Glamour Puss

by R. J. Kaiser

  On Thursdays Art normally was in the field, calling on the accounts, which meant he’d be likely heading out directly from home, and Mac wouldn’t be able to talk to him until late afternoon. He didn’t like bothering employees at home, but since the business with Manuela was rather sensitive, he figured an early-morning call would be justified.

  Art sounded a bit groggy when he answered the phone.

  “Hope I didn’t wake you,” Mac said.

  “No, boss. I’m still in bed, but I wasn’t sleeping.”

  “Ah, you’re busy, in other words,” Mac said, understanding Art was not alone. “I won’t disturb you then. Give me a buzz when you’re free.”

  “No, it’s okay. Sherri just went to the kitchen to make us some coffee. I can talk.”

  “You sure?”

  “Positive. What’s up?”

  “I had a little visit yesterday afternoon from one of your girls.”

  “Yeah? Who?”

  “Manuela Ordon˜ez.”

  “She came to your house?”

  “Yes.”

  “No kidding. What did she want?”

  Mac told him what happened. Art listened, interjecting sympathetic groans from time to time. When Mac finished, Art said, “Jesus.”

  “You know the lady better than I do. What do you make of it?”

  “Manuela’s not the swiftest tart in the crew,” Art said, “but I always considered her a pretty straight shooter. Sincere, I mean.”

  “I don’t know if she’s sincere about me or my money,” Mac said.

  “I guess that’s always a problem for a guy in your shoes.”

  “You’d warned me the loan wasn’t a good idea. I should have listened.”

  “These girls have a tendency to take what they can, considering they’ve spent most of their lives getting screwed. I always found the best approach is to be fair but firm.”

  “I can see my mistake.”

  “Want me to talk to her?”

  “She was pretty upset when she left,” Mac said. “I don’t know if she’ll be able to put it behind her, or if there might be trouble ahead. But I do know you need to be aware what happened.”

  “Definitely. Manuela’s a little fireball, the kind who needs to be doused now and again. I’ll talk to her, boss. Leave it in my hands.”

  “I feel responsible for the misunderstanding.”

  “Don’t kid yourself. Manuela’s no innocent lamb. She saw an opportunity and went for it. I know these girls.”

  “I’m aware of that, Art. That’s why you’re in charge. But we can talk about this later. I’ll let you get back to your coffee.”

  Art laughed. “Which just arrived, as a matter of fact, and looking mighty savory.”

  Mac imagined Art staring at a pair of bare breasts as he’d said it. There was something in his tone. “Well, bon appe´tit,” Mac said, amused. He hung up.

  There was only one Arturo Conti, God love him. Mac was grateful for the light moment. He needed a little relief.

  Deciding to get cleaned up and dressed for work, but not wanting to miss Stella’s call, Mac took the cordless phone into the bathroom, putting it on the vanity where he could easily reach it. As he showered, he thought about Jaime Caldron again. The note had brought the detective to mind, but over the years Caldron had popped into Mac’s head without any special reason. Maybe it was because the guy was a symbol of the constant threat to Mac’s freedom and peace of mind.

  Drying himself after his shower, Mac had an idea. Taking the phone, he called information and asked to be put through to the administrative offices of the L.A.P.D. He asked for the personnel department. When a clerk came on the line, he told her he was a high-school classmate of Caldron’s and was wondering if Jaime was still with the force. “Funny you should call,” the girl said. “I saw some paperwork on Lieutenant Caldron the other day. He is due to retire soon, I know that. Would you like his extension?”

  Mac said yes, but he didn’t write it down, ending the call. For a minute he stood, looking in the mirror, trying to remember what Caldron looked like. He couldn’t conjure up the man’s features, but he could recall his steely image, shrewdness hidden under a facade of quietness and calm. But was he sneaky and underhanded? Mac didn’t know him well enough to say.

  After dressing, he went downstairs to pour himself another cup of coffee and try to decide whether to go into the office or sit and wait for Stella to contact him. Knowing he could hang around all day and never hear from her, he decided to go to the office. If he obsessed over her, he could drive himself nuts.

