. I hadn’t noticed in my drunken state. “Hungry?”

“Starved!” yelled Brian, startling me out of my seat.

“Come on, I’ll make you a salad.”

Brian’s food enthusiasm sank like a lead balloon. “Uh, yeah, great. Thanks.”

I laughed. “Trust me, you’ll love my salad.”

Chapter 4

2009-02-08T14:03:00.000-08:00

I drove up to the gates of the address I’d been given on Mulholland Drive. They were huge gates, made of iron and steel, with rivets the size of Oreos. They were also very high – 12 feet, I’d say, with spikes every 8 inches on center across the top. Somebody definitely wanted to keep the world at bay. The ominous ironwork was still an art piece, though: two great lion heads with big, wide eyes hung off center panels. Wait. Did those eyes just move? I rolled down my window and stared intently into them.

“Ms Pushkin?” came a male voice.

“Fuck!!” I yelled. The voice had come from out of nowhere. No, more precisely, out of the lion’s head, 12 inches from my face. “Err, um, sorry about that. You startled me. I usually don’t yell and I usually don’t swear. Yes, this is Lois Pushkin.” Fucking great, you retard. Lois. Arrgghh. Nice first impression.

There was a long pause. No doubt some assistant’s, assistant’s, assistant was laughing so hard he’d peed his pants already, “Please park your car in the turn-around and go directly to the Main entry.”

The gates buzzed and languidly swung open in all of their grandeur like the gaping jaws of Pinocchio’s whale. Was I like Pinocchio or more like Jonah? Well, the end was just the same. I drove my sleek, silver, Subaru wagon through and down the white pebbled expanse to the home. It loomed up as I drove toward it.

Honestly, I liked the house. It wasn’t offensive to me like I thought it would be when I checked it out via the aerial photo on the net. That was a good thing. I couldn’t work in crap. It was a bright, white, stucco in the Moorish style with not too much ironwork. They must have used that all up with the security fencing. Ironwork always killed Moorish architecture if it was laid on too thick. What appealed to me most were all of the flowers. God, how I loved flowers. Another perk to living in this city – flowers in bloom 365 days a year. I stuck my head out the window and breathed them all in. I caught the scent of my favorite and looked around for the shrub. It was daphne and a bank of it flanked a path shooting off to my left. My vision was obscured by birch tree branches, but the path seemed to go on for a ways. I parked my car in the turn-around, got out, and headed toward the path, intoxicated by the plant’s perfume. As I was leaning over, breathing in the wonderful aroma, I heard someone clearing their throat at my head. I quickly stood up and was faced by a butler in full regalia.

“Pardon me, ma’am, but this area is off limits to you. You were to come directly to the main entrance,” explained the butler, stiffly showing me the correct path to the front door.

“Oh, I’m sorry. The daphne smelled so good and they’re my favorite. I just had to come over and smell them. I… I wasn’t going to go anywhere,” I stammered.

“This way, Ms.”

“Wait, I’m sorry. Please wait. I have to get my materials and portfolio out of the car. Hold… hold on a sec,” I said as I rushed over to my car and quickly gathered my things. The butler waited until I was ready, and then we entered the house together. The front doors looked so old. I wondered what bankrupt Scottish castle Faraday had seized them from. In fact, I started to wonder who had done his entire house. Crap, I forgot to call Jasmine. The butler led me down a long hall and offered me a seat in a small sort of waiting room in front of a pair of double doors. I sat and waited. Presently, the doors opened and a tall, spry man with wispy, receding hair and frameless glasses came out.

“Ms Pushkin?”

“Yes,” I answered, rising from my seat.

“I’m Trevor Gerard, Bruce Hansen’s assistant. Come with me,” he ordered. I followed him through the double doors into another room half the size of the previous one. Trevor offered me yet another seat and told me to wait. He went through another pair of double doors at the end of the room. It was then silent, very silent, except for a low buzzing sound. Was it some early form of tinnitus. I looked around absentmindedly. Then my eye caught something moving and I turned my head fully to inspect it. High in the ceiling, above the crown molding was a tiny surveillance camera. I waved and smiled.

At that moment, the double doors opened and another tall, thin man with wispy, receding hair, and frameless glasses appeared. I did a double take, but, yes, it was a different man.

He introduced himself, “Hello, I’m Bruce Hansen, Mr. Faraday’s personal assistant.”

Figures, I thought. “Lois Pushkin.”

“Yes, yes, if you’ll come with me,” invited Bruce, leading me through the second set of double doors. I followed, only to be led into some sort of antechamber. It had plush lounge furniture, a real log-burning fireplace, and real gas candelabras equally spaced all around the room in ornate raised panels on the walls. Bruce motioned for me to sit down again.

“Please wait while I tell Mr. Faraday that you are here,” said Bruce and he disappeared through a pseudo-concealed panel in the wall.

Well, I’m sure Faraday already knows I’m here. I felt as though I were at Wuthering Heights, waiting for Heathcliff, except the weather was far too nice to be any place on the Moors. As I sat gazing out the beautiful, leaded casement windows, I heard a click and another buzz. Turning around, I found Bruce once again standing before me.

“Mr. Faraday will see you now,” he announced. I got up and was once more lead through what was a last set of double doors into an expansive executive office that was fit for a king. In front of the chair I was directed to sit in was the most beautiful Amazon blackheart and English fingered sycamore desk that I had ever seen. The inlay and the carving on the piece were extraordinary, the details infinite. It was either very, very old and a cherised family antique or recently custom made if Faraday had no regard for the environment. I’m sure I could find a picture of it in my old art history books from college.

The walls were upholstered in purple and olive crushed linen velvet, tufted with big oiled-bronze studs similar to the rivets of the security gates. There were floor-to-ceiling French-lite windows draped in layers of the most luscious Chinese silk in coordinating shades of purple, olive, and gold. All the traditional colors of royalty.

Looking around, I saw that the chair I sat in and its mate were from the Empire period. There was a side table with matching side board in a Roman style with swan balustrades. Quite truly a room fit for a king. Or maybe more like Napoleon? The room was dimly lit and the air was musty and pungent with a smell I couldn’t identify. I turned my nose up and snorted softly to expel the stench. Where was a cup of coffee when I needed it most? I was finally left staring at the back of a large, worn, leather executive chair.

“Ms. Pushkin is here, sir,” announced Bruce, startling me out of my reverie, I almost swore again. The leather executive chair swiveled around slowly, and for the first time I found myself staring at Kip Faraday. ‘Odd little man’ was the first thought that came to my mind. He stood up in greeting. Excuse me – Odd, tall man! Faraday must’ve been 6 feet, 5inches with the build of a bean pole and hair that stood as much at attention as Faraday’s assistants. Perpetual bad hair (poor guy), aquiline nose, and glassy, bright blue eyes in an almost Neanderthal brow. Or maybe his forehead only looked prehistoric because his jaw was cut with the precision of a builder’s square.

Faraday came around his desk, and I got up from my chair. He extended his hand to me. “Thank you for taking time out to meet me, Ms Pushkin,” he greeted me, taking my hand wholly in his and shaking it like he meant what he was saying. It was, I was sure, a well practiced maneuver for him.

