More Muffia (The Muffia Book 2) (15 page)

“Hi, how goes the party planning?” I asked.

“Today we booked the band, secured the flowers and a couple more huge auction items. Get this—a week in a villa on one of Richard Branson’s private islands.”

“Wow!”

“I know, and we have various people on the board drumming up money and guests for the primo tables. But I wanted to talk to you about Viggo Mortensen. You have a minute?”

Patience
… “Sure.” I crossed the lobby, dodging three lawyer types walking abreast, oblivious to the possibility that they might be blocking traffic.

“Have any idea how he feels about Alzheimer’s disease?” she asked.

I pushed through the revolving door and onto the street, heading for Chipotle and a steak bowl, a few blocks away. “I’ll betcha he doesn’t like it.”

“Funny. But seriously, how do you think he’d feel about being auctioned off for the cause?”

“Bid on Viggo and he’ll paint your kitchen?”

“This would be more like: ‘Bid on Viggo and go on a date.’ He wouldn’t have to spend more than an hour with the highest bidder, promise,” Lauren went on, clearly trying to minimize his commitment.

“Knowing Viggo, I think he’d rather paint a kitchen. He
is
an artist, you know. I’m sure he’d do an awesome job.”

“Will you ask him? Or is it awkward? I know people must bug you all the time about your famous clients.”

She was right; people did bug me all the time. But in this case, maybe getting Viggo on board could be my contribution to the greater good—or at least
a
contribution. OK, it wasn’t like going all-in and relocating to Africa to bring healthy drinking water to the indigenous populations, but if my connections and contacts might bring in dollars for a cure to Alzheimer’s, this would be a good thing.

“I’ll ask. Want anyone else? Matthew McConaughey? Johnny Depp?”

Suddenly, there seemed to be forty Chinese tourists on the sidewalk in front of me. They were exiting the Nike store, laden with shopping bags and bound for their limousines, impeding my progress toward Chipotle.
Talk about conspicuous consumption.

“Are you kidding—could you? They’d both be great,” Lauren was saying.

A large panel truck rattled by, obscuring all other sounds. “What was that?”

“I said, ‘Fantastic!’ We’d probably have to ask Johnny to leave his dead crow at home though, don’t you think? We wouldn’t get much for him with that on his head. No Captain Jack Sparrow routine, either. Oh—and he can’t bring his dogs.” Lauren bit her lip and looked at me apologetically. “Come to think of it, maybe not Johnny Depp.”

“You’d be surprised how much you could get for Jack Sparrow, but as he’s a protected character subject to licensing fees, so leaving him at home won’t be an issue. I’m happy to ask around, though, and give you some more names. I’m sure we can get an appealing group of guys to auction off.”

“That would be amazing, and I really appreciate it. Having those handsome Hollywood hunks could bring in a lot more money.”

“No doubt.” For a change, I wasn’t getting asked for tickets to premieres or award ceremonies—events that, granted, helped the economy but did very little for the greater good. Getting some of my celebrity clients on board for the benefit made me feel good, would surely make the guys donating themselves feel good, and would also raise cash for Lauren’s foundation—a triple “win.”

“Would you like to come?” she asked.

Of course I did, but she’d made it clear none of the Muffs could go for free, and the ticket price was pretty steep.

“I
want
to come, sure, but... ”

“I’m happy to comp you.”

“Really?”

“Only seems right, don’t you think? You’re doing all this work for us.”

“I’d do it anyway, Lauren.”

“I know but...just let me comp you. But please, don’t say anything to the other Muffs.”

“Promise. Hey, if my date doesn’t work out on Saturday night, maybe at the benefit you can point out all the rich single men with Alzheimer’s to me.”

“Are you serious?
With
Alzheimer’s?”

“Kind of? No. I’m not. Anyway, I’d love to come and thank you. Besides, you’ll probably need me as celebrity wrangler if the guys say ‘yes’.”

“Good point. Okay, new subject. Remember how I said I was going to work on that
idea
I had? I mean, about your situation at work?”

“Yeah...I remember.” Ever since Jelicka had the idea to make The Muffia an ersatz amateur crime-solving entity, I’ve been wary of any Muff
ideas
—including my own.

“Well, I finally pinned him down,” said Lauren.

