Death of a Gigolo

by Laura Levine

  “No, thanks,” I said, for one of the few times in my life passing up chocolate.

  “More for me,” he said, grabbing one.

  He broke off a tiny piece and tossed it to his mega-dog.

  “Here you go, Rufus.”

  The dog roused himself from his stupor long enough to scarf it down. No wonder he was so zoned out.

  “Are you sure it’s healthy, feeding marijuana to a dog?”

  “Oh, Rufus eats this stuff all the time, and he’s just fine. Aren’t you, Rufus?”

  The dog snored in reply.

  “So what do you wanna know?” he asked, eyes glued to the TV, where SpongeBob was doing battle with a piece of plankton.

  “Your brother Raymond tells us he was with you the morning of Tommy LaSalle’s murder.”

  “Yep,” he nodded. “We were out buying a coffeemaker.”

  “Really? Raymond says you were buying a coffee table.”

  “Oh, right. Coffee table. Coffeemaker. I always get those two confused.”

  “So where is it?” I asked. “Your new coffee table?”

  “It’s around here somewhere. I haven’t had a chance to assemble it yet.”

  “Mind if I take a look at it?”

  The wheels spun ever so slowly in what passed for his brain before he answered.

  “I just remembered. I loaned it to a friend. But I was with my brother that morning at Ikea, I swear.”

  “Really? Your brother said he was at Home Depot.”

  “Ikea. Home Depot. I always get those confused, too.”

  I was shaking my head in wonder that Raymond had trusted his alibi to his numbskull brother when there was a knock on the door.

  Andre shuffled off to get it, his bare feet cracked with dirt at the heels.

  Just as I was trying to decide which smelled worse—Rufus or the stench of marijuana—I heard someone at the door shout, “LAPD.”

  Oh, hell. It was the real police.

  And I couldn’t get caught impersonating a police officer. Not again.

  (Yes, I’ve done it before. Sorry about that, Mom.)

  Springing up from the armchair, I dashed over to a swinging door at the far end of the room and found myself in Andre’s kitchen, a hellhole of a room with enough dishes in the sink to stock a small restaurant.

  Thank heavens there was a back door. I vaulted over to it and turned the knob, only to realize it was dead-bolted shut. Dammit! I was trapped!

  Then I looked down and saw it: a ginormous doggie door—large enough to accommodate Rufus.

  Before you could say “Down, boy,” I was on my knees, shoving myself past the filthy plastic flap to freedom. Or trying to, anyway. It was a mighty tight squeeze.

  “Mildred Pierce?” I heard the real police officer saying. “There’s nobody in Homicide by that name.”

  Ack! Any minute the police would come charging into the kitchen and find me with my fanny halfway out the doggie door.

  With one last heroic attempt, I sucked in my gut and forced myself out of that filthy opening.

  I landed on a tiny flagstone patio and blinked in amazement at what I saw. Aside from the patio, the entire backyard was covered with marijuana plants, some shooting up as high as five feet.

  Frantically searching for an escape route, I groaned to see the yard was bordered by high fences on both sides, way too high to scale without a ladder and Kevlar panties.

  Then I spotted my salvation: a gate at the rear of the yard.

  Without wasting another second, I began hacking my way through the marijuana plants like Indiana Jones in a cannabis jungle.

  I was almost at the gate when I tripped over a stray branch and went sprawling to the ground.

  Why, today of all days, had I worn a brand new Eileen Fisher blouse? Now it was streaked with dirt.

  But I didn’t have time to worry about my ruined blouse. I picked myself up and charged ahead to the gate, which—praise be!—was unlocked. Shoving it open, I stepped out into an alley littered with trash.

  A homeless man sat in front of an abandoned mattress, reading a rumpled copy of the Los Angeles Times.

  He took one look at me and opened his mouth to speak.

  Assuming he was going ask for money, I felt around in my purse for my wallet.

  But he didn’t want my money.

  Instead, he reached into a plastic bag beside him and pulled out a bar of soap.

  “Here, sweetheart,” he said. “You need this more than I do.”

  It was then that I realized I reeked of Rufus and weed.

