“Do not knock it. You must try it.”
I had a sudden vision of Rico Rodriguez, how he’d made me blush. But then I thought of Mr. Tall, the blue-eyed man, twice Rico’s age, and my whole body went weak. What was happening to me? I was interrupted from contemplation of this interesting question by the arrival of Bing.
It was clear our director-producer-cinematographer was having a bad day. The whites of his eyes were pink, indicating sleep issues I could relate to. He told us that the Biographical Question was religion, moved us to the sushi bar, and began filming.
Vaclav and I sat side by side. Bing got us in profile, then turned his camera toward the sushi chef, edging closer to me until his waist was next to my cheekbone. Something in his pants hit my breast. I hoped it was a gun, a knife, a banana—anything but an anatomical part. The fish smell was getting to me. I fought off a wave of nausea.
Isaac, the sound guy, moved in, headphones covering his ears like earmuffs. What did the customers think, a camera the size of a microwave creeping around them, another man with his long-handled boom microphone looking like he was fishing? The five actual diners seemed not to notice. This was, after all, L.A.
At Bing’s signal, I posed the night’s question to Vaclav, expecting him to reply that religion is the opiate of the people. Vaclav surprised me.
“It was my misfortune to be raised without religion, a sad disadvantage.”
“Why?” I asked.
“A belief in God and prayer has been shown to reduce stress by a margin of some significance.”
“So—you believe in God?” I asked.
“No. Only stress reduction.”
“Okay, cut!” Bing said. “Paul, have the cute waitress take their order and then, Vaclav, ask Wollie the question.”
Fredreeq jumped up to powder me. “Gorbachev here just lost the Bible Belt vote,” she whispered. “Nobody likes an atheist. Talk Jesus.”
“Okay, Round Two,” Bing called. “Food, then God. Action!”
Vaclav ordered monkfish liver, uni with raw quail egg, and beef sabu-sabu, the kind of thing Doc would’ve ordered. I went with vegetable tempura, in honor of Ruby. Vaclav asked me my religious preferences, which reminded me that the camera was on.
“I started out Catholic,” I said. “Around age ten, I turned to Judaism, but never converted because I couldn’t give up Christmas; I’m not sure whether that makes me a closet Christian or just . . . sentimental. Then I read Be Here Now and fell in love with Buddhism, but every time I meditate I fall asleep. Same problem with Sufism, another lovely religion, headed by a very charismatic guy, and if you’re into poetry, they’ve got Rumi, a great person to have on your team. I’m a little sketchy on Hinduism, but I have a necklace with Hanuman on it, he’s a monkey demigod, and—” In my peripheral vision, Fredreeq was jumping up and down, gesticulating. “Oh! Sorry. Jesus,” I said. “Jesus is great. I’ve always loved him. The parables and the miracles are fine, but my favorite moment is when he tells the thief on the other cross that they’re headed for paradise. What a happy ending to a really bad day. Not that I’m well versed in the Bible. Protestants are much better read than the Catholics. Better singers too, The Sound of Music notwithstanding. A good gospel choir is a peak experience, don’t you think, like sex? And if you’re down South and visit a church where they do snake-handling and speak in tongues—well, wow.”
Fredreeq was frantically waving her hands over her head, signaling something. It didn’t appear to be unqualified approval.
Vaclav said, “So what will your children be? Catholic?”
“No, I’m a bad Catholic. Even as a child I was only in it for the stained glass. And the incense. Frankincense. Or myrrh? Very heady stuff, and would come in handy right now to obscure these fishy odors—” I remembered again I was on camera. “Oops. Oh, does it matter, Vaclav? Most people I know turn their backs on their parents’ religion. I’ll probably just read my kids poetry and pray they don’t become Raelians.”
“Cut,” Bing said.
I turned to look at Fredreeq, who had dropped her head into her hands. Joey was talking on a cell phone. Paul studied a menu. Vaclav occupied himself with the Takei Sake bottle, the drink for once appropriate to the cuisine. Joey’s phone reminded me to turn on mine, now that filming had temporarily stopped.
Instantly, a buzzing dentist’s drill noise indicated that I’d missed a call. I pressed buttons and listened to a message from Detective Cziemanski. I called him back. “What’s up?” I asked. “Is it about Annika?”