I came to a stop again—this time outside Barney’s—only a few doors west of Talent Partners. “Who?”

“George’s dad, of course. George was fine with it. But Pop was out of the country, so I had to wait until he got back.”

Rather than straining to hear over the traffic noise, I pushed through the glass door into the Barney’s make-up department—a mere thirty feet from Shoes, where I still needed to go to deal with my broken shoe.

“Dare I ask what this idea is?” I sprayed some of the new Marc Jacobs cologne on my wrist and sniffed. Wow, that’s...
floral
. Hoping the sales people would ignore me, I began to stroll.

“Okay, here we go. Even though George’s family sold the parent corporation, they’re still involved with day-to-day beer-making activities, and they keep a kind-of private investigation company on retainer for corporate espionage—to avoid the theft of beer recipes, I guess, things like that. So my thought was, maybe you could sort of
borrow
one of the investigators, you know? Maybe the family hasn’t met their minimum billable hours this quarter, and we could get somebody to scope out Picturegate.”

“Do you think they’d allow that?” The idea sounded great.

“It’s done. That’s why it took so long, but George’s dad likes you, and George loves that you’re helping with the foundation and the benefit and everything, so they want to help any way they can.”

I hadn’t actually said I’d help until ten minutes ago, but I guess that was a minor detail. “Oh, Lauren, this is great. Really? When can he or she start?”

“Right away. And I’m pretty sure it’s a he. All I have to do is tell them you’re game, and they assign the person officially. Whoever it is will contact you directly.”

“Do you know what this person’s name is?”

“No, and I won’t know. It’s all very spy novel, espionage-y, you know…on a need-to-know-basis type of thing. But he’ll be in touch, and I think you’ll know the guy when you see him.”

I wasn’t sure what that meant, but a visual of Bradley Cooper in “American Sniper” popped into my head.
If only.
We ended the call, and I looked up to find a severe, overly made-up young woman with short dark hair staring at me over the Clarins counter.

“Can I help you?”

Though I didn’t think I’d been standing there talking on the phone for very long, apparently she thought I owed her a purchase. I like Clarins, but it’s a little pricey for my budget.

“Not today, thanks.” I turned on my heel and walked out the way I came in, quickly covering the remaining two blocks to Chipotle where I stood in line outside the crowded restaurant. Though I wished there was no line, because I would now be late getting back to work, I was very glad I’d bought twenty shares of stock in the company.

Scanning the street, I wondered how long it would take for the investigator to make himself known, and if—dare I hope—he might indeed be a handsome former Navy Seal or Special Ops hunk. I scrutinized the men in line with that picture in my head, but no one fit the bill. And since this was the only type of guy I was looking for, I failed to notice someone else watching me.

“Any way I can convince you not to go?”

Jelicka was on speaker as I zipped up my black pencil skirt and finished getting ready for my date with
JohnV20
. We had yet to meet in person—yet to even talk on the phone because he thought it was more romantic. But our email and direct message exchanges had led me to believe he might be right, and I couldn’t wait to meet him.

“No way. I’m going, and if he turns out to be a fraud, I’ll still get a steak dinner for my efforts.
He
asked me,
he
suggested the place, and I’m not going to feel guilty if I don’t want to put out afterward.”

She let out an audible sigh. “That’s good to hear anyway. What does he do again?”

“He’s in I.T. I don’t know exactly what.”

“I.T.,” she repeated. “Like the rest of us
aren’t
into ‘it.’ What’s with the
JohnV20
? Is the “v” for versus or is he on the twentieth version of his operating system?”

“Who knows?” I said, sucking in my belly.” I’ve stopped trying to figure out their handles.”

“What does he look like?” She was persistent.

“Not that it’s important, but he’s good looking—dark hair and eyes, probably fifty-five—though I’m assuming he’s lying about his age, which he put at fifty. Probably also lies about his height, which he says is five-eleven.”

“They all lie—not just about their age and height, either. Beware of all pictures on the Internet.”

As an agent, I was all too familiar with photographs that don’t accurately represent their subjects, but right now Jelicka was just being a doomsayer. “Do you have any words of encouragement?”

“Sorry, I’m being a witch, aren’t I?”

“A little witchy, yes. But you sincerely care, so I can’t get too mad at you.”