“Please, call me Lois and it was no trouble. Thank you for calling me. It’s good to finally meet you,” I replied in turn. So far so good. I actually sounded seasoned and professional. It was all just rolling off the tongue like it was true. Wow.

Faraday turned to Bruce. “We’ll be fine. You can go now. I’ll call for you if we need anything.” Bruce left the room via the real doors and Faraday remained standing before me, “What I have for you is only a small job. During the initial renovation of my home, I chose to depart from the main vision of the house and went for a very modern scheme in my executive bathroom. Very bad advice I took, I’m afraid. It turns out that I am so disturbed by this design choice that when I’m in the foul room, it begins to affect my life and my business.” He paused and then continued, searching my face for understanding. “You see, as cliché as it sounds, I find the toilet is the best place for having brainstorms and trouble shooting business issues.” He paused again to study my face.

With every bit of willpower given to me by God, I made no other expression on my face other than that of intense listening.

He went on, “The reason why I called you and not the original conjurer of my own personal Xanadu is because, well, she is dead.” Again, Faraday scrutinized me. I felt I was taking a pop quiz. I nodded for him to continue.

“In the beginning, I wasn’t aware of how my bathroom was affecting me. One night I was having drinks with Jas here at the house, and she revealed that she totally hated that bathroom. That got us discussing its demerits and flaws. By the end of the night, we had concluded it to be the root cause of my current failures and she insisted that I call you immediately to make things right. She also said you would be available right away,”

I nodded again (Thanks, Jas). “Please continue,” I said, encouraging him.

Faraday held my attention with his intense facial expression, “I have not used that bathroom since and, pleasantly enough, my business has stabilized.” Faraday sighed, turned to his desk, and then abruptly turned back, a finger pointed at me. “You must not ever let people know that the lull in my success was because of my bathroom, capeche? If you speak of this to anyone I will ruin you forever, personally and professionally. Before you leave today, you will be signing an iron-clad, no loop holes, ‘you cannot make any money off of your information’ privacy clause.”

Oh, my God. I was so scared. Not. I let my shoulders relax. Who did this guy think he was? My mother? Little Lord Fauntleroy was more like it. But this was news. Glad I wasn’t the only one who received divine inspiration whilst sitting on the pot!

“I understand fully, Mr. Faraday. One’s environment does affect one’s psyche and if it is the wrong environment, it can throw one’s entire life out of kilter. I take it you want your bathroom more in sync with your original vision, at least what I have seen so far?” I summarized.

“Yes, yes, that is correct. Please follow me and I will show you to the disaster area, but I won’t go in with you, it’s too disturbing. Please, take complete photos so that we can discuss the project later,” he said as we exited his office. We passed through a different pseudo-concealed panel and into a short hall. Along the way, I noticed alcoves with a coffee bar, a snack bar, a juice bar, and a wet bar. Along the other side were full- height closets. One was ajar and I noted sports clothes and corresponding equipment neatly stored. Instant access and ready to go on a whim. I wondered if he had a servant in one of the alcoves, just waiting to be buzzed to assist his every need?

At the end of the hall was the executive washroom, my new project. Faraday opened the door and I went in, leaving him at the threshold. The small room amazed me. So unlike the rest of the house’s décor. It was very glitzy to the eyes with a very high ceiling, almost 18 feet for sure, with a beautiful, leaded-glass dome skylight which surely must have been custom made in Europe. The sky light was uplit and glowed like a suspended full moon. The room itself was very austere with an ultra-high tech, modernist influence. As you stepped into the space, your feet slid on glossy, soot black, slate tiles. The walls were paneled in brushed aluminum riveted to the walls almost all of the way up to the ceiling. There was no traditional millwork, save for some exaggerated cornices over the door, window, and mirror. They were very large and cantilevered out from the walls in such a manner that you felt they would come crashing down with the slightest movement. These were finished in a patina application of silver with black crackling – very Batman. Was the original designer’s idea to turn Faraday into a superhero while he was on the pot? Apparently, it wasn’t working for him.

As I moved around the room, I noticed the fixtures the only artistic features in the room. They should be, they were all Philippe Starck. I wondered if I would be able to soil such works of sculpture myself? With the bathroom such an abomination, why couldn’t they have picked Michael Graves to crap in? Maybe Starck was inspirational; that would make sense after all. The fixtures would definitely be staying.

“So, this is it,” said Faraday, making a sweeping movement from the doorway. He was not about to enter the small enclosure. “Do you think you can save it?”

“Oh yes,” I replied, “it seems pretty straight forward. After my preliminary assessment and site measurements, I’ll begin putting ideas together and pulling suitable finishes for you. We’ll meet again to review the new scheme when I have finished the initial design development. Naturally, I can only begin on your project upon receipt of a signed contract and retainer. I can have that to you by next week.”

“Great,” said Faraday and he smiled, the first smile I had seen on him since we met. “Thank you. I’ll have Bruce give you a check for this initial consultation as agreed upon plus money to get started before I receive your contract. I want this started on ASAP.” With that, he pressed a button on the wall just outside the bathroom and left the hall through yet another concealed panel. Well, at least he appreciated my profession and how I worked. So nice to have a client who values service and pays for it.

Standing alone in the bathroom suddenly became weird. The hall gaped beyond the open doorway and it unnerved me to think someone else could come popping through any of the panels at any given time and sneak up on me. I closed the door - who knew how long it would take Bruce to get back to me? Maybe his office was in the basement and he would have to pull his creepy self up in a dumbwaiter. With his physique, that could take hours.

I pulled out my tape measure from my work bag, along with a legal pad and pencil, and began measuring the room, verifying some basic dimensions. Might as well make use of the time. I needed to remember to ask Bruce or Trevor for the original construction drawings. Site verification was always good, as contractors liked to change things and the design wasn’t always implemented as planned. Although I couldn’t imagine Faraday standing for any little deviation in his own personal “Xanadu”. Except, of course, for this disaster. Perhaps he had an Achilles heel after all.

I was just about to tackle measuring the exact ceiling height when there was a knock at the bathroom door. “Ms. Pushkin? Hello?”

I opened the door to find Trevor. “Yes, I’m still here. Just taking some measurements.”

“Ah. Yes.” Trevor’s tone was now more the civil assistant type. “Bruce said that Mr. Faraday wanted you to be shown out.”

“Yes, that seemed to be the plan.” I said, putting the tools of my trade back in my bag. “When I was finished in here. Do you have someone hired for that?”

“Well, no not yet…er…” Trevor looked at me and saw I was pulling his leg. He blushed and, in a fluster, escorted me back through the maze of halls, into the volumous entry way, and politely showed me the front door, opened.

“My check?” I asked.

Trevor sighed and opened the padfolio he was carrying. Pulling out a fine linen envelope embossed with the Faraday estate logo (a pair of lions, of course), he handed it over to me, taking care to avoid any physical contact with my person. Was that required or his own personal preference?

“Thank you.” I said as I stepped out into the portico. “I’ll be calling you in the next day or so to arrange another meeting with Faraday in two weeks.”