  Blushing to the roots of my cannabis-infested hair, I declined his offer and made my way back to my Corolla, hoping I wouldn’t run into the cops who’d come to question Andre.

  The coast was clear when I got back out to the street.

  So I sprinted to my car, stinking up a storm—and certain that whatever Raymond was doing the morning of the murder, he hadn’t been doing it with his brother.

  Chapter 24

  Actually, I had a very good reason to wear my new Eileen Fisher blouse that day.

  Those of you paying close attention to my little story and not running off to the fridge for snacks will no doubt recall that I’d promised to set up a date for Dickie and me to get together with Lance.

  And today was the day. We’d agreed to meet up for a seven o’clock movie at the Century City Mall.

  By the time I left Andre’s it was a little after five, and I figured I had just enough time to stop off at my apartment for a quick shower and a bite to eat.

  But I figured wrong. Very wrong.

  The freeway had been bad enough when I drove down to Hawthorne, but now it was a nightmare on wheels, cars inching along at a snail’s pace.

  Correction. I’m sure there were plenty of snails at that moment making better time than we were.

  No way was I going to be able to make it to my apartment. I’d be lucky if I made it in time for the movie.

  When I finally pulled in the Century City parking lot, it was 7:02.

  Wasting no time, I raced to the escalator—plucking a marijuana leaf from my hair en route—and hustled to the Cineplex, where Dickie and Lance were waiting for me outside the entrance.

  Dickie looked cute as ever in jeans and a turtleneck; Lance, dressed to impress in a nosebleed-expensive designer sweater.

  As I approached them I could hear Lance saying, “I just love your hair, Dickie. I saw the exact same style in a Supercuts ad.”

  “Hey, guys,” I said, zipping over to join them before Lance could deliver another zinger. “I see you’ve already introduced yourselves.”

  “Yes,” Lance said. “I recognized Dickie from your wedding album. In spite of the crossed eyes you drew on all his pictures.”

  “How’s it going, sweetie?” Dickie said to me, ignoring Lance’s thoughtful reminder of how miserable our marriage had been.

  He reached out to give me a hug, but Lance slid in and beat him to it.

  “Yes, sweetie, how’s it going?” Then he wrinkled his nose in disgust. “PU! What have you been rolling around in?”

  Damn. I’d opened the windows in my Corolla and was hoping all those freeway exhaust fumes had gotten rid of my eau de Rufus.

  “You smell like weed and something really disgusting.”

  “Dog hair.”

  “Weed and dog hair? Ugh! I don’t know whether to pet you or smoke you.”

  “You smell just fine,” Dickie reassured me.

  But I couldn’t help notice how quickly he pulled back from the hug he’d started to give me.

  “I’m so sorry I’m late.”

  “No problem,” Dickie said. “The trailers run forever. We have plenty of time.”

  We made our way inside the Cineplex, and as we passed the snack bar, Dickie asked, “Can I get you some water, Jaine?”

  “Hahaha!” Lance guffawed. “Are you kidding? The only time Jaine would ever order water at a movie was if the place was on fire. What’ll you have, sweetie? You
r usual Coke and jumbo Raisinets?”

  “You know I don’t eat sweets anymore, Lance,” I said, shooting him a death ray glare. Then I turned back to Dickie. “Water will be great,” I lied.

  “Well, I’m starving,” Lance said. “I’ll get the Raisinets for me.”

  What a stinker. Lance never eats sweets in the movies. He was just buying them in the hopes I’d break down in front of Dickie and grab a handful.

  Fully armed with waters and jumbo Raisinets, we headed into the theater to find our seats.

  Dickie led the way to our row, and I was just about to follow him to our seats when Lance darted in front of me, practically shoving me aside so that he’d be sitting between Dickie and me.

  “I want to sit next to Dickie,” he said, “so I can get to know him better.”

  I plopped down in my seat, more than a tad irritated.

  And by now I was starving. The last thing I’d eaten was that Dove Bar a zillion hours ago.

  Lance popped a Raisinet in his mouth.

  “Mmm, yummy.”

  The little sadist.

  It was all I could do not to grab a bunch and inhale them. But somehow I restrained myself and just sucked on my calorie-free water.