“No, it’s about Wollie. What are you doing for dinner?”
I laughed. “Tonight? Eating tempura on national TV.” I explained Biological Clock, a show that he, like most Americans, had never heard of.
“You didn’t tell me you’re a star,” he said. He didn’t sound thrilled.
I looked around. Vaclav knocked back sake. Paul leaned against a wall, dozing. A fly skimmed the surface of the sushi bar. Plastic fish adorned the walls. “It’s nonstop glamour,” I said. “But only Mondays and Thursdays. The rest of the week I slum.”
“Okay, I don’t know how to ask this, but—that name, Biological Clock—is there something we should talk about here? Not that I need to know your age before I buy you a burger, but I take it you’re a little older than . . . twenty-eight, twenty-nine?”
“A little. Is that a problem?” I asked.
“I don’t know. Is it? In terms of kids?”
“My understanding, Detective, is that if you and I had sex every half hour from now till next year, I’m more likely to get pregnant than I am to fall into an active volcano. But not by much.” Silence. “I’m exaggerating.”
The silence continued. Then, “The thing is, Wollie, I was hoping for—”
“Kids?”
“A bunch of them.” A call-waiting click occurred, on his end. He apologized, saying he had to take the call. “Listen, I’ll be in touch. I still want to be friends, but—”
I sat very still, listening to a dead phone, feeling a little sick.
“Boyfriend problems, Vollie?” Vaclav’s words slurred a little.
Before I could reply, the restaurant door burst open. “Bing Wooster!” a man yelled. “Where are you, you worthless asshole?”
Bing turned toward the voice. We all did.
Then Bing pulled out a gun.
A long moment of silence followed, interrupted by Joey’s gravelly voice. “Jesus.”
More silence. Finally, Bing spoke. “Get off my set.” His voice shook. His hand shook too, his gun hand, but still, he was showing more courage than I’d expect from Bing, a director defending his production. The Betacam was still on his shoulder, but Paul moved in behind him, ready to take the camera.
The man laughed. He was muscular, with a goatee, wearing a black T-shirt. I’d seen him before. Outside the restaurant last week, on the sidewalk. “Or what?” he said. “You blow me away?” He walked forward with a swagger, arms open, fingers spread, body language saying, “Shoot me.”
Bing shook some more.
“You’re holding the gun wrong, Wooster,” the man said. One hand snaked out and the gun went flying across the room. The Betacam wobbled and slipped from Bing’s shoulder.
The gun skidded into a wall.
The Betacam fell into Paul’s waiting arms.
The gun didn’t fire. The restaurant exhaled.
The goateed man had both hands on Bing’s gun arm, doing something that forced Bing to his knees. When he let go, Bing bent over, holding his hand, whimpering.
“Now that I’ve got your attention,” the man said, leaning down, “you pull a no-show again, I’ll kill you. I don’t need a gun to do it. Two, you don’t pay, you don’t play. I make her disappear, get what I’m saying? You never see her again.” He spoke quietly, but because no one in the room was even breathing, we all heard.
The man walked out of RockiSushi.
We all looked at one another, the chef, the staff, the B.C. people, the five cu
stomers. Two or three cell phones came out. “Do we call 911?” a woman at a table asked.
“Did anyone die?” Fredreeq said.
Paul went over to Bing, who was nursing his hand. Bing told Paul to get lost.
Joey, meanwhile, had crossed the room and picked up the gun. She went to the window, gun pointing down, glanced outside, then walked out the door.
Seconds later, a man came in. Cadaverous, middle-aged, and dressed in a Nehru jacket, he looked around, smiled, and made his tentative way to the sushi bar.
“Excuse me,” he said to the sushi chef. “I’m Dr. Arthur Ostroot. I’m supposed to meet some people here with a TV show?”
“That’s us, honey,” Fredreeq called. “Sit down and have some edamame beans.”
Vaclav offered our expert some sake while Bing hauled himself up off the floor. He wobbled, glanced around the room, and steadied himself.
“Paul, what are we waiting for?” he yelled. “Next setup. And who’s got Vicodin?”
