Thwack! Squeak!
Thwack! Squeak!
“Is it Ativan o’clock yet?” I asked as I slid past the volleyball moms huddled in the front row of the bleachers at the Briarwood Gym.
7:00–10:00 belonged to our beloved caffeine.
10:00–12:00 Adderall—appetite suppressant before lunch.
12:00–3:00 paleo, gluten-free, and Ativan.
(Nap or staring into the abyss—the pamphlets at your dermatologist’s office)
4:00–midnight: wine o’ clock.
I looked up. A man was seated in my designated corner, wearing that familiar gray rumpled suit and Ray-Bans to camouflage his glower.
“Mother fudger,” I whispered.
“Take this outside?” Detective Gonzalez asked. It wasn’t a question.
“I really don’t need this today,” I said.
“I’d appreciate it,” he said, which meant now in cop.
Pep looked up from the court. The volleyball moms had stopped posting and tweeting and backseat coaching to turn and stare.
I smiled and waved at Pep.
Nothing to see here, Pep, nothing at all!
The moms cleared a path as I followed the detective outside.
“You came to my daughter’s practice? This is low, even for you,” I said as we stood outside the gym, my heart beating outside my chest.
“You’re tough to pin down,” Gonzalez said. Understatement. “I’m serving you.”
“Another serving,” I said. “But I’m already full.”
“Just sign the doc,” Gonzalez said, slipping papers from his suit jacket.
“This is not your finest moment, Gonzalez,” I said as I signed. “What, there’s a shortage of rapists and murderers in LA?”
“Bring your sister in Monday morning 8:00 a.m.,” he said, “or you’ll be charged for contempt.”
“If you could put me away for contempt, I’ll be doing life.”
Gonzalez didn’t look back as he got into his unmarked sedan and sped off. I pushed my hair out of my face, took a deep breath, and headed back inside, tracked by the eyes and buzzing of the volleyball moms.
Like I’m the first person here who’s ever had to bring a family member into a police station for an arrest warrant . . . we’ve all been there, right?
I slunk to the side of the bleachers and slipped on my sunglasses.
I counted five Birkins, eight Rolexes, and seven Chiclet-sized diamond rings.
Ain’t nobody in this gym ever seen the inside of a station, I heard the Fin voice in my head say.
17: Arrested Development
I tried to make small talk with Pep about anything except the elephant in the room—the detective in the bleachers.
“I saw that spike, honey,” I said. “Great job! You’ve really improved!”
“Mom. Was that the cop who came to the house?” Pep asked.
I wanted to always have an honest relationship with my daughter. A relationship built on mutual trust and understanding—
“What man?” I asked.
“That man in the gray suit,” she said.
“Oh, that man,” I said, guiding the car into Wilshire traffic. “A friend of Auntie Fin’s.” Throwing my sister under the bus is like tossing underhand—so easy!
“A friend.”
“Of my sister’s.” And . . . the bus just backed up over Fin.
“Mom, are you going to prison?”
“God, no!” I said. “But I could get a lot of reading done . . .”
“You didn’t tell me you went to rehab,” Pep pointed out. “Why would you tell me if you’re going to prison?”
“I didn’t go to rehab for drugs; I went for almonds.”
“That’s what an addict would say,” Pep said and put in her earbuds. For once, I was grateful for the earbuds.
Fin waved us down in the driveway, wearing a big headset and brandishing a device that looked very much like a . . .
“Why is Auntie Fin waving a vibrator?” Pep asked.
“How do you know what a vibrator looks like?”
Pep rolled her eyes.
“I’m serious, Penelope,” I said.
“I’ve got to check the car!” Fin said, popping into my window, then dipping and running the device along the wheelbase.
Pep jumped outside to watch her aunt as Fin moved around the back, tapping her headset before coming around, diving under the front of the car, then emerged, grinning, with a tiny black matchbox.
“I was right!” Fin said. “They got the car!”
Inside the house, the staff was wearing headsets. Even the blond kid who dropped off the orchids. The white noise was deafening.