  As the previews for coming attractions started playing on the screen, I noticed two couples near us getting up and changing their seats.

  “What’s that awful smell?” I heard one woman mutter to her friend.

  “Weed and dog hair!” Lance called out helpfully.

  I wish I could tell you what movie we saw that night, but I can’t. Because we didn’t see it.

  The movie hadn’t even begun when we were approached by a beanpole of an usher. “I’m so sorry,” he said, “but I’m going to have to ask you to leave. We’ve gotten several complaints about the . . . um . . . odor coming from you, ma’am,” he added, nodding in my direction.

  Omigosh, I was as bad as Daddy. Between the two of us, we were stinking up theaters from coast to coast.

  “We’ll refund your money, of course,” the usher said as we got up from our seats.

  “Lysol on seat G13,” I heard him whisper to one of his colleagues on our way out of the theater.

  All in all, a most humiliating experience.

  Afterwards we agreed to meet up at my apartment, where the first thing I did was excuse myself and leap in the shower, eager to wash away all traces of my romp in the marijuana patch.

  As I tore off my clothes, Prozac looked up from where she was napping on my toilet tank and sniffed in disgust.

  Yee-uck! I’ve been in litter boxes that smelled better than you.

  When I was sparkle-clean and smelling of strawberry-scented shampoo, I hurried back to my bedroom and slipped into jeans and a sweatshirt.

  I was hungrier than ever, but all I had in my kitchen were cold pizza and Oreos, and I couldn’t possibly eat those in front of Dickie. Instead I searched through my handbags and pockets, looking for unfinished snacks.

  Sadly all I came up with was a linty Life Saver and a few stray M&M’s that had survived the spin class debacle. I scarfed them down in nanoseconds, and after gargling with Listerine to remove all traces of chocolate from my breath, I headed out to the living room.

  There I found Lance cozying up to Dickie on the sofa, showing him pictures from his cell phone. Much to my consternation, I heard him saying:

  “Wait’ll you see this picture of Jaine eating ice cream with a soup ladle. It’s hilarious! Oh, and here she is finishing off a banana cream pie!”

  Racing over, I grabbed the phone from his hand.

  “That’s enough show and tell, Lance. Dickie already knows about my past as a junk food eater.”

  “I’m so proud of you for changing your ways,” Dickie said, giving my hand a squeeze.

  “Of course!” Lance said. “I keep forgetting you two were married. Which reminds me,” he added, spreading out on his half of the sofa and forcing me to sit all by my lonesome on my chintz armchair, “I was reading an interesting article in the paper the other day. They did this study that tracked divorced couples who reconnected. More than eighty percent of them split up within a year.”

  What a royal crock. The only thing Lance ever read in the paper was his horoscope. Which brought him to Topic Number Two.

  “So what’s your astrological sign?” he asked Dickie.

  “I don’t believe in astrology. My guru says our lives are determined not by the stars, but by our souls.”

  “How insightful,” Lance said with patently insincere sincerity. “But just for a minute, humor me. What’s your sign?”

  “Taurus.”

  Lance clucked in pity.

  “Too bad. Jaine’s a Leo. Totally incompatible! Not that it’s necessarily true in your case. There are always exceptions to the rule. I’m sure you two will be just fine together,” he added with a simpering smile.

  “I’m so glad we have your vote of confidence,” I snapped.

  “Raisinet, anyone?” he asked, holding out the box, still hoping to lure me into stuffing my face in front of Dickie.

  “I’m so sorry I can’t offer you guys something to eat,” I said, “but all I’ve got are some old martini olives.”

  “I’m fine,” Dickie said. “I had a big salad before I met you guys.”

  “All these Raisinets have made me thirsty,” Lance said, getting up from the sofa. “I’m going to get myself some water. You’re not out of that, too, are you, Jaine?”

  “No,” I snarled, “my kitchen faucet’s right where it’s always been.”

  The minute the little ratfink was gone, I leaped over to the sofa and cuddled up next to Dickie.

  “Well, hello, there,” he said in his velvety foreplay voice.

  Then he began nibbling my ear. Which almost made the whole miserable evening worthwhile.