  Mac was in the laundry room entering the alarm code into the pad when he heard the phone ring. He took the call on the kitchen phone.

  “Mac, I’m glad I caught you at home.” It was Stella.

  “Where’ve you been?” he said, trying not to sound as irritated as he was.

  “I’m in Palm Springs,” she said.

  “Couldn’t you have left a number or told Bonny or something?”

  “Mac, since when do you care what I do and where I go?”

  “I’ve got something important to discuss with you,” he said.

  “Well, I’ve got something important to discuss with you, too. Mac, it’s incredible, absolutely fantastic. You won’t believe it.”

  “What?”

  “I know you don’t like to talk about Troy’s career, but I have truly exciting news.”

  Mac rolled his eyes, knowing he’d be hearing about it in minute detail. He would have cut her off, but with Stella it was better letting her run out of steam. “Okay, what news?”

  “We need to discuss it in person,” she told him, “which is why I called. I’ve been working on this, planning it for a couple of days, and now everything’s set up.”

  “What’s set up?”

  “I want you to come over to my place tomorrow evening, if you would.”

  “Just to talk?”

  “No, I want you to meet some people, people who can make your son a star.”

  Unable to help himself, Mac groaned.

  “Now before you get in a huff, listen to what I have to say,” she admonished.

  Mac bit his tongue. Talk of big career opportunities always evoked images of Glamour Puss and the whole awful business, which Mac hated. Why Stella wasn’t sensitive to that, he’d never understood. Perhaps she was too focused on her own needs.

  “These people have some wonderful ideas,” she went on. “This is a golden opportunity for Troy and I want you to hear about it firsthand.”

  “Stella, you know I have no interest in getting into any of that Hollywood bullshit. I have nothing to contribute and I’d be in the way.”

  “No, you wouldn’t. You must come,” she pleaded. “It could be the most important day in Troy’s life. If you never do another thing for me as long as you live, do this. I promise, you won’t regret it. Tomorrow afternoon at my place. Say, four?”

  “Stella, I’ve got news, too. And I’m afraid it’s not very pleasant.”

  “For God’s sake, Mac, not now, please.”

  “You’ve got to hear this.”

  “Can’t it wait until tomorrow? I’m in a hurry. I can’t concentrate when I’m rushed, you know that. I called because I want to tell the others you’ll be there tomorrow for sure. Will you come, Mac?”

  “All right, fine, but give me a couple minutes now. Yesterday afternoon somebody left—”

  “Mac, I don’t mean to be impolite, but I really have to go. I’ll see you tomorrow.” With that she hung up.

  He slapped the receiver back into the cradle, pissed. It was vintage Stella—not giving a damn about anybody’s desires but her own. But then, he ought to be used to it by now. It was the essence of their relationship and had always been.

  Studio City

  Manuela Ordon˜ez pulled into the McGowan Enterprises parking lot just as Ella Vanilla came walking out to her car. Ella, her face lathered up like usual, sauntered over to the Chevy.

  “Where yo
u been, Manuela? I hear Art’s really pissed at you.”

  “Yeah, well, he can go fuck himself.”

  Ella’s brows rose. “What happened?”

  “I’m having a bad day, all right?”

  “Well, excuse me.”

  “Hey, I’m sorry, Ella. I didn’t mean nothing personal.”

  “Forget it. But you better have a pretty damn good excuse for showing up at work this late. You know how Art is about that shit.”

  “I know. He called and left a message on my machine.”

  “Well, good luck.”

  “Yeah, whatever. See you.”

  Manuela headed toward the warehouse, where Art had an office. The girls called it the whorehouse because Art was such a pussy hound—though nothing like he used to be when he owned the company. In those days he was screwing everybody, or at least a lot of the girls. The ones that put out got the best accounts, but Art never twisted anybody’s arm or treated anybody bad. To hear him tell it, getting laid by Art Conti was a privilege. If a girl didn’t appreciate that fact, she never got asked twice.