“Why does it sound like I’m in Hawaii during a Category 4 hurricane?”
“They bugged the whole damn house,” Fin said. “I’ve swept everything, all ten-fucking-thousand square feet—”
She fished something out of her pockets, tiny disks with wires attached, some looked like spiders, others like tiny matchbooks.
“He’s gone insane,” I said. “This isn’t normal—”
“Tell me about it. We’ve been yanking these things out of the wall, out of cabinets, plants, they got ’em everywhere. Even Pep’s room!”
“I have bugs in my room?” Pep asked.
“Here,” she said, handing us headsets. “Noise canceling. So you can sleep.”
“Fin, we’re not wearing noise-canceling headsets to sleep.”
“How’re you going to sleep with this noise?”
“I’m not worried about being bugged,” I said. “I’ve got nothing to hide.”
“Well, look at little Miss Perfect,” she said. “That works for you—what about me? I’ve got several businesses to run.”
“Not anymore,” I said. “We have to talk.”
We hid in my closet as Fin unrolled a spool of duct tape.
“For the cameras,” she said, checking the ceiling corners. “Aha! I see you!”
She climbed up a large chest of drawers with the agility of a spider monkey, gave a tiny lens screwed into the corner the finger, then slapped a piece of tape over it.
“It’s an infestation,” I said in awe.
She jumped to the floor, stuck the roll of duct tape in her pants, and wiped her hands.
“Did Pep hear Gonzalez say he wanted you to bring me in?”
“Kids hear everything they’re not supposed to hear,” I said, checking the door to make sure Pep didn’t have her ear to the door.
“I’m so pissed,” Fin said.
“Me, too.”
“I had plans this weekend,” she said. “Edmund was going to take me to Victorville.”
“Victorville,” I said.
“Yeah, I like Victorville,” she said. “What?”
“Nothing,” I said. “Sounds . . . romantic. Sorry I have to drag you to the station on Monday.”
She shrugged. “Eh. No big deal.”
“They’re throwing you in jail, Fin,” I said. “Who knows what they’ll come up with?”
“The clock isn’t stolen,” Fin said, fidgeting with a cigarette.
“You’re going to need proof,” I said.
“I’m working on it,” Fin said. “Cool your jets.”
“Is getting arrested like shopping for groceries for you?” I asked. “This is serious, Fin. Trevor’s tightening the noose, he’s circling the wagons, he’s—”
“Before you bore me with another cliché,” my sister said, “this isn’t even as stressful as getting my carburetor fixed.”
I fought the urge to strangle her.
“Then why were you avoiding them these last few weeks? Why not just hand yourself over? This has been really stressful!”
“Oh my God, girl.” She sighed. “What, you’ve never heard of the chase?”
“The police weren’t wooing you,” I said. “They wanted to arrest you. This isn’t courtship; you’re a fugitive.”
“Same diff!” She threw up her hands. We were from different countrie
s—no, planets. On my planet, a subpoena wasn’t a flirtation.
“There is one thing,” she said, pursing her lips.
“Anything you want,” I said.
“I want to look cute when I go in. I need a mani-pedi, maybe some highlights.”
I walked out.
“What?” Fin called after me. “Appearance is very important!”
* * *
Fin drove to the West LA police station, with me in the passenger seat. Apparently, I made her nervous when I drove. She parked outside the station, crossed her arms over the steering wheel, and looked at me.
“You know what you haven’t learned, boo?” she asked. “Life is imperfect. If you can’t enjoy the imperfections, you’re gonna wait a long time for a laugh.”
“Sometimes you’re just full of shit,” I said.
“Got that right,” she said and punched my arm, and then I gave her a big hug and I swear I saw her tear up.
Fin slapped the front desk. “I’m here for my appointment!” The watch commander glanced up and frowned as though we were interrupting her crossword puzzle.
“Sorry,” I said, nudging Fin aside. “Hi, I’m Agnes Murphy. We’re here to meet Detective Gonzalez.”
