by PamelaDuMond
“There’s not that many. Can’t we start investigating? I’m cold. I’m tired. I want to go to the After-Life.”
“I want, I want, I want. Well, Mr. Whiny, I want a more thorough list. That way we can eliminate most of your suspects, and spot a pattern or clue that possibly slipped under our radar.” She looked up only to have her nose up the crack of Derrick’s blue moons. “Blech!” she said, held her nose and boomeranged back in her chair. “We need to figure out a way to put some clothes on you. I can’t take this.”
He turned and snapped his fingers at her. “Who’s whiny now? Stop slacking and get back to the list.”
She rubbed her temples. “I’m in hell. I’m definitely in hell.”
Derrick paced. “There were a couple of affairs.”
“Shocker. Slap me on the ass and call me spanky.”
Derrick looked intrigued. “Really? I mean – wow. You offering, that’s incredibly thoughtful.”
“No! Think. Concentrate – suspects. The list of your murder suspects.”
The sun rose and sifted through the beach fog that blanketed Annie’s patio. Her head rested on her shoulder and she snored a little.
Derrick did jumping jacks. “I was in my late twenties and there was that thing with the politician’s daughter. I once slept with my dumpy accountant so she would fib on my tax return and I’d get a bigger refund. Hey–wake up!”
She did with a start and a snort. Looked at her watch. “Thanks for the whole half hour of sleep. I’m going inside. Do. Not. Follow. Me,” she said. Got up slowly and walked to her tangerine kitchen door.
“But I’m hungry and cold, and …”
“You’re dead and you’re hyper.” Annie opened the door and reflexively pushed Teddy the cat away from it. “You were a Chihuahua in a past life. If you’re lucky, you’ll be one in your next. Later, Dude,” she said. Walked into her apartment and slammed the tangerine door in his face.
“Okay.” Derrick did leg kicks. Like the Rockettes at Radio City Music Hall. They burned fat, nailed his cardiovascular workout and totally toned his lower body. “My first girlfriend, Erin. We were twelve. She got mad when I cheated on her with my first boyfriend, her cousin Eric.” Then there was…”
Annie slept on her couch. Teddy sat on her pillow and kneaded her head with his enormous paws. The clock on her bookshelf read three p.m.
Derrick knelt next to Annie and poked her in the ribs. “No one sleeps this late. Jeez, we’ll miss Oprah.”
She stirred slightly. “Oh, that head massage was lovely. Thank you. I must have nodded off. Boy, you wouldn’t believe the dream I had.”
Derrick hollered into her ear. “Wake up! Time to work!”
Her eyes slid open, spotted Derrick and closed again. “Damn.”
Annie’s hair stuck out like Don King’s and she still wore the cruddy pajamas from the night before. She sucked down a cup of coffee in her kitchen.
Derrick lay on his back on her living room floor and did twisting sit-ups. “I completed our list. I put stars next to the most likely suspects. What have you done today? Sleep. Oh right. Snored, cleared your sinuses, hacked a little and slept some more. Make a call.”
She picked up the legal pad of paper, flipped through pages and pages of suspects and notes that she had made the night before. “To whom do I make the call?”
“Are you blind? The five star suspects are the first on our list. The four star, three and two follow in order.”
She looked at the pages. No asterisks and no stars. “There’s nothing here, Derrick.”
“Show it to me,” he said.
She did.
Derrick looked at the front page and frowned. “I spent hours writing recommendations, stars and asterisks. All specifically color coated for the individual suspects.” He pouted. “That was the most work I’ve done in years. I didn’t ask to be dead, you know. I was having a pretty decent go on earth.”
“Get over it,” she said. There were some things that even a good-hearted girl just couldn’t take. A dead whiny guy was one of them. “So you can’t manipulate Sharpies. Big deal. We’ll sign you up for dead guy pre-school. Now pick a five or four star suspect and give me a phone number.”
“Fine.” Derrick sniffed. “Barry Cooperman, my former manager. 310/555-4242.” Derrick lay on his back on Annie’s living room floor and did more sit ups. “Maybe I’m depressed. Need to work out more – endorphins, you probably know, are nature’s anti-depressants.”