21
Despite our director’s stoicism, we wrapped early Monday night. Bing’s fingers swelled so badly he had trouble operating the camera, and he swilled so much sake to deal with the pain that he fell over backward into the sushi bar, enraging the chef. Joey wasn’t there to do her producer thing, soothing ruffled feathers and handing out twenty-dollar bills, so we were asked to leave.
Tuesday morning, Fredreeq called to say she and Joey were en route to my apartment. “To take you to an undisclosed location, in order to save your life. Wear running shoes. Dress sporty.”
These last five were words I’d never expected to hear from Fredreeq. My curiosity aroused, I was waiting on the curb when Joey’s Mercedes pulled up. “Is this about the guy who broke Bing’s fingers?” I said, climbing into the back seat.
“Indirectly,” Joey said.
“Absolutely,” Fredreeq said. “It came to us the exact same moment. Bing’s gun went flying and we both thought, ‘Krav Maga.’ ”
“Excuse me?”
Joey steered with her thigh and wrestled her red hair into a scrunchie. “I called Bing last night, but even drunk as a skunk, he wouldn’t say who the goatee guy was.”
“It’s obvious who he is. He’s blackmailing Bing.” Fredreeq pulled out a cell phone. “Keep talking. I just gotta call my kids.”
“Where’d you go last night?” I asked Joey.
“I tried to follow the goatee guy, just to see if I could. I couldn’t. I don’t even know when I lost him, because I followed what I thought was his truck all the way to Inglewood. I did get his license, though, right at the beginning.”
“The goatee guy,” Fredreeq said, putting away her cell phone, “works for Savannah Brook. Or organized crime in Vegas. He’s our saboteur. He’s the messenger, and here’s the message: Make sure Savannah Brook wins this contest or we make someone disappear. Annika, Wollie, Kimberly—”
Joey said, “That is the wackiest theory I’ve ever heard.”
“Wacky?” Fredreeq said. “You two ever hear of Nancy Kerrigan and Tonya Harding? Did I make that up? Did Pete Rose bet on baseball?”
“So what is this undisclosed location?” I asked. “We’re not going to buy an attack dog or dye my hair or—”
“Dye your hair?” Fredreeq turned around in the front seat to stare at me. “Are you drunk? Women in this town run to their colorists every six weeks to get that shade of blond. We just told you. Krav Maga.”
“Yes, but what is it?”
“Hebrew,” she said. “Very trendy.”
“A deli?” I said.
“Much more fun than that.” Joey zoomed across Sepulveda. “A martial art.”
Uh-oh. “Is this something we’re going to watch?”
“Nope,” Joey said. “It’s something we’re going to do.”
“But I don’t want to do this. This is not something I’d like doing.”
“It’s very hip,” Fredreeq said. “It’s more martial than art, so you don’t have to learn calligraphy and eat seaweed and wear those white pajamas.” She, I now noticed, was wearing tight, rainbow-colored workout clothes. “In less time than it takes to get your teeth capped, they turn you into a killing machine.”
I didn’t want to become a killing machine. I articulated this as clearly as I could, but my friends were unmoved. My life was at stake, Fredreeq said. Was I or wasn’t I being stalked? Forget getting myself a gun. Had a gun helped Bing? Or Annika?
This would give me confidence, Joey said; I owed it to myself to give it a try.
I expected a low-ceilinged, mildewy room, because an old boyfriend had taken karate in a place like that, but Krav Maga shared the ground floor of the City National Bank building, and maybe the bank’s decorator and cleaning service. It was an aesthetically pleasing space, with a small boutique near the front, displaying, among other things, Krav Maga baby T-shirts.
Three people worked behind the desk, one more cheerful than the next. “Excessively happy people signify cult activities,” I whispered to Joey. A lovely girl introduced herself as Taffy, checked us in, had us sign a waiver in case we were maimed during the introductory class, and handed us three pairs of leather gloves.
“Not me. Sciatica,” Fredreeq said, indicating her lower back. “I’m just here for moral support.”
Taffy nodded and explained that the free introductory classes were usually held on Saturdays, but one had been added this week due to a sudden holiday demand.
“Are people anticipating a Thanksgiving crime wave?” I asked.
“Exactly.” Taffy smiled, immune to sarcasm. “The Orange County ATM thieves.”