“Hold on,” she said, stuck in frown mode. “Gonzalez!”
Gonzalez appeared, barely acknowledging us except to scratch his nose and point. We followed him back to his desk, where he motioned for us to wait, then opened a drawer and pulled out a pair of handcuffs.
“What the hell,” I said. “What are those for?”
“Turn around, please,” he said to Fin.
“Hey, wait a minute,” I said. “You don’t need to cuff her.”
“It’s procedure,” Fin said.
“It’s procedure,” Gonzalez said.
“Don’t sweat it, babe,” Fin said.
“You’re going to feel pretty stupid when you realize how wrong you all are,” I said.
“Let’s go,” Gonzalez said, avoiding my glare, his hand on Fin’s arm to steer her away from me.
“I’ll call you later, Celie!” Fin said. “I’ll never forget you!” I choked up. Bitch brought out The Color Purple.
“I love you Nettie!” I yelled, my eyes wet. I watched as Fin was led outside, her skinny bird wrists cuffed behind her back. Gonzalez tucked her head into the back of his unmarked car. Fin and I caught eyes, and I raised my fist in solidarity.
“What are you doing?” the watch commander asked. I turned around.
“That’s my blood,” I said. “Fight the power. Fight the man!”
“Gonzalez?” she said, folds across her forehead deepening. “Never seen him smile, but he’s okay.”
“You know, it’s kinda disconcerting watching your sister dragged away in handcuffs,” I said.
“I feel you,” she said. She held up a little candy dish. “You want a peppermint?”
I did. I did want a peppermint. “Sure,” I said and grabbed a tiny, sharp piece of kindness.
A few hours later, Fin called me from the Van Nuys station pay phone. Maybe you’ve never had the privilege of having an incarcerated relative. Well, too bad for you. Because you learn a few things: when the phone rings and you answer and there’s a pause . . .
You know what’s coming.
You wait for the operator’s voice. She asks if you are . . . you. Then she asks if you accept the call and charges from the facility.
All the while, your super-annoying loved one is yelling, cajoling, pleading in the background for you to answer.
This experience gives you phone phobia. For a long time, I was afraid to answer the phone. Any phone. The phone brought bad news—all related to my sister.
In this home, in the dead zone, we had, at last count, twenty-four phones, which rang at different intervals by milliseconds, creating a symphony, a cacophonous multiplier of my phone phobia.
“Accept!” Fin yelled, fighting through prison clamor.
“Accept,” I said.
“Guess what Gonzalez said when we were on the way to Van Nuys?” Fin said, when I was patched through. “He said, and I quote,” she said, “‘You have a very powerful brother-in-law.’”
“No shit,” I said.
“Yes shit. We were at a stoplight, he turned that big head around and looked me in the eye,” she said. “Trevor put in a call to the chief of police.”
“The chief of police? That low-down star-fucker,” I said. Our chief, a roguish transplant from Chicago, had clocked appearances at movie premieres, courtside at the Lakers, Dugout Club at the Dodgers. He counted George Clooney, Magic Johnson, and Russell Crowe among his “pals.” He came to our sunny coast a pale, plump newbie; he was now burnt sienna, his blue eyes like crayon planets. Trevor had cast his schoolteacher wife, a frustrated actress on the shadow side of fifty, on a TV show in a recurring role.
“Of course,” I said, fighting the urge to throw up.
“The fucking LAPD chief made the call to have me arrested,” Fin said. “Like I’m some kind of terrorist. What the hell.”
“This is LA,” I said. “Everyone wants to be a star, even the police chief.”
“Those people are morons. I’ll tell you what, though. When I get out of here—”
“Fin.”
“I always get mine back,” Fin said. “Don’t you worry.”
Reader? I was worried.
* * *
“I’ve seen a lot of dirty tricks. I’ve even seen attempted murder, but this is a first,” Anne said when I called her to tell her the chief of police of the second-largest city in the United States had ordered my sister arrested over . . .