“Yes, fine,” acknowledged Trevor, not picking up on my abuse of the Faraday name, “Good day.” And he shut the immense door in my face. I was left standing in the little outdoor room. Shrugging my shoulders, I hoisted my bags and walked to my car in the turnaround. Little pebbles found their way between my toes in my open-toed mules as I walked on the pads of my feet to avoid sinking into the fine gravel. I had almost twisted my ankle before when I had hustled with the butler to the front door after my arrival.

Driving to the front gates, I mouthed “Open sesame” at the little camera looking at me. The gates started their slow swing open. I doubted very much that the two actions were related, but for an instant I got the feeling that Bruce was eyeballing me from his little dungeon. Did he, I wondered, share a desk through the wall with Trevor, as in the movie ‘Brazil’? Oooh, that made me giggle. I tooted my horn as I drove through the gates onto Mulholland Drive.

Back at the office, I peeled off my suit jacket. Another “hot” day in LA. ‘There’s going to be another heat wave this weekend,’ the news always said so very spritely. Sounds like every weekend from my hometown except change “heat wave” to “rain showers”. What else was new? Weekends were always ruined by the weather wherever you lived. I sat down at my desk and pulled the Polaroids and sketches of Faraday’s bathroom out of my bag. A Post-it fell to the floor. “Call Jasmine,” it read. Ah, yes, mustn’t forget that. I reached into my desk file drawer, pulled out the phone, and dialed her cell. When she finally answered, I could hear the 405 freeway as a clearly as a pin dropping. She’d put me on speaker phone for sure.

“This is Jasmine.” Jasmine announced in her silky, wealthy voice.

“Hey, lady, it’s Lois.” I announced.

“Hello, dahlin’, how arrreee youuu?” she drew out.

“I’m fine, thanks. Hey, I had my first appointment with Kip Faraday and his entourage today, and I wanted to call and thank you for the referral. I think I’ll be taking on the project.”

“Fantastic, dahlin’! I knew this would be a great break for you,” Jasmine gushed.

“Be honest with me, Jas. Am I nuts to get involved with that circus family?”

Jasmine laughed her champagne bubble laugh. “Oh, dahhlin’, don’t be silly. Kippie’s a great fellow. Yes, he’s odd, but he doesn’t bite and he always pays.” She paused, the 405 whizzing by in the background. “Besides, I thought you could use the notoriety, honey.”

I snorted to myself. “Yes, well, thank you, I could. By the way, do you know who designed the house or at least the interiors?”

“Oh yes, Dahlin’,” confirmed Jasmine, “some famous architect designed the house. He’s dead now, but it was Char McVie who did the interiors.”

Char McVie was an older, long established, celebrity designer who started her career fresh out of a New York design school in the opulent ‘50’s of Los Angeles. She was the designer that created palaces for Sinatra, the Bogarts, and Merv Griffen. Char was the only “celebrity” designer at the time and she was very cut throat when anyone tried moving in on her ‘territory’. It was rumored that other designers wanted her dead and plotted her demise regularly.

I was then surprised to learn from Jasmine that Ms McVie was dead also and just recently. I hadn’t heard that sound bite. Maybe I should have a celebrity death update on my homepage.

“Oooh, gotta run, dear, my exit’s four lanes over and coming up fast,” relayed Jasmine, and before her cell clicked off, I could hear the tires squealing.

I could see why Faraday would hire Char McVie. She would be the only designer to hire for the creation of ones own personal Xanadu. Faraday’s estate was like literally Xanadu II, the sequel. The house and grounds were magnificent, what I had seen so far. Maybe Char McVie saw the project as her final mark on the world before she passed on, her final coup de grace. I still couldn’t get over the bathroom, though. Why would Char deviate so much from her established styles and do something so mod and even deconstructionist? Would she even have known what deconstructionism was? Did Char even do the bathroom or had she passed on before it was finished? Was it finished by a partner or an assistant? Or the general contractor? I’d have to remember to ask Faraday at our next appointment. Damn, no more daylight savings time. It was 5 pm and already dark. I called down to the lobby.

“Security,” answered Joe. From the background noise, he was obviously watching the first of the season’s basketball games.

“Hey, Joe, it’s Lois on the fourth floor. Could you meet me in the lobby and walk me to my car?”

“Yeah, sure, Ms. Pushkin,” replied Joe. I’m sure that he was praying for commercials when I came down. I met him in the lobby and we took the stairs to the garage.

“You walk down here by yourself all the time, Ms. Pushkin. Is something wrong?” asked Joe. “Is someone harassing you?”

“Well, no, I just get bad vibes when there is no more daylight savings,” I confessed.

“Whatever,” answered Joe, shrugging his shoulders, “as long as you’re safe.”

“Thanks, Joe,” I replied. I only cringed slightly at his reply as I opened my car door. “I hope your basketball people win.”

Joe smiled sheepishly, “It’s a team, Ms. Pushkin and I’m not watching the game, really.”

I drove out onto Wilshire and waved to Joe that I was OK. Traffic was light for once and I made it home quickly. Kashmew met me at the door. I fed and watered him as he wrapped himself in a knot around my legs. I felt creative that evening and made myself a salad. I was famous for my salads among my friends. It was the only thing I couldn’t burn unless you count hard boiled eggs. I can burn water – genius, I know. I hated your typical definition of a salad so I made it a loose “sandwich in a bowl” adding bacon bits, sunflower seeds, lots of cheese, hardboiled eggs, meat or tuna, and sometimes, in the summers, fruits and berries. I poured my favorite dressing, Green Goddess from Joe’s, all over my masterpiece. One bite and I was sated and ready to work.

I had brought home my design materials for Faraday’s project and I laid them out on the ottoman coffee table. I studied the Polaroids and began sketching a mind’s-eye drawing of what I thought his bathroom oasis should be. The next day, I would go through my library of finishes and then peruse the showrooms for the rest. The ideas for the project were spontaneously flowing and I furiously sketched and noted and listed for several hours. I loved those moments. They made me feel like I really was a professional designer and that I actually knew what I was doing. Everyone feels like a fraud at their job sometimes, so it’s great when that idea is obliterated.

I turned my head quickly. Something in my periphery had changed. I became aware of a slow materialization of clothing at my slider. Taking in tennis shoes, jeans, a trench, and a shabby baseball cap, I found myself looking through the glass at a stranger. A transient? On my roof top? I stood up and locked eyes with him. I was in shock, unable to move even my fingers, feeling only my heart pounding out of my chest. Then the stranger began pantomiming through the glass, indicating that he was leaving? Or that I should open the door and just hand him my valuables? Or worse, give myself over to him. Did he have a gun?

That last thought made me mad. Heedless of the spine-tingling, spidey sense of danger, I stormed over to the slider, anger overriding any common sense. Furious and now slightly dizzy, I threw the sliding panel open, “Answer me, buttneck, how did you get up here?” I yelled into his face.

He backed off. “I’m sorry, I’m very sorry. I saw your place from the hills. You have a fire escape.” he paused, “And I just wanted to crash and watch TV awhile.”

“Jesus Christ!” I yelled at the top of my lungs, my adrenaline surging.

Shitdamnfuck! I composed what I could of myself and then stared at him more closely. He was young, dirty, and smelly. He was probably a runaway, maybe a hustler off Sunset. Thankfully, not a rapist. “Well, now you have to leave! Get the fuck out of here! This is private property and I will call the cops!”

