Chore Whore (11 page)

Silently scolding Buddha for keeping secrets from me, I went to get a flashlight from Jock's earthquake kit and returned to the meditation room. As I descended the tightly twisting spiral staircase, I entered another world. Images of hell, Italian catacombs, Parisian sewers and Cold War bomb shelters flew rapidly through my mind. I hit the last stair and it dawned on me where I was. This had to be his safe room, and here, all this time, I had thought the basement was the only room below the house.

It was explained to me by an FBI agent I once dated that criminals who break into celebrities' homes don't typically want to kill them. Thrilled by the proximity to their idols, they want to steal their stuff or perhaps even kidnap them. Celebs respond by finding a way to barricade themselves from such a threat. Safe rooms are lined in steel so no gunshot can penetrate. They have telephone lines that are buried underground so no one can cut them, or they are equipped with cellular. They usually have television monitors split into four or more screens so occupants can watch everything going on outside their home. Some have safes in the ground or wall. Some also have a wine cave, storage room, closet, bathroom and dressing room. All have a button that when pushed forces the alarm system into panic mode. And most have a loaded gun for the worst-case scenario.

I turned on the lights. Bright, fluorescent bulbs flickered on throughout a room as big as a winery's cellar.

Before me was a full-scale gun range. There were four lanes, each with a station divided by walls. At the ends hung paper figures of people riddled with bullet holes.

Lying on tables next to chairs were magazines with flashy headlines that read “Glocks Rock!” and “Make your .38 great!” I found night-scoping equipment and camouflage clothing and became very confused. Jock was on the mailing list of several Democratic organizations trying to raise funds to abolish private gun ownership. He always sent them a donation.

Paranoid, I turned off the light switch and rubbed away my fingerprints with my shirt. If he had to have his little hideaway, I sure wasn't going to rain on his parade. I ascended the staircase, closed the wall and went about the job I was paid to do.

Two weeks later, Jock and Lucy returned home. Tanned, relaxed and looking more in love than ever, they left the unpacking to me. I made piles of dry cleaning, laundry and things to return to the bathroom, kitchen and library. I figured out what to refill, restock and repack for the next time they decided to take off on a last-minute whirlwind vacation. Not many stars can plan a vacation too far ahead. After all, they may get the offer of a lifetime, that perfect part in a wonderful movie destined for box office success. They live waiting for that moment.

As I carted their dirty clothes into the huge, walk-in closet for Concepcion to launder later, Jock came into the room. He smiled dreamily and I wished a vacation like that for me. A holiday that didn't leave me worrying for six months about how I was going to pay off the credit cards for my indulgences. Oh, to come home and walk around looking dreamy, jet-lagged and ecstatic.

Jock stood there a little too long without saying a word.

“Did you have a good time in St. Tropez?” I asked.

Jock's smile widened even more, if that was possible. He resembled the Cheshire Cat. “Oh yes, we had a very good time. How 'bout you, did you have a good time?”

Doing what? Working?

“Yeah, sure. Jaws didn't bite anyone. The pool came out nice. Good time had by all.”

He shifted in the doorway. “I mean down there.”

Was he getting nasty? Too much sun, French wine and sex.

“Down where, Jock?”

He pointed to the ground. “There.”

Oh shit, he knew.

Jock repeated himself. “Did you have fun down there?”

“It wasn't exactly fun,” I stammered, “but definitely eye-opening.”

He moved into the room. “You had your eyes open for seven minutes and thirty-three seconds. Did you see everything you needed to see?”

Something timed my stay at the range? For a man who can't program his VCR, and who has me go in the basement to change the tapes in his security cameras because he can't figure it out, he sure had some sophisticated monitoring equipment.

I tried to keep it light, as if I frequently snooped in private hideaways. “More than I ever imagined.”

“I do imagine then that you can keep your eyes open, but your mouth . . .” He mimicked securing a lock and tossing out the key. “Understand?”

I nodded. “I have no idea ‘down there' even exists.”

Jock obviously liked my immediate placatory stance.

“You ever shoot a gun?”

Time to surprise him back. “Yep! I have a Brazilian Rossi .38 at home . . . for protection. I was stalked once. In fact, I even have a CCW.”

I sensed Jock, at that moment, liked me or perhaps respected me more than he did two weeks ago. Permits to carry a concealed weapon are virtually impossible to get in Los Angeles and damn hard to get anywhere else in California.

“You know how to clean a weapon?”

“Of course. That's taught in Responsible Gun Ownership 101.”

“Good. Since you now know more about me than I cared to share, you have a new chore. I need my collection cleaned once every couple of months. The cleaning supplies are under the sink, down there, where you explored at two-fifteen
P.M
. on June 16. I'll arrange to have your fingerprints entered into the memory of the gun safe so you can open it when you need to.”