A clock?
“What’s my move?” I asked.
“Post bail, if you can,” she said. “We wait it out, see what their move is. I have a feeling that’s why Ulger called me this morning.”
“What do they want?”
“My guess is they’re going to use the arrest,” she paused, “as leverage.”
“For me to leave the house?”
“For full custody.”
I felt my stomach drop.
“That can’t be true!” I said. “Trevor doesn’t want full custody.”
“No, he doesn’t want full custody,” she said. “He wants to win.”
* * *
I didn’t want to leave Pep in the dead zone, given that I didn’t know how much time we had left together, but I had to be at Book Soup on Sunset by 7:00, which meant I had to leave the house by yesterday.
Sorry. Traffic joke.
Most of the time, at book signings, you’ll get a few people marooned in a sea of folding chairs. The nice lady who works behind the counter, her reading glasses attached to a chain around her neck, will grab a chair. Maybe an old suitor will show up, or a girl you knew (vaguely) from high school geometry class.
My dad was waiting outside the bookstore when I arrived, along with Shu, who was dressed like she was heading to a premiere for a vampire movie.
“Honey, you remember Shu?”
“Of course,” I said. “Five languages—four and a half more than I speak—”
“I want to bring her by the house afterward,” he said.
I thought about her recent shoplifting arrest.
“Sure,” I said. “Why not?”
* * *
I spied him immediately. He’s hard to miss. Every novelist of any repute, ill or otherwise, has a stalker. Mine showed up to every book signing I’d had in LA since my first novel was published—never said a word, never bought a book, never even approached me. He just sat in the middle of the middle row, right in my eyeline. Like I could ever miss him. Dressed head to toe in silver, black gloves to his elbows, jet-black, greasy hair falling past his shoulders.
I stopped myself from waving like he was an old friend. Still, his presence felt stabilizing—proof that I was still stalkable. I hadn’t yet disappeared.
Stalker stared me down as I began to power through my intro schtick.
I raised
my hand.
“Hi, my name is Agnes Murphy,” I said. “Nash. For now. And I’m a recovering writer.”
That got a few titters. The crowd had turned out to be a respectable size. There were even a few people standing in back, confined by tall bookshelves. I wondered how many would actually buy my book. It didn’t help that I encouraged readers to save their money (especially in cities battered by recession) and buy the paperback version or check it out at the library.
A great salesman I am not. I’m a person who wrestled with words.
And often lost.
“Thanks for leaving the comforts of home and Netflix tonight,” I said. “There’re more people here than I’d expected. I hope you guys didn’t get the wrong date. I mean, you do know I’m not reading from Fifty Shades of Dick?”
Laughs because they A) liked me, or B) were actually nervous about getting the wrong date.
“I’m reading the acknowledgments first, because my dad is in the audience, and if I read his name, he might get laid tonight.”
Laughs. Except for Stalker. The Silver Prince of Darkness glowered.
“So let’s get started,” I said. “Feel free to check your Facebook or Twitter or swipe right while I read. The fewer people listening, the more I feel at home.”
I started reading. Taking a breath between sentences. Reminding myself to slow down.
Slow down, Agnes.
Skipping parts here and there that felt clunky. (Why didn’t I read this out loud after writing and rewriting and rewriting and rewriting? Why didn’t the editor, you know, edit?)
I’d gone over these passages so many times while writing and rewriting (apparently not editing), my mind started to wander . . .
My sister’s in jail. Trevor called the chief of police and had her arrested.
The chief of police. The guy who runs the city.
I kept reading.
Choose your enemies wisely, right? Can’t say that I have—
I took a deep breath.
Don’t think about the phone calls with Anne.
I shivered. Even though the room suddenly felt hot. Stifling.
Didn’t this place have air-conditioning?
I was cold.
Palms sweaty.
Mom’s spaghetti.
My breathing felt labored, like Bill O’Reilly making a midnight phone call.
Been There, Married That (ARC) Page 21
