Chapter 8
This was Spense we were talking about, so after planting the idea, it didn’t take long to ignite his imagination. “Maybe it’s like in Highlander.”
“Can’t you go faster?” I kept leaning forward, like my shifting weight would make us get there more quickly.
Spense gave me the we’ll-get-there-faster-if-we-don’t-go-back-to-jail look. We’d already had that conversation. And the do-you-want-me-to-pull-this-car-over conversation when I kept on urging him to go faster.
“They didn’t eat raw chicken wings, did they?” Spense wondered aloud.
“Who didn’t what?” I wasn’t really paying attention. I was just thinking about Marilyn.
“In Highlander. The immortals didn’t eat raw chicken wings.”
“You think Marilyn is like the Highlander?”
“Dude, you’re the one who said that it was supernatural—"
“—Not supernatural, Spense. I said it was not natural.”
“I’m just trying to fill in the blanks.”
“Well, Marilyn isn’t the Highlander, and weren’t they like...aliens anyway?”
Spense made a derisive noise. “That was just in Highlander II. Nobody believed that.”
It was good thing we were in Spense’s car. My beat-up old Camry would have stood out even more in Dr. Chatsworth’s neighborhood in the daylight. Spense’s Volvo wagon couldn’t compete with the Mercedes and the BMWs lining the sweeping drive to Chatsworth’s, but it didn’t scream “I’M HERE TO ROB YOU” either.
A couple of guys in black polos stopped us before we turned in. This guy had valet parking. At his house. On a Thursday afternoon.
We looked at each other. I mean, how do you make a quick getaway if you have to stop and get your keys from the parking valet? Spense shrugged like he could read my mind. We’ve been friends for a long time.
No one else was pulling up. The party had obviously gotten started a while ago, and everyone was already inside. I started toward the front door. It was the size of a small castle gate—like the kind you’d need a dozen strong lads and a battering ram to knock down. Good thing we came during a party. There was a sign hung on the ornate brass handle. “Come inside!”
There was a coat check area right inside the door.
It was August in LA. Did people rent coat checks to look ostentatious? But the kid didn’t offer to take our coats or anything. He didn’t even look at us. He was texting frantically with one thumb on a phone that looked like someone had taken a sledgehammer to the screen, although I could tell it was the latest Android that had come out just a few weeks ago. Without slowing down, he grabbed something, a black bundle, and thrust it at me and then thrust one at Spense.
“What’s this for?” I asked the kid.
“You wear it—duh.” He didn’t look up from his phone.
I shook out the bundle. It was a heavy black velvet robe, hooded and embroidered with silver symbols that were, in my opinion, clearly of an arcane nature. It was then I realized that there was a low sound coming from further inside the house. Chanting. It was definitely chanting.
What the hell? Was this dude running some kind of coven? Was he some kind of new age druid? This was California. It wasn’t like I hadn’t met all sorts. I mean, just look at Spense. He’s an investment banker who likes to wear costumes and go to the spa. Only in LA.
Needless to say, Spense was digging the robe. At least it would keep us from being immediately recognized. Do not collect $200. Go straight to jail.
As we stepped into the main room, I was seriously expecting some kind of screwed up ritual. Marilyn tied to a stone while leering men in the hooded robes stood around her waiting to...yeah, I know. Screwed up. And why would a dermatologist have a big rock in the middle of his living room? And how would I even know they were guys or leering if they were all wearing hoods?
So, the chanting turned out to be mood music. And instead of an obscene ritual, there was mingling and munchies. It was seriously the first thing that had not been a total disaster all week. I was highly suspicious. “Mmm munchies!” said Spense. “Let’s look for Marilyn over by those crab puffs first.”
We didn’t need to look for Marilyn. She was right there in the middle of the room. Not on an altar, not a stone one anyway, but it was kind of altar-like if you really thought about it. A circular stage or pedestal made of that clear plastic—lucite—rising from the middle of the black-robed crowd. Marilyn, in a white version of the robes that everyone else was wearing, was lying back on a lounge of some kind, her hood down and her blondish hair streaming over her shoulders.
My god. She was beautiful.
I’m not just saying that because she’s my wife. She has always been beautiful. Too beautiful for me. A 10 to my generous 5 and a quarter, but today, in the light, she was a 12. A 15. And I realized that I’d been so caught up in her weird behavior that I hadn’t noticed that she generally had been looking extra good lately—like she had been binging on spa treatments that we couldn’t really afford with Spense or something.
Every now and then some black-robed figure would break from the general pack and wander over to Marilyn and, well, look at her. Really look at her. Examine her. I wanted to rip my robe off and throw it over her to hide her from the stares. Or just use it to strangle someone. Stuff it down their throats while they ogled her. They didn’t even notice, or didn’t care, that under her exceptional complexion she looked drugged, or drunk, or dazed or something.
More anger washed over me, pulsing in time with my heartbeat. Spense had to put down his crab puff to grab the back of my robe with both of his hands. “Dude,” he said into my hood. “Don’t blow our cover.”