He turned and took off quickly down the fire escape. I realized now I’d have to get some concertina wire for security. I turned, now physically shaking, and went back inside. After locking the slider, I checked it twice. I also left the patio lights on in case my “visitor” returned. Back in my living room, I tried to calm down and turn my attention to my work once again. I made myself some chamomile tea and went back to the couch. I sat cross-legged in a yoga position, trying to center my troubled and scared core. It was hopeless. I stared at all of my work I had done so far. I had been on such a tear! But inspiration was lost for the night. Thanks, buttneck. I ended up making a list of things I needed to do for the next day and people I needed to call. When I finished, I leaned back into the couch cushions. God, I was tired. Kashmew jumped up on the sofa and curled into my lap. I turned the inside TV on, but fell asleep only minutes later.

Chapter 3

2009-02-01T12:18:00.000-08:00

Chapter 3

Out onto the busy streetscape, I retrieved my car from the valet. I headed for home on Crescent Heights in West Hollywood. A safe place for a gal. Nobody would harass you in that part of town. The gay men could barely stand to look at women there because we’re the ghastly competition. At least that’s how they made me feel. A friendly wave would be nice, guys.

Because my career as a self-employed interior designer can be sporadic and monetarily unpredictable, I’m very appreciative of my home. I lived in the penthouse of an old apartment building at the west end of Laurel Canyon left to me by my great aunt; the “crazy” aunt my mother always likened me to. The building had actually been left to my mother, but she couldn’t be bothered with dealing with “that LA”, so she gifted the whole property to me. According to her, if I was going to live in that god-forsaken city, I might as well have a decent place to live. My mother really does care.

My apartment was 2,000 square feet in an L-shape with two full-height, full-width window walls looking out on terrace gardens. The roof parapet was high enough that I could sunbathe naked if I so desired. The penthouse structure sat right smack dab in the middle of the building roof so I had patio on all four sides. Well, one patio was the pool that I now kept for myself. The penthouse had originally been built as a rec room/pool house for the original mucky-muck celebrity tenants use in the ‘20s. When I inherited the building, I didn’t want neighbors around me so I took over the rec room and remodeled it into my own private oasis with a California back drop of hills, sunsets, and the Hollywood sign. It all made me feel so glamorous.

The patio and pool area used to be open for use to all of the tenants, but I changed that when I received the building. I did not cherish the thought of old, wrinkled, half naked men peering into my windows looking to chat. I still had some of the original tenants living in the building. They regularly told me how much they missed the pool. Live with it.

So what was my deal? Why was I so concerned about money if I had a sweet deal like my apartment building? In West Hollywood, I should be able to get a pretty penny for all the units. I should have sniffed a rat when my mother gave me the “gift”. My aunt was crazy, really. In her will, she decreed that all original tenants who were still living at the time of her passing would maintain their residency as long as they desired at their current rent rates. She was an old softy. She didn’t charge anyone more than five hundred a month for their deluxe accommodations. Anyone who contested her will was considered deceased before her, so ineligible to inherit. What bastard thought that up? So, I basically inherited an albatross for now.

I felt like walking through the halls monthly, shouting “Bring out your dead.” With the upkeep of the building and the naïve, wide-eyed loans I had taken out for my remodel against the building, I was barely breaking even with the rents I was receiving each month. I danced for joy when a tenant moved out or “moved on”. Only then could I quadruple the rent. Damn medical science! Someday I would cash in. Someday. And then I could appreciate what my mother had given me.

I opened up the double glass entry doors and was greeted by the love of my life, “Hello Kashmew.” I reached down to pet a striped tabby with Margaret Keane painting eyes. “How’s my baby today? How’s about some din-din? I’m starved myself.”

Kash followed me into the kitchen and paced his bowls like guarded treasure. I filled them with kibble and water. Kashmew was very demanding and he liked his schedule. I’m secretly confidant that he has OCD. I had inherited Kash from a college roommate. She used to bring him to our design studio hall all of the time. Back in those days, you could still bring your dogs, your gnarly, sexy-ugly boyfriends, and even smoke in the studios. Then everyone went PC and that was the end of that era. I’m sure the hippies are cleaner and more organic now, with well adjusted and organized studio desks.

How I got him was a freak and almost fatal accident. My studio mate was out on the fourth floor balcony off of our studio space, smoking a cigarette, and her cat (now my cat, Kashmew) was out there, chasing bugs and eyeballing birds. I was spacing out on them, frustrated with my thesis. All of a sudden I was watching Kash balancing on a concrete windowsill off of the balcony deck, forty feet off the ground and up on a four- inch horizontal space! I bolted from my desk, ran out onto the balcony, lunged over the railing, and grabbed Kash by the scruff yanking, him back over to safety. His life had flashed before my eyes. I turned with him in my arms to find my studio mate staring at me, eyes as wide as Kash’s.

“Oh. My. God. He could’ve died! You saved his life!” she cried. Did I mention that she lived in a sorority? Then she did something that would change my life. “He’s yours now. He’s chosen you. It’s Chinese Philosophy or something.”

“I can’t take him. I can’t have pets,” I protested. I had a sweet apartment close to campus that I didn’t want to give up especially for a cat plus I was graduating in a month.

“You have to,” she said. “I can’t keep him now.”

So, Kash lived at the studio, inside only, ‘til I graduated. After graduation, I piled my stuff and Kashmew into the U-Haul and we left for Los Angeles. I think that had been his plan all along and I think my mom had put him up to it. She couldn’t guilt me about leaving home for school anymore, so she had to send me to a place where she could guilt me about my lifestyle plus living away from home.

Reaching into the fridge, I pulled out a pre-made salad from Joes and a Dopplebach. I kicked off my shoes and headed outside to my terrace. Putting my dinner on the TV tray next to the sofa, I searched the cushions for the remote. Yes, I also had a entire living room set-up on the patio complete with TV and a satellite dish. I’d found that it was warm enough in LA to watch TV outdoors year round, one of the perks of living in this blasted wacko city. It wasn’t really decadent, just doable. When it rains, I have an awning that automatically comes out to cover everything. That happens about as often as that harvest moon phenomenon.

Besides, Kash didn’t let me smoke in the house. Sometimes pigeons joined me and once a raccoon. That was weird. Golden eyes staring at me from the parapet, little, black, gloved hands holding cheese stolen off of my plate, nibbling away. Los Angeles’ weirdness was unique and it was one of the things I enjoyed about living here. It wasn’t weird in the way that there were a lot of freaks, weirdo’s, or crazy’s here. I think that was an LA myth perpetuated by tourists. The weirdness was that it was so different from where the majority of its inhabitants were from originally. Is any Angeleno native anymore? Only in LA could you watch TV outside year round, swim in a warm ocean in December, share your Sunday mornings with your local transient haggling over recyclables, and be among tons of people in the grocery store and you and the automated check out are the only ones that speak English as a first language.