  “Sorry about Lance,” I said, mid-nibble. “He’s being a total jerk.”

  “He seems okay to me.”

  “Really?” I asked, taken aback.

  “I try to find something good in everyone I meet.”

  “Yeah, well, you’d need an electronic microscope to find something good in Lance tonight.”

  Before I could trash him anymore, Mr. Impossible came tripping back into the living room.

  “Guess what I found in Jaine’s cupboard. Oreos!” He waved the package of cookies gleefully. “We’ve got snacks, after all!”

  “Is that so?” I said, stifling the urge to ram one up his nose. “What with my new diet, I forgot I even had them.”

  “Well, here they are,” Lance said, tossing them on the coffee table.

  “None for me, thanks,” Dickie said.

  “Me either,” I chimed in, stealing Lance’s maneuver and kicking out my legs so there was absolutely no room for him on the sofa.

  Which didn’t seem to bother him a bit as he settled in my armchair with an Oreo.

  “Yum!” he said, licking the crème from the center.

  I was seriously thinking about ways to decapitate the duplicitous little toad when he cried, “Look who’s here! My favorite cat!”

  And indeed, I turned and saw Prozac prancing into the room, fresh from her nap on my toilet tank.

  “Come here, princess, and sit with Uncle Lance!” Lance cooed.

  He patted his knees, and before you could say Shameless Hussy, she was curled up in his lap.

  “Jaine tells me you’ve been having trouble bonding with Prozac,” Lance said to Dickie, oozing fake concern.

  “Prozac’s coming around,” I said. “Before long, she’ll be madly in love with him.”

  From her perch on Lance’s lap, Prozac shot me an incredulous look.

  As if.

  “Funny,” Lance said, scratching her behind her ears, “Prozac adores me.”

  The little turncoat looked up at him, goo-goo eyed.

  “I always believe animals are such good judges of people’s character.”

  Pro thumped her tail in approval.

&nbs
p; Amen to that, brother!

  “Although I’m sure she’s wrong in your case, Dickie. . . . Naughty Prozac, you mustn’t keep hissing at Dickie like that.”

  Dickie was smiling stiffly, but I could tell his determination to find the good in Lance was being severely tested.

  Enough was enough.

  “Lance,” I said, glaring at him, “isn’t it time for you to get going? Don’t you have to get up early for work tomorrow?”

  “Don’t be silly. Neiman’s doesn’t open until ten. And besides, I’ve got the day off! I can stay as late as I want!”

  Dickie blanched at this latest newsflash.

  “Well,” he said, getting up, “Lance may not have to get to work early tomorrow, but I do. I’d better be pushing off.”

  “Don’t go!” I cried.

  “No, don’t!” Lance said. “I want to tell you about my customers at Neiman’s. You wouldn’t believe the bunions I’ve seen!”

  “Sorry, I’ve got to run.”

  And, after a hurried peck on my cheek, he was gone.

  The minute he left, I whirled on Lance, livid.

  Okay, the minute he left, I stuffed my face with an Oreo.

  Then I whirled on Lance.

  “I may never speak to you again.”

  “Why?” he asked, all wide-eyed innocence, an act he no doubt picked up from Prozac.

  “Don’t pretend you don’t know what a skunk you’ve been all night.”

  “Me?” Still playing innocent.

  “You did your best to sabotage me. The Raisinets, the Oreos, the horoscope, the picture of me eating ice cream with a soup ladle, the stupid study about divorced couples reconnecting, reminding Dickie how much Prozac hates him—”

  Over in the armchair, Prozac meowed.

  He was right about that.

  “Seriously, Lance. I’m furious. You need to leave. Now.”

  Suddenly he dropped the innocent act, a stricken look on his face.

  “I’m so sorry, Jaine. You’re right, I behaved abominably.”

  And then I saw something I’d never seen before:

  Tears in his eyes.

  In all the years I’d known Lance, he’s been a major-league drama queen, but I’d never actually seen him cry.

  “It’s just that I’m so afraid of losing you,” he said, gulping back a sob. “I keep thinking that you’ll marry Dickie and move away and you’ll be out of my life forever.”