Jock came into the closet and stood over me as I dumped the last pieces of laundry down the chute. I pretended to be calm as he reached out and patted my head rather hard.

“Understand?”

“Yeah, I told you I did.”

As he took his hand away from my head, his ring caught on a strand of my curly hair. He yanked it out of my head, turned and walked out of the room, then paused and turned around as if he was going to say more. Then, deciding against it, he went quietly from the room.

I stare out
my living room window at a sunny, beautiful December morning. Days of rain have washed away the smog, and the blazing sun makes everything glisten and sparkle like diamonds. I see diamonds in the trees, in the grass and in the puddles that are quickly evaporating in the morning's heat. My outside thermometer reads seventy-two degrees. It will surely rise.

The calmness outside belies the panic I feel inside. I have work to do before I pack my SUV and drive the three hours to Mom's house in Visalia. I quickly drink my coffee, shower and dress. In thirty minutes I'm ready and on my way to Jock's.

I don't know
what Britt did or said, but I can safely assume that whatever it was, Jock is pretty pissed off about it. Her clothes are dumped in a pile at the foot of his guest bathroom toilet, where whatever man last peed there missed—by about a foot. Her clothes are soaked in urine. Next to them is another pile containing two hairbrushes, several tampons, assorted makeup, a pair of pink satin slippers and one lacy brown pair of panties. On top of these items is a note neatly written to me giving Britt's address and phone number. A spit-sealed “Dear Jane” letter is clipped to the note.

Jock is nowhere to be seen. I snag the Georgia book from the coffee table, collect the fluffed and folded thongs and clothes I'd picked up from the cleaners, then go into the kitchen to gather a couple of big, heavy-duty garbage bags. Next, I go into Jock's dressing room and get a pair of surgical rubber gloves, the kind he uses when he secretly dyes the gray out of his hair with Clairol Loving Care #83 in Natural Black.

I gather all the peed-on clothes and stuff them in the double-thick bags, neatly put Britt's personal effects in her pink-satin-lined overnight makeup case, tie huge knots in the plastic bags and haul them down to Betty, who seems to groan as I approach.

On the way to Britt's house in Korea Town, I still smell urine. I roll the windows all the way down.

Standing on Britt's porch,
I knock a couple of times and hear rustling behind the door. The chain slips out of its holder and the lock slips back. Miss Iceland doesn't look quite as icy today. Her mascara is smeared under her eyes and her hair is a tousled mess. It looks as if I have just awakened her.

“Jock's assistant,” I say, “Corki.”

“Oh,” she says rubbing her eyes. She opens the door farther to reveal herself in a T-shirt and panties.

A small poodle slips past her and circles the bags, sniffing them. I give Britt her pink makeup case.

“Jock wanted me to drop off your stuff,” I say awkwardly. I hand her the letter and she accepts it with a pained look in her eyes. Before she can gather up her things, her poodle looks up at me, squats on my foot and pees.

“Oh God, Corki, I'm so sorry! Fifi, what in heaven's name do you think you're doing? Oh God, hold on. Let me get a rag.”

I stand there with dog pee soaking through my shoe and into my sock as Britt bolts into her house and reappears with a wad of paper towels in her hand.

I make a mental note to have my shoes and socks professionally cleaned and take it out of Jock's petty cash.

“Well, merry Christmas, Britt,” I awkwardly say as I walk down her front steps.

“Yeah, to you, too, Corki.”

When Blaise is good,
he's very good, and my mother, for the life of her, cannot figure out what my problem is. She doted on him and he lapped it up like a kitten finishing off the cream in a bowl. Blaise went out of his way to help her paint, clean up and lug in logs from the woodpile. She cooked his favorite meals, lost gracefully at chess and showed him off to all her friends.

Now, with a few days left in December, we're back to reality.

As soon as we return to Los Angeles from our short Christmas holiday, I need to prepare myself for the New Year's Eve onslaught. Lucy may be gone, but she'll be home soon, and Jock is always one to throw in a last-minute request.

After hauling the last of our luggage upstairs to our apartment, by myself, without the assistance from Blaise that he was credited with at Grandma's house, I sit and listen to my answering-machine messages.

“Corki, Jock Straupman. Thank you for taking care of returning those things to Britt. I hope you had a merry little Christmas.”

Yes, it was little, especially with no end-of-the-year bonus.

“Ummmm, I have a project for you.” Jock's voice continues on the machine. “I need you to find a teddy bear tonight to send as a gift to someone. A pink teddy bear . . . is that possible? Pink. Surely there must be pink teddy bears out there, right? I need it to be delivered tomorrow morning, from a service, not you. Maybe a courier service? I don't know, you tell me what's best. It's going to Studio City to Tree Pink.”

Tree Pink? Is that an apartment building or a business?