I settled in, watched the news, and ate my dinner. Kashmew settled down at the opposite end of the couch, grooming himself and then eventually falling asleep. Soon he was making soft snorting sounds and kneading the pillows. The ghetto birds flew in a tizzy overhead searching for slow-speed police chases or cars burning on the 101 or 405. Once the news was over, they would all disappear until the 11 o’clock hour. I hoped to be snuggled in bed by then. I began to think about my Monday appointment and started to panic a little. Was I prepared? This was a huge step for me. A client with money. Was I stupid to think I had the balls to take on such high-profile client. Who was I? Was Jasmine too confident in me? Why had she recommended me? Maybe it was really a ‘nothing’ job like Lacey had circuitously suggested. God, what was I going to wear? Would he look at my shoes? I pulled strands of hair around to my face. Shit, I needed a haircut and style. I noticed the cuticles on my fingers. Fuck! Kicking off my shoes, I reviewed my toes and heels. Then, I hiked up my pant legs and sighed. What a forest. Oh, boy! I knew what I was doing that weekend. I reached over to the coffee table, picked up the phone and punched in Harshy’s number. We agreed to a day of beauty at the Beverly Center with dinner and drinks, of course.

Chapter 2

2009-01-25T14:05:00.000-08:00

I unlocked my office door, picked up the business journal from the floor, and headed for my tiny office kitchenette. While coffee brewed and toast a ‘roasted, I dialed Faraday’s number. The phone rang and rang and rang. Crap, was there no voice mail? I twisted strands of my dark hair in a spiral. Finally a message came on the line: “Thank you for calling the Faraday estate. Please dial the extension number of the assistant with whom you wish to speak. Leave your name and number only.” The tinny male voice succinctly spoke a list of assistants’ names with their corresponding extensions. There was no option for Mr. Faraday so I pressed “0” and was dumped into a general mailbox.

“Hello. This is Lois Pushkin of Pushkin Atelier returning Kip Faraday’s call. Please call me at your convenience,” I said and I left my number. Assistants? Hanging up, I retreated to the kitchenette for my coffee and toast. Peanut butter toast is manna from heaven. Especially the salty, crunchy kind from Joe’s. As I licked it from my manicured fingers, I began to wonder if I’d ever seen any articles about this Faraday guy. I’d have to grill Harshy more about him later. Or I could surf the net for information him? I usually did that with clients to see if (1) they were who they said they were and (2) if they could afford my rates. He was a friend of Jasmine’s - and a man, so he had to have money. She wouldn’t waste her breath on any other combination.

Before I did that, though, I needed to go to the Pacific Design Center and do my usual bit of memo sampling and check out the new seasons offerings. Please do not let gray or brown be the trend this time; the “new” blacks. God, People, if you’re going to live in a city that has tropical weather pretty much all year round, let’s try and have a little more color and boldness in our lives and stay away from the gray, the black and the khaki. I decided to wait around a little while longer to see if an assistant from the Faraday estate called me back soon.

Putzing around, I filed paperwork and samples from past jobs, (what few there were), cleaned the kitchenette counter, shook the crumbs out of the toaster, sorted my mail and wiped down the window sills with a wet wipe. I wonder if the great writer Pushkin putzed? People always asked me if I was related to him. Knowing my father’s family, they probably stole the name at Ellis Island. My real ancestral name was probably Smith or Jones. After an hour, there was still no call, so I left. Design waits for no one.

Arriving at the PDC, I flashed my pass to the concierge and he waved me in. The PDC always made me feel that there was hope for the world. New furniture and fabrics – it all smelled so fresh and alive and full of potential. Cherished was the client who appreciated these aspects of design. Going through life trying to make the world a better place through design was very taxing. Somebody had told me that the suicide rate of designers was second only to that of dentists. I had a designer friend who was married to a dentist. What would that mean?

I popped into the showroom of my former boss, Lacey. She waved ‘hello’ as she talked into her Janet Jackson headpiece. Lacey was from New York and I loved her accent. Schnasal! She had given me my first job when I arrived in Los Angeles. After weeks of searching for the ever-elusive interior design position at every firm listed in the phone book, I started applying at every showroom in the PDC in desperation. Except for a brief internship in college, I hadn’t worked in a showroom much less retail. Even with that little experience under my belt, I was continually shunned by them because I was too overqualified because of my education and considered a flight risk. After another couple of weeks, I was ready to move home. I was weeping into my last latte at the PDC food court when Lacey happened by and saw my pitiful self. She felt sorry for me and gave me a job at her showroom. I started the next day, grateful for any human kindness in this field. Lacey knew I would continue to look for a design job, but she also knew the economy sucked. She lucked out. I stayed a year before I finally lucked out.

I perused the new selections and was dismayed when I finally realized that the 80’s were on their way back in.

“What’s shakin’, honey? How’s biz?” Lacey gave me a hug. Her heady perfume engulfed my entire being in its grasp.

“Oh, things are the usual. Business is good,” I lied. Then I let it slip: “I got referred to a guy named Kip Faraday by one of my clients. Do you know anything about him?”

“Hmmm,” Lacey was thinking, her finger pushing up the tip of her nose. “That name sounds very familiar.” She disappeared around the counter and came back with today’s paper. “I thought I’d seen this today.”

I took the paper and scanned the columns. Then the headline came into view, just a small business blurb, “Internet Genius Kip Faraday to Do It Again.” What did that mean? I scanned the article. Apparently, Faraday had bought a fledgling Internet provider, merged it with a browser he had obtained in a lawsuit and, in the span of twelve months, produced another successful company. He had just sold it for thirty two million dollars. Spare change to him, I noticed, as his fortune was touted to be on the coattails of Bill Gates’ empire.

I almost fainted clean out of my Steve Maddens. “Shit! What was Jasmine thinking? How could I possibly have even returned this guy’s phone call? This must be a joke. He could pull in the big guns on this job. Hell, this guy could get Versace if he were still alive.”

My mind was a blur and dots were beginning to dance before my eyes. I was going to have to sit down before I fell down.

“Oh, honey. I don’t know what to tell you except that I’ve heard he’s a very private man so maybe he wants a designer who is local and clueless about him. Or maybe he doesn’t care about what he wants done so he doesn’t think twice about hiring you, sight unseen?” Lacey offered as a clumsy show of support while leading me to a velvet mohair chaise.

“Thanks for the ‘clueless’ part, Lacey, but I’m sure my other client didn’t know about that aspect of my psyche when she made her recommendation.” I sat on the chaise putting my head between my knees, eyeballing the scuff marks on the toes of my shoes, trying to keep from throwing up and passing out at the same time.

Every one of my friends knows what a boob I can be sometimes. I will totally miss the forest for the trees. One time, during college, I was sitting at the back of a bus with a girlfriend and a woman rider got on. I was instantly fixated and stunned by the glaring extent of how much her panty lines showed through her stretch pants. I leaned over and told my friend, who nodded and then pointed up to the woman’s head. She was in one of those cylindrical head stabilizer things with a neck brace. Ooops! But then everyone knows God is in the details.

“Well, I left a message for him, so maybe I’ll get a call back - if it’s not some elaborate joke.”

“Sure. Are you going to be OK?” asked Lacey, touching my shoulder. I looked up and she was offering me tea. I sipped the hot liquid and savored its heat at the back of my throat. When I had more or less composed myself, Lacey took me around and helped me figure out fabric samples to take back to my office. I finished my day at the PDC by browsing at a few more showrooms. I had just become too distracted with the magnitude of the information rattling around in my brain that I had to leave. Traffic was a bitch and a half on my way back to the office and I didn’t get in ‘til 5:00 PM. I checked the voice mail as soon as I hit my desk.