Annie sat on the couch and dialed. “Hello. My name is Annie Graceland, and I’d like to speak with Mr. Cooperman.”
“Today’s assistant, tomorrow’s mogul. First, ask for Cooperman’s assistant’s name,” Derrick said.
“What is this regarding?” a young harried male voice on the other end of the line asked.
“What’s your name, sir?”
“Troy. What’s this regarding?”
“The untimely demise of Mr. Cooperman’s former beloved client, Dr. Derrick Fuller. I know they had a long, mutually satisfying professional relationship, and I’d like to ask–”
“Interview,” Derrick coached. He now did push-ups and grunted.
Teddy the cat stared at him slit-eyed from a safe distance across the room on top of a bookcase.
“I’d like to interview Mr. Cooperman for…”
“For your doctorate thesis in psychology at pick-your-choice university. Ask Troy something personal that’s non-confrontational.” Derrick flicked Annie in the forehead with his thumb and index finger.
Annie shot Derrick her death ray. Unfortunately, it had zero effect on him ’cause he was already dead. “I’d be honored to interview Mr. Cooperman for my Psych Ph.D. thesis on successful business managers and how they effectively deal with narcissistic clients. Mr. Cooperman’s spent years dealing with obnoxious self-centered individuals and would be an enormous help. Might I add Troy, you, are doing a stellar job of helping your boss ward off the loonies during the media frenzy surrounding the death of Dr. Fuller, who some say, had an ego the size of an elephant’s behind.”
Annie smirked at Derrick.
He smirked back at her. “You’ve noticed my perfect buttocks. Jealous?”
Troy sighed. “Give me your name and number, Miss. But honestly, Mr. Cooperman’s swamped, and won’t be available for interviews with academic publications for at least three months.”
“Thanks, Troy. You’re a great guy and will be a very competent manager yourself some day.”
“Thank you,” Troy said and his voice lowered to a whisper. “You didn’t hear this from me. The recently fired manager of a former femme fatale actress, who was known for her ‘basics’, would be a great interview for your thesis. Good luck.” Troy hung up.
“I tried,” Annie said.
“Hello? You just earned a new liaison and got a fresh lead. You scored,” Derrick replied as he lunged and clenched his butt muscles into two rock-hard, smallish volleyballs.
Even though only Annie could see him, unless she wanted to gag or hurl multiple times per day, she’d have to come up with some sort of solution to deal with this ninety-five percent naked butt-clenching dead blue guy. Perhaps she could be more tolerant, peaceful. Accept his nudity inclinations and exercise obsession. “Hey Dorko - you really think that this exercise matters with you being dead and all?”
“Oh, right. So I stop exercising and turn into a porker. You’d probably find that funny, but I don’t think so.”
“Fine. Exercise until you’re blue in the face. Oops. You already are. Hah!”
“You’re irritating. I can deal with that. Time we get creative. Do you have any wigs?” Derrick asked.
Wigs, Annie thought? “Only one that’ll cover your big blue butt. Oh, is that cellulite I see?”
Usual Suspects
Description: Take a night off from baking and join your friends for the best fast-food available in the area. Calories don’t count. Friendships do. Share your dreams as well as your fears. Bitching appropriate. Alcohol en
couraged. Screw the cholesterol.
Appropriate Occasions: List-making. Cold calls. Creative lying.
Best Served With: Contracts. Restraining Orders. In-N-Out Burgers. Supporting your friends’ efforts and dreams. Purple push-up bras.
THIRTEEN
A Tea Party
Unfortunately Annie had to wear the big, blonde, ten-pound Dolly Parton wig that she procured for a former Halloween party (and Mike’s occasional blonde fantasy), to Barry Cooperman’s Century City office. Technically it was almost Century City ’cause it was on a side street off of Santa Monica Boulevard (not Avenue of The Stars), in a three-story brick walk-up because the piece of crap elevator was broken.
Dolly Annie wearing four inch stilettos, black leather hot pants, fishnet stockings and an amply padded leather bustier wobbled up the building’s stairs that featured worn gray carpet and dingy walls. “This is killing my ankle,” Annie said. “Why do I have to wear this ridiculous disguise?”