“P-i-n-q-u-e is how her last name is spelled. The card with it should read, ‘Friday night was ours, Pinky Promise.' Don't put a name or anything on it, she'll know. The address is—”

Beep.

Do other assistants get overtime for working nights? I doubt it. Maybe I should ask for it. I remember what happened the time I told Lucy I wanted to be paid time-and-a-half for working weekends. Her response was more a threat than a statement. “Well, Corki, it sounds like you don't want to work anymore . . . on the weekends.”

Call number two is from none other than “Jock Straupman, again. Your machine cut me off. Just call me and I'll explain how to get the teddy to Tree.”

Calls number three and four are from the National Enquirer and Star magazine, respectively. Both had reports of a Ford Excursion going down Route 66 containing Tommy Ray Woods and Lucy Bennett kissing madly and passionately, with Tommy Ray at the wheel. In the back were unidentified persons. Can I expound on this? Please call back with details or this will have to go to press as is.

How did they get my number? I'm not a publicist. I don't make three thousand a month whether I do an ounce of work or not. I jot down a note to call Moro/Castle PR first thing in the morning and ask Missy Moro to deal with this.

Call number five is from Esther. “Corki, I really need some help cleaning up. The party and the holidays were a hit, but the house is a disaster. It's a bigger project than Shelly can do by herself. Obviously bring Blaise. He and Atom can swim and jump on the trampoline and Shelly's bringing Star and Eden. There's a ton of food for the kids. I just need help taking down all the decorations and putting away the Christmas and Hanukkah stuff. Call me. Thanks. Hope you had a good Christmas . . . or do you celebrate Kwanzaa? I get mixed up about that holiday. Bye.”

So do I.

At least Blaise will have a good time with Atom, Liam and Esther's kid, and Shelly will be there to share my pain.

Call number six is from the Italian Stallion Ferrari place where I get Lucy's car serviced. While Lucy's away being “serviced,” I scheduled for her car to be serviced, too. They confirm my appointment. The phone rings.

“Corki Brown, please!” a man says. A rather chipper-sounding man. I spin my brain Rolodex trying to remember if there are any outstanding bills I haven't paid. This guy sounds like a collection expert.

“May I ask who this is?”

“This is Bob Caplan from the National Enquirer. I need to confirm some information with a Corki Brown, please.”

“Yes, what do you need? This is Corki.”

“Miss Brown, I did leave a message earlier—”

I interrupt him. “Yes, I know. I heard it. But you're wrong. I just left Lucy Bennett's house, where we ate braised tofu and sesame kale. I can guarantee you that she is in Beverly Hills exactly where I left her not fifteen minutes ago.”

“That's not so, according to our sources,” he replies.

“And your point, Bob?”

“Miss Brown, we are ready to go to press, with photographs to back up our statement that Lucy Bennett and Tommy Ray Woods were seen driving down Route 66, together, kissing and fondling each other.”

“Look, Mr. Caplan, there are a million blondes in the world, and I'm sure your sources saw one of them, but it wasn't Lucy. As I said, I just left her home and she was there. Good night.”

I quietly hang the receiver back on the hook.

“Well, that was an out-and-out lie!” Blaise states as he leans against the door leading to the hallway. He has a boxing glove on the end of an accordion-like arm that punches when he pulls the trigger. I don't know what to say. But he does.

“You're a stellar example, Mom. You tell me not to lie and then you do it in a big way. Hypocrite!”

Ouch!

“Blaise . . .”

“Why are you lying for her?”

I remember all the impossible situations Lucy has put me in for the past two decades. I think of the lies she's told me and the lies she's told about me . . . of how she pays me the least and expects the most . . . of the marriages she's broken up and the children whose lives she has devastated. Then I think of the generous Christmas and birthday gifts she's given me, the good times we've shared and the times we've cried together over shared pain. Dear God, if it were only black and white!

“You're right. I was being hypocritical. I'll try not to lie for my clients anymore.”

“You always tell me, ‘Don't try it, do it,' ” he preaches.

Lord, hearing my words come back to me is humiliating.

“Fine, I'll do it. Even if I lose more work, I'll do it,” I say with conviction. I don't want to hear any more lectures.

“What work did you lose?” he asks.

I tell him everything, burdening my ten-year-old as if he were my peer. I tell him we're cutting out piano and swimming lessons, neither of which seems to bother him. In fact, I get the sense that he is thrilled.

The phone rings. It's Lucy on her cell.

“Hi, Corki! Belated merry Christmas!”

“Thank you. To you, too. And thank you for the bonus, I really appreciate it,” I say, very honestly.

“Honey, you deserve it for all the trouble I put you through! And sit down, 'cause I'm about to put you through a bit more!”

She's still using her twang and she's speaking with exclamation points. I sit down and brace myself.

“I know I'm only giving you three days' notice, but I was thinking a New Year's Eve party might be fun.”