“Hello. This is Trevor Gerard calling for Ms. Pushkin on behalf of Bruce Hansen, personal assistant to Mr. Faraday and, thus, calling on Mr. Faraday’s behalf.” He paused and then continued. “It is our understanding that Mr. Faraday called you himself and, as this is very unusual, Bruce has taken it upon himself to return your call via me and schedule an appointment for you to consult with Mr. Faraday. Please call as soon as you receive this message. Thank you.” He left a number similar to Faraday’s. Wow! My God. What the hell was that? Was I not watching what I was wishing for or was this the ultimate design career opportunity? Best not to look a gift horse in the mouth. Breaking my rule about no phone calls after 5:00 PM, I picked up the phone and punched in Bruce’s number. Or was it Trevor’s? Or was it Faraday’s again?

“Faraday estate. Who’s calling please?” came an uptight, little voice. Was this the same guy that called me? Was he an assistant or the receptionist?

I was determined not be unnerved by my lack of societal protocol. “This is Lois Pushkin of Pushkin Atelier calling for Kip Faraday.”

“What is this regarding?” came the squeaky voice again. Who was I talking to – an Oompa Loompa?

“I’m returning a Bruce Hansen’s call regarding a previous call placed to me by Kip Faraday,” I replied.

“Yes, and it’s ‘Mr.’ Faraday. I do recall a message placed by Bruce via me,” answered the voice. “One moment please.”

The sing-song Muzak came on. “Smells Like Teen Spirit” was a very bizarre “hold music” choice, but I suppose by the time I reached fifty, it will be old hat, like the Stones’ Muzak renditions. A different voice came on the line. “This is Bruce Hansen. I have time for you to meet Mr. Faraday next week, Monday, at 8 AM.”

“I see,” I replied absorbing the bluntness of the direction I was being given.
There was an almost inaudible sigh. “If this is not acceptable, Mr. Faraday will have to reconsider the appointment.”

Right-o, pinched anus. As if I believed that. He called me, bucko. “No, that’s fine,” I replied evenly and calmly. “I’ll arrange my schedule to accommodate his time.”

Then there was a significant pause. “Mr. Faraday’s time is quite valuable, and we do the utmost to maintain his schedule.”

“No problem. Monday at 8 AM it is,” I said. Then I couldn’t stand it anymore. Breaking into a fit of the giggles, I said good-bye and hung up. I could almost feel Bruce looking at his receiver up there on Mulholland Drive. Still giggling, I fell back into my chair. Must be low blood sugar. God, I’m hungry. Today was so overwhelming. As Dorothy was whisked away into the tornado, what fate did await her? I packed up my bag, snapped off the lights, locked the door, and cruised down into another glorious, warm LA night. I made my way over to the Formosa for just one little drink before going home. As I walked past the bar toward the front entrance, I saw the private dick I’d met the other night. What was his name? Shit! He saw me and waved me to join him. He seemed a little buzzed already.

“Well, hello,” Guy slurred slightly. “Fancy meeting you here.”

“Hello yourself,” I replied curtly, “considering that this is my usual place.”

“How’s biz?” he asked ignoring my tone.

“Fine. How’s yours?”

“The usual,” he droned. “I’m spinning my wheels. I need some excitement!” He spun his hands around in front of his face. “Insurance work can get a little tedious. Investigating is not the glamorous, Mike Hammer career I thought it would be.”

“Well, something may change,” I cautioned. Watch what you wished for, buddy.

“Maybe. That would be refreshing. Would you like a drink?”

“Sure, if you’re buying,” I agreed.

Guy waved the server over. “What’s your pleasure?”

“Old Fashioned, please.” When my drink arrived, Guy moved us over to an empty booth and we slid in from opposite sides, observing our buffer zones. Guy was still sporting the same bad haircut. Perhaps I would bring that up later in the conversation when he was more buzzed; it had worked before. Men needed to know they had to have decent hair and not fight for some sought after style if they do not have the head, or the hair, for it. For example, major comb-overs from ear to ear. I loved bald men – it was so honest.

“So, what do you do exactly?” asked Guy.

“I’m an interior designer,” I replied.

“Oh.” He paused. “What do you do exactly?”

I started my schpiel, “I offer a full range of design services, soup to nuts, from designing entire homes and corporations to matching pillows to draperies.” I paused for drama. “I make your world a better place through my design.”

“Anything in Architectural Digest?”

“Not yet. My speed is more Dwell and Nest.”

“Don’t know what those are. Maybe you could come over to my place and give
me some advice for my bachelor pad?” Guy suggested with raised eyebrows and a sloppy, drunk grin.

Jeez. If I haven’t heard that one a thousand times! Yeah, I want to come over and feel your sheets, buddy (nudge, nudge, wink, wink). These are the times when I feel like my occupation is similar to that of a rock star or actor. Everybody dreams of being one and when they find out you are one, all they can do is share their lost dream with you. “Oh, it must be sooo glamorous” or “That would be the funnest job, you are sooo lucky!” or my personal favorite, “I have a knack for design myself; you should see my home, its soo (insert style here). I get complimented on it all of the time”. Yeah, from your suburban, cul-de-sac, manufactured home, soccer mom neighbors! Do tax lawyers and drycleaners ever get bothered with such extended goings on when they’re minding their own business at the doctor’s office? Oh, the celebrity.

I looked back at Guy, “Maybe in the future. You’d have to agree to my rates.”

“Oh, I see how it is.” Guy grinned. “All right, fine.” Guy was getting way past the buzzed portion of his evening. “Any famous clients?”

“There have been a few.” (From the firm I worked at before.) I studied him for a moment before I went on. “Say, what do you know about Kip Faraday, Mr. PI?”

“Faraday, Faraday… He’s the Internet mogul, right?”

“You’re a regular Columbo. So, you surf the Internet like everyone else.”

“You have a real attitude, don’t you?” pointed Guy, sitting up straighter in his seat.

“Yes, and that’s why I am single,” I shot back. “So, do you know anything else?”

“Yeah, yeah, He’s a real weirdo. Very eccentric, focused on specific things, and very tempermental. I don’t think a lot of people like him, but they ‘like’ him” – he crooked his fingers – “when it counts,” mused Guy.

Great. Client from Hell. Only once did I have to “fire” such a client and that was my own mother. The woman couldn’t tell ochre from eggplant. Still, I was curious and I had only an initial consultation lined up, so what was the harm? Watch what you wish for, Lois. I’d have to do the full internet search on Faraday when I got back to my place. Maybe I’d do one on Guy as well. He acknowledged me casually studying him.

“Have you eaten yet?” asked Guy. “I’m kinda starved myself.”

“I appreciate the offer, but I have to get home. I’d just wanted a drink. Someone’s expecting me right now,” I said as I slid out of the booth, gathering up my bag. “Maybe I’ll see you around again.”

“Hey, I thought you were single?” Guy yelled after me.

“I am,” I replied swinging the door open and turning around in time to see Guy toasting me with his glass and smiling with a shit-eating grin. He was going to fall down soon.