  Word was he was a damn good lay. He liked his women and he treated them right. But there was a group of girls who just didn’t get involved, for whatever reason. Manuela was one. Not that she wouldn’t have considered a roll in the hay with Art Conti. It’s just that the timing was never right. One or the other of them seemed to be involved with somebody. But sex was about the last thing she had to worry about now. Art was pissed.

  Of course, Manuela was pretty pissed herself. She felt like she’d got the shaft from Mac McGowan, whether he intended it or not. And she was hurt as bad as she ever had been. Maybe he never laid a hand on her, but what he did—giving her hope when he didn’t mean it—was a pretty shitty thing to do.

  Once in the warehouse, Manuela headed for the corner where Art’s office was located. She steeled herself, knowing this was going to be unpleasant. But fuck him, she told herself. She was the one who got screwed. She knocked on the door.

  “Yeah?” came the voice from inside.

  Manuela opened the door a crack and peeked in. She wasn’t going to throw it open and charge in without making sure it was safe. Connie did that once and found Art with a chemical supplier sales rep. She was on his desk with her legs splayed open and Art in up to his ears. All the girls had a good laugh about it. “The Art Conti quick test for PH balance.”

  “Who is it?” came his voice from inside.

  Manuela pushed the door open.

  “Well, well, Ordon˜ez,” Art said. “It’s about time. Where have you been?”

  He was sitting at his desk with his feet propped up, reading. Art was in his usual polo shirt with the Pool Maids logo on it. Manuela had to admit, Art wasn’t hard to look at with his dark wavy hair and mustache. He worked out, so he had broad shoulders, muscular arms and a narrow waist.

  “Sorry about being so late,” she said, “but I had a problem today.”

  “No, I had a problem today. One of my girls—you— didn’t show up. That meant I had to reassign your route to cover the accounts. I had to service one commercial account in Encino myself. I even got chlorine on my goddamn new loafers.”

  “So, I’m sorry. What do you want?”

  “How about an explanation for starters?” he said, taking his feet down off the desk, looking real serious.

  Manuela, who’d come partway into the office, took the last few steps to the guest chair across the desk from him and slipped into it. “I was depressed, all right?”

  “Depressed?”

  “Yeah, depressed. Ain’t you ever been depressed, Art? Jesus Christ.”

  “Look, Manuela. I run a business here, not a psychiatric ward. And this sure as hell isn’t the welfare office. You put in a day’s work and you get a day’s pay. Fuck up and you don’t work here, it’s as simple as that.”

  “So shoot me.”

  “Don’t get smart,” he said, wagging his finger at her. “You’re already on thin ice. And what in the fuck are you doing going to the boss’s place, trying to ball him? You got a death wish or something?”

  “Give me a break. I was trying to be nice, is all.”

  “Nice, Manuela?”

  “Yeah, you of all people ought to understand when a girl’s trying to be nice.”

  “Don’t be a smart-ass. You don’t like it here, you know where the door is.”

  “And I bet you never heard of sexual harassment, either.”

  Art suddenly got very quiet, his eyes hardening. “Are you threatening me?”

  “Hey, who got screwed? You or me?”

  “Nobody screwed you.”

  “Yeah? Says who? Were you there?” Manuela didn’t know why she said it. The words came out of nowhere. But why was she getting a hard time just because she thought Mac McGowan liked her, maybe loved her? What was so bad about telling a guy she liked him? It’s okay for Art Conti to fuck every girl in the company, but she shows a little titty by mistake and suddenly everybody wants to send her back to the slammer. Well, fuck them!

  Art’s eyes got a little wider. “Are you saying Mac McGowan had sex with you, or that he tried to? Is that what you’re saying?”

  “I’m saying what I’m saying and I don’t see what fucking business it is of yours, Conti.”

  Now his mouth dropped open. “I’ll tell you what fucking business it is of mine. I run this goddamn operation, and no two-bit piece of ass is going to come waltzing into the office six hours late and tell me to go fuck myself.”