Derrick bounced up and down two stairs to her every one. “Because Barry’s into soft S & M and you’re supposed to be a foreign actress seeking local representation. Therefore, you have to look the part.”
He acted so perky Annie thought he’d downed a couple of espressos. She huffed up another half a flight and paused. She reached down and rubbed her ankle. “Jesus,” she said.
“Well, you won’t have to be that spectacular, but Barry will be looking for new talent. I’ve obviously left an enormous hole in his roster.” Derrick said.
Annie stood in Barry Cooperman’s small, tidy, self-advertising reception area where photos lined the dark wood paneled walls. All these framed photos featured Barry sporting different dos. Some showed a younger Barry with thinning hair. Those were juxtaposed next to more recent photos of Barry with funky toupees and weaves as he shook the hands of celebrities and politicians.
Barry’s assistant, Troy, was barely twenty-five, but sported under eye circles worthy of a man three times his age with multiple alimony and child payments. Troy sat behind his small ergonomically designed desk and regarded Annie skeptically.
“Now would be the time to work it, Cupcake,” prodded Derrick as he stood behind Troy and rubbed his shoulders.
“Yeah there,” Annie said and launched her rehearsed lie complete with a fake accent. “I am Irena Dragoslava and I meet Mister Barry Coopermanski at film festival in Zagreb, Croatia. I am actress with plenty good success in my country. The very kind Mr. Coopermanski told me to pook ups him when I come to America. So,” Annie said and threw her hands up in the air. “Am here. And I pooks.”
“Yes, Ms. Dragoslava. Please leave us your contact information, headshot, reel and we’ll get back to you,” Troy said. His eyes crossed as Derrick massaged his shoulders. “In your country, do people have tight shoulders?” he asked Annie/Irena. “Like, you know, from the stress? My shoulders are so tight. Why am I even sharing this with you? I apologize. Your reel?”
“Reel in immigration. Stuck. Mr. Coopermanski said headshots and bio could facilitate work at 4:30 p.m. I very much like talk with Mr. Coopermanski. Ask him for only five American minutes, please?”
“No can do, Ms. Dragoslava.”
“Okey dokey,” Annie said. Thank God. She swiveled on her four-inch heels and tottered towards the door.
Derrick jumped into her path and held out one hand in the official crossing guard, ‘Stop’ position. “No-key dokey.”
She stopped. Wobbled.
“This is the time to toss your golden locks and let the boy get a look-see at your legs, which are pretty good, might I add,” Derrick said as he alternately checked out Annie’s legs and a large framed photo of he and Barry on the wall of fame.
“Fine,” she said between clenched teeth. She turned back, approached Troy slowly and attempted slinking. It might not have appeared to be slinking, more like she had a bad hip and one knee replacement, but she was in very tall heels with an iffy ankle, after all.
Troy’s eyes widened. “Excuse me?” he replied.
“No. Scusay meya.” Annie looked at Troy, fluttered her eyelashes, hoisted her foot up on his desk and displayed her relatively average length, albeit shapely leg. She bent over, grabbed Troy’s face with both hands and squeezed his cheeks. “I vant to copulate with Mr. Coopermanski.”
“Let me see what I can do, Ms. Dragoslava,” Troy said, his face inches from Annie’s leg. A hot female leg was still a turn on for a straight guy no matter what age. Troy was that guy, but also slightly unsure of how to proceed.
“Danke,” Annie said and tossed a fake dusty, cat hair-embedded curl in his face. Then two more.
Troy sneezed uncontrollably. “Sorry.” He extricated himself from Annie’s grip, stood up and ran five feet to a small closet. He sneezed again. “Darn!” He pulled the door open. Searched frantically up and down the shelves filled with files, folders, reels and ink cartridges. “Where are the tissues?” he asked and sneezed. “I hope it’s not a cold. Can’t be allergies. The only thing I’m really allergic to is cats. A moment, please.” Troy ran out the front door of the office.
Brilliant. A perfect opportunity to snoop.
“Snaps. Check what’s on his desk,” Derrick said.
Annie glared at him. “Just because you’re the annoying dead guy does not mean you get to order me around.” She hurriedly shuffled through Barry’s notes, files, and zeroed in on the Daytimer. Flipped through and noted that each Friday was starred, “8 p.m. – T.” She flipped backwards through the Daytimer – no address. Damn.