Design for a Crime - Chapter 1

2009-01-17T17:53:00.001-08:00

Chapter 1

The evening dragged itself in as it does when fall is belatedly tromping into Los Angeles, California. The calendar says “fall” and yet summer clings like a gay man to his momma’s apron strings. Inner clocks are screwed up and I swear people drive more like retards now than in any other season. Perhaps more so for the luminescent presence of the pregnant harvest moon resting on high-rises in the premature dusk of the work day. Lunatics abound! Scientific American says that this is just the first of two Harvest moons in a row, a phenomenon that only happens once every 50 years. Could I deal with two straight years of insanity? I hadn’t heard from my mother in two months and this was the most sane I had felt in a long time.

As I stood at my desk in my modest office on Wilshire Boulevard in a Buddhist meditation over my latest project, my phone started ringing in the desk’s file drawer. In a slow motion delay, as I realized that I’d left the phone in the drawer, I drew my hands up, giving my now cold Grande Mocha a left hook. It went everywhere and, as I scrambled to save it and attempted to answer the phone at the same time, it went all over me.

“Crap!” I muttered under my breath as I realized the utter hopelessness of the murky situation. Flinging cold, congealed soy from my fingers, I pushed away from the desk and headed for the kitchenette. The phone was still ringing in the drawer.

“Fuck you!” I yelled as I grabbed wipes and towels. The phone died as if it heard me. I came back into the room and began mopping up the mess. Eyeballing my desk, I saw that the drawings I was working on were ruined. Why the hell do I drink volatile liquids when I’m working? And why isn’t there a better place for that stupid phone? And why am I here working after hours anyway?

I answered myself as I was used to doing. Because you’re an interior designer, Lois, and it was your big, fucking idea to strike out on your own - “Yes, that’s right. I’m going to call it ‘Pushkin Atelier’ ” I told all of my friends and colleagues. You thought you were so hot that your shit didn’t stink and now you’re working after hours on a project that doesn’t even exist in an expensive office suite in the Wiltern building. And the only reason you’re working on a phantom project is because you have no clients, no prospects, and no money, but you need to keep busy on something. You know if you have nothing to do, Lois, the impending doom of no work lurking about the periphery will crash down around your ears and you will have an anxiety attack. That’s not pretty. That would also bring your mother to town.

Then, you had to go Retro and get a place in the Wiltern. Telling everyone you would be going to shows there all of the time with your BFF, Harshy, and her entourage. Ha! Well, OK, that was true, but it didn’t help pay the rent. As for the current project, like I said, it doesn’t exist. Well, yes, it does. In my mind, it’s my dream. Someday, it will for real. So it’s worth it for me to work on it when I have no clients aside from the anxiety attack abatement.

But now it’s one Grande-Fucking-Mocha mess. I turned my back on it and stared out the blackening window behind my desk. It was raining, an oddity in LA. Rain drops silvered against the backlit glass as they hit the pain and scurried down the surface quick as mercury. This rare crappy weather always sent me tripping down memory lane and I wallowed in the state of it when it happened. Most times, thoughts of home were what kept me here in Los Angeles. The more I remembered my life back there, the greater the role my mother played in the picture and suddenly my motivation to succeed and stay in this town would come bounding back like a lab with a slobbery ball. LA was great and I loved the wonderful warmth and glow of it all, but I did think 90 percent of the people living here wallowed everyday in dreams of any one of the forty nine states they once called home. Some became homesick and returned, I was sure. I wondered how many of my fellow ‘daughters’ stayed here for the same reasons I did.

Turning back to the disaster zone, I dropped all of the sopped papers into the trash can and wiped down the desk with a wet wipe. A very useful tool leftover from my days as a celebrity nanny during college. Drying the top off with towels, I finally opened the desk drawer, pulled out the phone, and set it on my now barren desk. Picking up the receiver, I dialed the millions of numbers required to simply retrieve a message. (It’s 1998, Lois - Speed dial?)

“You have one new message,” informed the feminine computer voice of Pac Bell.

“This message is for a Ms. Lois Pushkin. My name is Mr. Faraday…, Kip Faraday. I’m an associate of your client, Jasmine Leland. Please call me back regarding your design services. Ms. Leland highly recommended you to assist me with my estate on Mulholland Drive. The project is of some urgency. I need a, um, sensitive room redesigned in my home. Please call me as soon as you receive this message. Again, this is Kip Faraday. Thank you.” And he left his number, twice, succinctly.

I wrote down what I assumed was his office number and checked the time. I hated making calls after 5:00pm so I stuck him on my to-do list for the next day – sticky notes stuck on my computer screen. Blackberry lovers would tear their eyes out at the sight of my 3x3 sticker army.

Funny that he should call today. Eyeballing my mess of sopped papers in the trash, I began to wonder if they didn’t cause their own demise. Did they sense the futility of my vision? Did they sense the potential new client? And a friend of Jasmine’s at that. That means money. I needed money. I needed to support my chic, retro, Wiltern lifestyle. So, you are on for tomorrow, Mr. Faraday. What is a sensitive room?

Checking my bag to make sure I wasn’t forgetting my cell phone, again, I declared my work day over. No one was here to hear me, so no one cared. Ah, the life of the self-employed. Snapping the lights and music off, I headed down to the lobby to check out with the building security. It wasn’t a building protocol. Doing it just made me feel as though I was part of the building culture, that I really did belong here. Like Mary Tyler Moore throwing her hat into the air to acknowledge breaking the glass ceiling; success within reach.

“ ‘Night, Joe.”

“ ’Night, Ms. Pushkin.”

Why are all lobby security men named ‘Joe’? Mentally counting security men I knew in my head, I walked through the breezeway to the parking garage to retrieve my car. I poked its nose out onto Wilshire Boulevard and then made my way north to the Formosa Cafe. This was my LA version of a neighborhood bar. Never mind the fact it wasn’t remotely close to the neighborhood where I lived. I had never realized how important a neighborhood bar was to me until I moved to Los Angeles and there were none. Absolutely none. In my old neighborhood bar up north, I wasn’t chummy with my neighbors or had a neighborly “Cheers” type relationship with the bartenders, but the neighborhood bar played a big role in the routine of my life. Where I came from, it was the place to ‘pre-func’ before the party, a quick bite to eat before the movie, or the last place to crawl to before going home after a night of partying or a really bad date. Always ready with a plate of fries or a burrito paired with a cold beer to get you that last leg home. And ‘legs’ were important because you could usually leave your car at the neighborhood bar and walk home safely.

There was none of that in LA. You always had to dress to the nines, be fully made up, and get your posse together. Then you all would strut your stuff to the club, the lounge, or the swanky bar. No casual place to go in your two-day, shower-less funk wearing sweats, a tank top, fucked-up hair in a scrunchie, and your sexy librarian glasses on (your only accessory) to drink micro-brews, play pool, and listen to the entire Stevie Nicks album on the best juke box in town. But the Formosa Cafe made it all up to me with its eclectic interior, timeless booths, great servers and bartenders, and regulars. Now I was a regular thanks to my friend, Harshy, who had introduced me to the place. It was where I had met her for the first time, through a friend of a friend who was no longer our mutual friend, collectively.