  Manuela was losing it, her anger rising right along with his. She got to her feet, glaring. “Oh, go to hell!”

  Art leaped to his feet, pointing his finger at her. “You’re one word from getting your ass fired. Now I suggest you get out of my office and tomorrow morning you’d better be here bright and early and ready to do your job. Either that or pack your bags.”

  “Not without an apology.”

  Art’s chin almost landed on his chest. “What?” He was incredulous.

  “You heard me. I want an apology. And not just from you. From Mr. McGowan, too. And I don’t want missing work today deducted from my check.”

  “You’re out of your fucking mind.”

  Manuela folded her arms under her breasts and glared as hard as she could. “Don’t fuck with me, Art, or you’ll be sorry. And I ain’t kidding.”

  “Get out of here,” he said under his breath. He was so pissed he was scarlet.

  She leaned on his desk and, jutting out her chin, screamed, “Not without a goddamn apology.”

  “That’s it! You’re through. You’re fired. You’re canned. You’re history, Ordon˜ez. Clean out your locker and don’t set foot in here again. You’ll get your final check in the mail.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “You just fucked yourself,” he said, drawing himself up and puffing out his chest.

  “Yeah, well, you ain’t heard the last of me yet, asshole. Fucking count on it.” With that, she turned and headed for the door, stopping only to grab a straight chair and hurl it across the room onto Art Conti’s shiny desk. Then, flipping him off, she went out the door.

  Manuela didn’t cry until she was in her car. Even then, they were tears of anger. She hated the whole fucking bunch. They could take Pool Maids and shove it up their ass. Moments later, as she sat at the parking lot exit, waiting for a break in the traffic, she figured out what she’d do. She’d find Angel and tell him she’d been royally fucked. The assholes would be sorry then.

  Friday, August 25, 2000

  Beverly Hills

  Mac McGowan guided the Lexus up the street where he’d once lived, glad that his interminable wait to talk to Stella was nearly over. Perhaps their problems were only beginning, but at least they’d have a better idea where they stood—assuming she could remember who she’d spilled her guts to about Aubrey.

  When the large Mediterranean villa on upper Bedford Drive that he once shared with Stella came into view, Mac had that little wrench in his
gut that came with proximity to the past. The place held many memories for him, few of them positive. But Stella just adored the house, more because of its Hollywood lineage than its amenities. No less than three marquee-caliber stars were in the chain of title—Jeanne Winslow from the thirties, Brandon Kirk from the forties and Loretta Thomas, the name star of the 1950s and 60s.

  When they first saw the house it was as Loretta Thomas had redecorated it, in an art deco style. It truly looked like the set of a Jeanne Winslow movie. Mac sometimes thought these old places ought to have “papers” certifying their movie star authenticity, like a pedigree animal. With the old celluloid ghosts haunting the place, their casa, as Stella called it, only needed a few wax statues to qualify as Madame Tussand’s, Beverly Hills edition.

  Driving through the gates of the casa, he followed the circular drive to the front door and stopped. Before he got out, he reached into his pocket, just to feel the envelope containing the anonymous note. Even after a couple of days it still seemed like a bad dream from which he ought to be able to awaken. But those ten chilling words had been hammering his brain like a mantra—“I know what you did on Friday, October 13, 1978.”

  Mac got out of the Lexus and went to the front door where he was greeted by Marie Boniface. “Hello, Bonny.”

  “Welcome, Meester McGowan,” she said.

  “So, how’ve you been?” he asked, entering the house. “You keeping Stella on the straight and narrow?”

  “That’s too much to ask even of the Virgin, monsieur,” she replied. “But I do what I can, n’est-ce pas?”

  “Good for you, Bonny. I know how tough a job that is.”

  Bonny, a long, angular woman with shoulders that would make a halfback proud, smiled appreciatively. “We do what we have to do, eh, Meester McGowan?”

  “You’ve got that right.” Mac fingered the envelope in the side pocket of his jacket.