“But this is a Jewish organization?” I asked, growing crankier by the minute. “And you work on the Sabbath?”
“Imi, our founder, was Jewish, but we’re open to everyone. I’m Presbyterian. And we train seven days a week, because criminals work seven days a week. This way!” She came out from behind her desk and led us through a lobby surrounded by workout rooms. The workout rooms had windows for walls, enabling us to see the people within, red-faced, dripping with sweat, punching bags with rigorous intensity. One man had strange headgear on. A woman’s knees were bandaged. No one was smiling. “Level two,” Taffy said, pointing. “And over there is Fight.”
And this was supposed to sell us on the program? What kind of people enjoyed watching other people suffer?
Joey. She was salivating, a diabetic looking into a bakery. Fredreeq inspected the lobby, pointing out vending machines, a TV suspended from the ceiling, and walls covered with photographs, magazine covers, and articles featuring testimonials from movie stars and cops. “Tasteful,” Fredreeq said. “Like the first-class lounge at the airport.”
Taffy pointed to the locker rooms and sent us on our way.
I expected our instructor to be some Special Forces type from the Israeli army, but again, they outmaneuvered me. Ten of us, all sizes, shapes, and ages, stood around, looking mostly uncomfortable, and at 8:47, a lanky guy disengaged himself from a trio of teenage girls, walked to the front of the room, popped a CD into a player, and introduced himself as Seth.
Seth had shaggy hair obscuring puppy eyes, and the energy level of someone who’d woken suddenly out of a sound sleep to find himself in the front of this room. He pressed a button and soft, alternative rock music massaged our ears. In a self-deprecating voice, Seth rattled off his résumé: a couple of black belts, in karate, Tae Kwon Do, Ho Chi Minh—I lost track. Then he pulled off his worn sweatshirt to reveal a tank top underneath, which in turn revealed a torso like the ones you see on late-night TV, belonging to guys selling exercise equipment. He told us about Imi Lichtenfeld, the guy who’d come up with Krav Maga, and demonstrated the martial art’s only formality, the bow, accompanied by some word that meant, in some language or other, “bow.”
“Ordinarily, we’d turn to the back of the room, to Imi’s photo, but there doesn’t seem to be one in this room, so, uh—” Seth smiled sheepishly. “Okay, just bow to me.”
Then the music changed.
Heavy metal took over as we jumped, jogged, kicked, punched, hopped, yelled, hammered, elbowed, kneed, ducked, and weaved ourselves into a frenzy. This explained the waivers. Seth, his sleepiness gone, egged us on. Periodically, he yelled “Time!” and let us sit, panting like dogs, as he demonstrated antimugging techniques. He attacked a punching bag with such force that the heavy bag flopped around like a balloon, decimating any doubts I’d had about his teaching credentials.
“Best targets? Crotch, neck, soft parts of the face. Knees. Eyes.” He smiled apologetically. “Some people get a little squeamish about eye gouging. But look: if you see an opening, don’t waste it on someone’s arm or their abs—a guy’s in good shape, he might not even feel it. Maybe you only get one shot. Maybe he’s got a knife. Maybe there’s three of them and one of you. Do the math. Make it count.”
I hate it when people say “do the math.” I didn’t want to do math. I didn’t want to do this. I wanted to go paint frogs.
I glanced in the mirror. My face was tomato red, my bangs sticking out, stiff with sweat and last night’s hairspray. I’d worn two jogging bras to keep my breasts from having a life of their own. I didn’t have the physique for this. I didn’t have the physique for any sport except wet T-shirt contests.
Joey was another story. Built like a skinny fifteen-year-old, she was in her element. She caught my eye in the mirror and winked.
“Defense and counterattack,” Seth said, “are peanut butter and jelly. Self-defense without counterattack gets you killed, if you’re dealing with someone bigger, or someone with a stick, screwdriver, handgun . . .”
Screwdrivers? People were out there with screwdrivers?
“The main thing is, you don’t give up,” Seth said. “If you walk away with nothing else from today, take this: worst thing you can do is curl up in a ball and quit. Don’t quit, don’t get in their car, keep screaming, keep fighting. I don’t care how scared you are or how bad you’re hurt. If you’re not dead, you’re not done.”
Dating is Murder Page 15