Glancing at my watch, I realized I had only a few minutes to meet Harshy before she got pissed. Contrary to most Angeleans, we prided ourselves on always being on time. The sky looked bleak and spits of rain smacked the windshield. The dry, brittle wipers scoured the glass, leaving behind black, rubber turds. Bad idea. I parked in the first available spot and got out. Shit, no umbrella. I quickened my pace with my purse over my head and rushed to the bar entrance. I searched through the blue haze for Harshy. From our usual booth, she locked onto me and pulled me in with a roll of her eyes. I immediately saw her predicament. Two men were circling the booth like vultures.

“Hey.” I plopped into the booth beside her, eyeing the two men who were ivery startled by my sudden appearance.

“Hey, yourself,” Harshy hissed and then with lowered voice. “Where have you been?”

“I had an Exxon Valdez at the office and a desk drawer phone call,” I replied glancing up at the two men who were still hovering over the booth, both mouths open just enough for the stray fly. I turned to them, clearing my throat. “Excuse me, but we have some business to discuss here so if you could please give us some privacy?”

Both mouths shut promptly only to reopen with pathetic, “Come see us when you’re done” mewls. Yeah, right, bucko, I thought to myself.

Harshy raised one eyebrow and smirked. Harshy had been my best girl friend since I moved to Los Angeles so many years ago. She had been in LA much longer, and, the moment I met her, she took pity on my very unstylish self and filled in all of my social gaps and corrected all of my beauty guffaws. Harshy was a woman’s woman: tall with hips, breasts, and lips. No assumptions about hair and makeup. So not your typical anorexic LA woman. In my opinion, that took balls. It was so easy to succumb to the peer pressure of LA. One day you woke up and found you couldn’t go to the grocery store without full make-up, your hair in an up-do and decked out in a complete Dolce & Gabbana track suit. All that effort for a carton of milk and some smokes.
Resistance to maintain your own individuality took work. Harshy was so against proof of her permanent residency in LA that she deposited her paychecks into an account in Cleveland, Ohio. Don’t get it wrong. She loved LA and would’ve died without the city, but she didn’t want to be known as an LA gal. She was still an outsider, a rebel. We both knew we were full of crap and that it was all a game, but it helped us survive among the plastic. Harshy, fortunately, has been blessed with more natural beauty than most. Her greatest asset was her long, dark hair, natural with no dye or extensions. She also had the most lively eyes I had ever seen. They literally vibrated when she was excited about something that really moved her. Usually it was celebrity gossip. Her smile came easily, she always gave people the benefit of the doubt, (sometimes twice), and she never, ever had any airs about herself. She also didn’t give a crap about what people thought, especially of her.

Harshy was so intoxicating when I was an LA virgin. I revered her big city rebellion then and I felt lucky to be picked for her friendship. Then she found out and told me to get a life. It might sound like I dug her more than just a friend, but it’s not like that. She was my soul sister and I loved her like that. In turn, I protected her from being overtaken by hovering, predatory males, people with sob stories, and stray puppies. We looked out for each other. It was nice to find another human being here that actually really cared about her friends. It was key when you are an alien in LA.

“Little harsh weren’t you?” asked Harshy, snuggling up to me for a hug.

“No, well, I get so tired of this boy-girl meet-and-greet business.” I sighed into her shoulder. “Sometimes I feel like I’m evolving uptight.” Pulling away, I glanced over at the guys and waved. They had been intently watching us and talking behind their shoulders. I had given in, God help me.

“That’s better," clucked Harshy, pushing a cocktail my way.

“Ha, ha,” I replied. “And thanks.” I raised my glass in a toast with her.

“So, what’s new with you, miss? Aside from the fact that you’ve had another accident in your drawers,” Harshy teased me. “You’ve got to quit doing that!”

“I know, it’s a bad habit, but I need the space when I’m designing and the drawer is just so handy and, well, empty,” I explained and then changed the subject. “During my Mocha Valdez, I got a call from a real muck-a-muck up on Mulholland Drive.”

Harshy’s eyes lit up. “Oooh! Who was it? How do you know they’re a ‘muck-a- muck’?” Like I said, she loved gossip and was the quintessential celebrity whore. As such, Harshy was one of the best lead sources for my business, my own personal search engine only a speed dial away.

“Jasmine Leland knows him, that’s how. It’s a guy named Kip Faraday,” I revealed.

“Oh.” She frowned. “Bummer, dude.”

“That bad?” I asked, shocked by Harshy’s unusual reaction. This was new. Usually any celebrity gossip gave Harshy diarrhea of the mouth be they as passé as CC Demille of Poison or the B list actress, Zsa Zsa Gabor.

“Oh, God, Lois, could you’ve picked an even more boring person?” chided Harshy. “The guy’s a geek who made his millions as a computer nerd and lives the lifestyle of Michael Jackson without the monkey or the nose jobs.”

“Swell,” I countered. “So should I call him tomorrow and decline?” How successful would Mr. Jackson have been without the monkey and the nose jobs? Well, probably in the same situation that he was today. Creep. Hope this Faraday guy wasn’t a creep. I involuntarily shuddered at the thought.

“Cold?” I jumped in my seat. Turning around, I saw that the guys from earlier had moseyed over from the bar.

“Excuse us. The place is getting crowded and we were wondering if we could share the booth with you. Maybe warm you up a bit?” the taller one of the couple asked. His friend, behind him, pathetically pleaded with glassy, hyper-extended, blue eyes. Igor?

I rolled my own eyes. “Sure, knock yourself out.”

As they sat down, I turned to the taller one and introduced myself. “I’m Lois and this is my friend, Harshy.” They introduced themselves as Guy and Drew, respectively and we went through the usual pleasantries.

“So, what do you both do?” I inquired, ever curious as to why people choose their professions. I contemplated my choice daily. Especially when I didn’t have any clients.

Guy answered first. Aside from being tall, Guy was mostly all shoulders that supported a head with hair that needed to get any sort of good cut from a decent barber. The clothes were nice - the shoes better, but his best features were his eyes and teeth. “I’m a freelance investigator.”

“With what studio?” asked Harshy.

“What?”

“What studio do you do research for?”

“I don’t,” replied Guy, who looked very puzzled by the question. “I’m a private investigator.”

“Oh,” said Harshy. “When you said “freelance” I thought that you were some Hollywood research monkey for a studio.”

“Whatever.” Guy glared at her. “I mostly work with cheaters, bail bondsmen, and injury claim insurance offices.” The woody in his pants evidently had gone down at this point.

“That’s where we met,” Drew chimed in.

“Met where?” I asked.

“At an insurance company, my insurance company, where I work. TorkelsonMadisonInsuranceIncorporated,” spewed Drew.

“Match made in heaven!” I exclaimed. “A little office romance?”

“Oh, God, no! It’s not like that at all,” boomed Guy. “Shit! You can’t have a guy be your friend in this city without everyone thinking you’re bouncing boners.”

I started to laugh and almost wet myself. Harshy and I were accused of that far too often and then still propositioned by the opposite sex. “I’m so sorry, but every attractive guy in this city is gay.”

Guy and Drew looked at each other, and then back at us.

“Whatever,” Guy replied sourly. “So, what are you ladies doing tonight?”

“Drinking, smoking, and then a little more drinking.” I replied. The place was definitely feeling like my neighborhood bar that night.