“Where does Barry have tea every Friday at 8 p.m.?”
“Barry doesn’t drink tea. Only coffee,” Derrick said as he checked out the photos on the wall. “But he does get a massage every Friday at 8 p.m.”
“Where?”
Derrick laughed.
The Observer slouched in the driver’s seat of the car parked about half a block from Annie/Dimwit’s apartment. Through the sunset’s diminishing light, the Observer watched the blonde in tramp attire limp into Annie’s apartment. Was Dimwit associating with hookers? That would be interesting.
Now it was dark and the car’s clock read 7:20 p.m. The Observer yawned. What started out as a little investigating was becoming, tiresome. The Observer watched Annie exit her apartment, talking to herself, and walk to her car. The Observer held up the small voice-activated recorder and whispered in hushed tones. “Where is Dimwit going? Better not have anything to do with Derrick Fuller. Fuller. Fuller.”
Annie’s Cabrio pulled out of its parking spot. The Observer started the engine and followed from a safe distance.
The occasional streetlight shone dimly on gritty downtown L.A. Koreatown streets. This neighborhood was a far cry from the manicured pristine Santa Monica community. Annie and Derrick drove past signs on billboards, stores and restaurants. They were all labeled Korean, Vietnamese, and Thai.
“Why do you still bake and carry, when no one’s buying from you?” Derrick asked.
“Passion. Determination. My dream. An unexpected opportunity to impress a possible client. Everyone’s quest for the perfect brownie?” Annie said. “Besides you never know when a dessert will make the difference between having a good time or a bad one. Or nipping potentially dangerous situations in the bud. Well-crafted desserts have that power. Just like a sexy chick. Why are you still here when you’re obviously dead?” Annie asked. She was dressed in cute sweats and a vintage Rolling Stones Sticky Fingers concert t-shirt.
Derrick crossed his arms and pouted.
“You know we’ve got to work on your wardrobe. The thong will not be tolerable forever.” Annie said.
“It’s Pucci.”
“It’s creepy. Maybe you don’t need my help to find your killer. Maybe you’re more powerful as a dead guy than you give yourself credit for.”
“I think that’s the first nice thing you said to me.” Derrick smiled.
“Oh please, you slept with my husband. I’m not going to slap you on the back and bake you a p
each pie.”
Derrick tried to remember what her husband looked like. He drew a blank. He’d really like a peach pie. This whole going cold turkey with no food thing was as bad as any diet he’d ever been on.
According to the large time clock at the local high school campus it was 7:50 p.m. and there was still thick pedestrian traffic. People of all ages and ethnicities waited patiently for buses on street corners, grabbed a deal at the local X#6&*, aka Korean Shop and Go, and walked to their destinations.
“Look.” Annie pointed at the pedestrians. “People walking in Los Angeles. I think we should call the news. Where’s the spa? I think we passed the spa.” She hit a pothole and her car bounced, hard.
Derrick frowned. “You need new shocks on this piece of shit. Couldn’t Mike have sprung for a nicer car?”
She frowned. “You and Mike never shared pillow talk?”
Derrick frowned.
“Don’t feel left out, ’cause Mike didn’t share that with me, either. By the way, I never spent his money and my car’s not a piece of shit. It’s timeless, cool and in a few more years will be vintage. Frankly, I’ve had enough shocks the past couple of weeks to last me five friggin’ lifetimes. Thank God I take anti-oxidants. Where’s the damn spa?”
“On the right. Park on the street.”
Annie looked, but saw nothing except plain storefronts, an unassuming Thai restaurant and one building that had a green awning but nothing written on the door or windows. “There’s nothing here,” she said
“To your virgin eyes,” he replied.
“My eyes are still alive.”
“Brag, brag. Pull over.”
Annie and Derrick stood in a small waiting room painted a light pukey shade of violet and furnished with several worn couches that probably saw some action in their younger days. Strange music played from small speakers mounted high on the walls. The vocalist was a soprano, the words were in Thai and the music attempted lilting, but was more on the screechy side. Annie frowned and rubbed her head.