Though I was projecting, I knew Jelicka was still smarting over her divorce from Roscoe. That was why she played the part of the cougar so vociferously, hanging out with hunky young cubs and drinking a little too much. Neither the cougar nor any of her cubs took such dalliances seriously, but it also seemed a little self-destructive.

“Sorry, Quinn. I really hope it goes well. That said, I’m organizing a search party if I don’t hear from you by midnight.”

She made me laugh. “I’ll be fine. My plan is to park a few blocks away and take a cab to and from the restaurant—just in case he tries to follow me. I learned this technique from my friend Jelicka who was in the Israeli army.”

“You joke, but you can’t be too careful.”

“I’m agreeing with you!”

“Good. And don’t forget we’re going shooting next weekend.”

“Okay.”

“Okay,” she repeated. “’Love you, bye.”

No matter what happened on this date, or even at work, I would always have my Muffs.

A giant aquarium filled with Puffer fish divided two sections of the upscale Boa, the steak house named for a snake, situated on the ground floor of a high-rise office tower at the west end of the Sunset Strip, and the aquamarine hue casts an unflattering glow on nearby diners.

The smell of seared sirloin wafting from the plates carried by the attractive, black-clad wait staff provokes hunger in the carnivorous clientele and makes it clear that, despite the cool-colored surroundings, the kitchen staff knows how to prepare a red hot steak. I could not wait for one of those plates to land in front of me.

My date, sitting opposite me at one of the restaurant’s more intimate tables, sipped from a drink he’d started on before I arrived. Our menus were displayed in front of us, and I used mine to steal glances at him whenever his head was down. He was well dressed and attentive and looked surprisingly like his photos. I’d pegged him correctly as in his fifties. The actual number fifty he hadn’t seen in years. Straight nose, dark brown eyes, a clearly-defined chin, and he was still in possession of most of his hair, which looked real from what I could tell. But without any visible strands of gray running through it, I suspected he must get some assistance from a colorist. He
had
lied about his height, but I wasn’t going to hold that against him. Being five-nine, it’s hard for me to find many guys, age-appropriate or not, who are taller than I am.
So what’s a couple of inches?
There was only one thing I was totally not prepared for:

“So,
Quuueeeeen
, whahdjyoo doo pfor p
fuhhhnn
?” he asked.

What an accent. Though charming, it was almost impossible to penetrate. Hearing him speak had come as a complete surprise. One would think he might have mentioned, in one of his many emails, that he was from Venezuela. One would
think
knowing someone’s country of origin would be relevant to a prospective date’s decision to go out with that someone. This, most likely, was precisely
why
he hadn’t mentioned this detail in any of those well-written messages he’d sent—messages, I suspected, that were written by somebody else. Not that any of this really mattered, such was the paucity of attractive, intelligent, age-appropriate men. I probably would have gone out with him anyway.

“What do I do for fun?” I repeated, making sure I’d heard him correctly. I hesitated, not wanting to go too far down the road of story-sharing before we got our order in. I was determined, regardless of how the evening developed, to get a good meal out of this, so the sooner I got my steak, the better.

“Let’s see. Gosh, so many things… ” I looked back at the menu, considering the NY Strip and how much p
fuhhhnn
that could be, but he pressed on without me.

“Djyoo lie doo tance? Djyoo lie doo go-honzee lon hyge?”

What’s a—Oh, I get it—hike, long hike!

“Yes, I do like to hike. There are lots of good hiking trails in L.A., don’t you think?”

He had a peculiar way of cocking his head to the right whenever I said something. Maybe it was because English was his second language and doing that helped him concentrate? Or maybe he was deaf in one ear? Not sure.

John—or more likely
Juan
, though I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt and call him John—claimed to be a refugee from the Chavez regime who had fled his native country years ago with the family fortune, the sum of which remained as unclear as the reason for the head tilt.

“Oh,
djyess
.” He smiled through too-white, too-even teeth.

Some of that fortune went to a cosmetic dentist, that’s for sure.

Across the crowded dining room, I saw a man sitting alone. There was something familiar about him, just like there’d been something familiar about the guy at Firefly, but the way his body was positioned I was unable to get a good look.
Probably a washed-up former child star or somebody I dated once.
Or maybe I’ve been around so long, everyone was starting to look familiar.