Please, please, don't ask me to cook, I beg silently. I want to fall into bed with a glass of champagne on New Year's with a good book, then sleep like I've never slept before.

“If you can't cook,” she's reading my mind, “get it catered or make it look as if you did it.”

“How many people?” I ask, feeling as if my prayers have been answered.

“Hold on!” she says.

I hear her consulting Tommy Ray in the background.

“Not many. Forty is our closest estimate. And I think it would be really cute if we did party favor bags for everyone when they leave. Wouldn't that be precious?”

It's pathetic that Lucy needs to “buy” friends through party favors when they're not required . . . according to Miss Manners.

“Oh yes, absolutely precious! What do you want the price limit to be per person?” I ask, jotting down ideas.

She consults Tommy again. Laughter. Kissing.

“About three hundred, three-fifty each. That's enough, right?

“That's more than generous.”

“And obviously, you are invited. In fact, surprise me, bring a date!”

Thanks . . . it would surprise me, too, if I could find one on such short notice.

“I will! Thank you for inviting me.”

Shit, why did I say that? If I haven't had a date in so long I can't remember, what makes me think I can rustle one up on New Year's?

“And Corki, you know there are always last-minute guests. Get enough food et cetera for fifty.”

Before we say goodbye, we confirm that she's doing the invites by phone and I'm doing the rest.

I breathe deeply, and then start making calls.

Apparently there's a postholiday
run on pink teddy bears. I have called every place listed in my Rolodex that would have such a thing and have even considered a night run to Toys “R” Us, since they refused to answer their phone. Finally, I succumb to defeat and call Jock. His phone rings three times before he answers.

“Mmmmm, hello.”

“Hi, it's Corki.”

“Did you get my message?”

“Yeah, that's what I'm calling about. I just can't find a pink teddy bear tonight. I have found sixteen different teddy bears ranging from brown to purple to coral orange and sea foam green, but no pink. I can order a pink one online but it will be a two-day delivery because of the New Year. I did find a pink teddy, though. In fact, I found four pink teddies. The kind you wear. Not you personally, but the kind girls wear.”

“Hmmmmm. That sounds interesting. Tell me more.”

“Well, all of them were pink and lacy. Some had underwires, sort of like a built-in bra; some were thongs.”

“I think I like your teddy idea better than mine. Get one in small and have it gift-wrapped. I want it delivered tomorrow by courier.”

He gives me her address. I wonder if Britt complained about the type of delivery service I provided.

I call Late Night Lingerie and ask them to gift-wrap one small-sized pink teddy with lace, a thong and no underwire. I am informed that I can certainly get that in a box, but they've run out of wrapping paper.

“Honey, put on your coat. We have to do a run,” I call out to Blaise.

“We just got home, Mom,” he complains bitterly.

“It's a quickie run. We'll be back in an hour. I need every ounce of work I can get right now and Jock gives me overtime for nights and weekends. Come on!” I say as I head toward the door.

We pull into a strip
mall in the seediest section of Hollywood Boulevard. Frightening people linger in dark doorways scarcely lit by buzzing neon bulbs. Runaways that live on the streets walk in groups down the sidewalk. Their gel-spiked glow-in-the-dark hair colors and ringed noses flicker in the flashing lights. The Late Night Lingerie parking lot is empty and we get a space immediately.

“What kind of place are we going to?”

“It's scuzzy, I'm not going to lie. And frankly, I don't want you exposed to this side of life, so I'm going to have to blindfold you.”

“Mom!” he complains, “I'm ten years old!”

“That's exactly right, so you're putting on the blindfold.”

“Mom, what if I see somebody I know?”

“That's the second good reason—you won't be able to see anyone you know.”

I whip out a sleep mask compliments of Virgin Atlantic Airways. After much debate, Blaise agrees to humor me by doing me this one favor.

I lead him into the store and straight to an antique cash register. The heavyset woman behind the counter has powdered white skin, bats her impossibly long eyelashes and speaks with a heavy Romanian accent.

“Can I help you?”

“Hi. I called earlier and you put a pink teddy and a gift box on hold for me.”

Madame Romania pulls out a petite, beautiful piece of lingerie, but it isn't a teddy.

“I don't think that's the one. That's not a teddy, is it?” I ask.

Blaise rips off his mask. “Show me! I know a teddy when I see one!”

His blindfold has become hooked on a rack behind him, and when he turns around to loosen it, he comes face-to-face with a black brassiere saucily decorated with two fingers on each cup, pinching nipples. Blaise howls with laughter. Forgetting all the convincing it took to get him in here, he is delighted to roam around. As Madame Romania looks for the pink teddy, Blaise runs his fingers over a black thong number displayed on the bottom half of a mannequin.

“Mom, where's this string supposed to go?”

“Blaise, don't touch the mannequin, you could knock it over.”

“But Mom, where does the string go? Tell me!”