“Spense. I swear when I find that dermatologist—”
We didn’t have to look for him either. At that moment, he melted out of the crowd like the slimy bastard he was. As he approached the altar-stage, the mood-chanting music died off, and he raised his hands as if in an invocation. But no, he was just trying to silence the crowd. Everyone squeezed closer to the altar-stage, abandoning their glasses and nibbles to the servers who were circulating with empty trays.
“Dear friends,” he oozed. “You have had an opportunity to see first hand the miracle.” He gestured dramatically to Marilyn, who didn’t move or seem to even notice that she was the center of attention, and this was a woman who lived to be the center of attention. “This lady—you may not believe it—is thirty-five! Look how beautiful she still is!”
He grabbed her chin with one hand and gestured to her cheeks while he turned her face to give the audience a better look. “I have delivered her from the tyranny of crow’s feet! I have liberated her from the oppression of fine lines and wrinkles! Released her from the heartbreak of sagging skin and loss of elasticity.”
There were ooohs and other noises of assent. I had assumed that the cloaked attendees were male, but a good number of the voices had a feminine quality to them.
“This is not something you can find just anywhere. Your dermatologist, or other board-certified skincare specialists, cannot prescribe this miracle for you. It isn’t a lotion or a cream. It isn’t a pill or an injection. It’s magic. I mean actual magic.
“You don’t believe me. You’re thinking, ‘Chatsworth is just selling us the same ineffective beauty counter balms,’ but this didn’t come from a laboratory. It hasn’t been approved by the FDA—because the FDA doesn’t regulate miracles. It’s the eighth wonder of the world—the fountain of youth—discovered at last!”
When Chatsworth started talking about miracles, fountains of youth and the FDA, I tried to glance sideways at Spense.
No one loved a spa treatment more than Spense. Except maybe my wife. But Spense had about three times the disposable income as Marilyn, so he had more scope to indulge.
All I got for my effort was a face full of black hood. I pulled it back on the side and tapped Spense on the shoulder, but he didn’t respond. He was leaning forward, with his mouth slightly o
pen. Spense and Marilyn’s main topic of conservation, besides what a dork I was, was various spa-related things. A black thought crossed my mind. “Spense,” I hissed, poking him hard.
“And no one outside of this room knows about it—except the woman in Cabo San Lucas with the dermal elasticity of an 18-year old from Seattle—skin untouched by the ravages of the sun—even though her birth certificate said she was 61.”
“Ssssh.” Spense elbowed me back.
“Don’t shush me.” I grabbed the side of Spense’s robe and spoke directly into his hood. “Did you know about this?” I demanded.
Spense couldn’t take his eyes off of the evil dermatologist. “What?”
“Spense, look at me. Did Marilyn tell you about some new skin thing she was doing?” I forced him to look at me by tugging on the neck of his robe until it was cutting off the blood flow to his brain. His eyes widened when he got my drift. “What—No!”
I gave him a “really?” look.
“Cross my heart, dude. Stick a needle in MY eye.”
That meant Spense was serious, because usually he would only offer to stick a needle in your eye—because why, under any circumstances he said, would anyone offer to stick a needle in their own eye?
“Besides,” he whispered into my hood. “If I had known about this, you’d probably be here rescuing Marilyn and me.”
Okay, so that was probably true. Thank goodness for small non-FDA regulated miracles.
“I’ve never seen anything like it. I’ve seen skin in every state of decay—dry, discolored, droopy! When I saw this woman, I could not rest until she had told me her secret.”
At this point in his pitch, some kind of lackey wearing a white robe over her black polo shirt came out carrying a tray like an old-timey waitress. It was stacked with small ornate wooden boxes.
Chatsworth plucked one from the top of the pile and opened it, revealing a blue velvet interior. Nestled in the folds of fabric was a tiny bottle and what looked like a syringe.
“And here it is!” He held the box high. “100% natural and never tested on animals!”
Never tested on animals? Was this guy freaking kidding me? “Just—” I started to shout, but Spense clapped a hand over my mouth, so I mumbled into the black sleeve of Spense’s robe, “tested on my wife.”
“But this isn’t easy—something that you can just put in a pre-moistened towelette. It’s not a cleanser you can put in your shower and forget to use. It is hard work, and there are side effects—there are always side effects!”
This time I tussled with Spense to keep him from covering my mouth. “Yeah, tell us more about these side effects,” I called out.
Dr. Chatsworth turned in our direction. He narrowed his eyes as he scanned the crowd for the person who had spoken. “We’re talking about ancient powers and magics beyond the ken of mortal minds. It cannot be without risk.”
“Beyond the ken? What the hell is a ken?” Spense whispered at me.
“Hush, Spense.” I really wanted to hear this part.
“But what’s a little risk when you could look,” he gestured to Marilyn like she was a car and he was one of those girls on The Price is Right, “like this.”
At the end of his sweeping gesture, he raised his arms—it looked really dramatic with the flowing sleeves of his robe—but it turned out he was just signaling the wait staff to start circulating with drinks and munchies again. He bowed himself away from the weird acrylic platform and added, “I’ll be available for questions and pre-orders for the rest of the reception.”
It was a mob, and I decided it was a good time to nab Marilyn.
Dead Sexy Page 8
