More Muffia (The Muffia Book 2) (5 page)

“I’m hanging up now.” I needed to go into the agency appearing rested and polished with my best, only functional foot forward.

“Please?”

Clearly, this woman needed something more to do with her life. A Muff intervention might be called for.

I sighed. “Because I dressed him. I got a good look, and there were certain aspects I noticed beyond the abs and ass. Like he was kind of hairy, and he had this sort of thick stubble on the back of his neck covering a mole. The guy at Narita Airport had the same thing.”

“Whoa.”

“Okay, bye! See you at Rachel’s for Book Club.”

“Did he see you?”

“Jel!” Like a terrier, she
was
.

“I thought he looked my way, but I don’t know if he looked
at
me. And if he did, I don’t know how he would know me because obviously when I got to Maddie’s, he couldn’t open his eyes...I don’t think.”

“Oh, there are lots of ways around that. Tiny cameras get put in the craziest places now. He could have one in an eyebrow—possibly even surgically installed in his retina.”

“Okay, enough.” I had to stop her. I’m pretty sure that was only in movies. After all, I’m in the business.

“He had the chip in him, right?” she said.

“That never got verified.”

“Don’t forget the Israelis are very advanced. OMG, this is huge! Do you realize just how huge this is?”

It was like she’d received confirmation that the CIA had been holding Elvis in a controlled area.

“The thing is—then I really do have to get off the phone,” I said, trying to be diplomatic. “The thing is, we need to let it go.”

“How can we let it go?”

“It’s none of our business is how. Even if you and I believe Udi is still walking around out there, in order for Maddie to keep moving forward, she needs to believe he’s dead. Because if he’s dead, he can’t call her; but if he’s alive and not calling her, it means he’s not that into her, you know? Like that book—
He’s Just Not That Into You.
”

“I couldn’t get into it,” she said without a trace of irony.

“But you know what it’s about—when you’re really crazy about somebody and he’s not calling or treating you the way you want him to, it means he’s just not that into you and you have to accept it and move on. Because if he
were
into you, he’d not only call, he’d tell you how nice you smell, remember your birthday, bring you flowers… ”

“I wouldn’t know. I guess no one’s ever been that into me.”

“That’s not true; Roscoe was into you, and Sam-what’s-his-name; Lots of guys have been into you… ”

“Maybe.”

“Anyway, it was obvious to me she didn’t want to hear that Udi might be alive, so we need to carry on like I didn’t see him. Otherwise, it’s just going to be upsetting to her.”

There was a beat, which I knew better than to infer that she agreed with me. Her tactic was to change the subject. “You still seeing Steve?”

I guess the topic of “guys who are just not that into us” put her in mind of my married lover. I’d told all the Muffs a couple of weeks ago that I’d broken it off with him, which was true, for the most part. But being as I’m weak, the situation remained “fluid.” Funny thing—Steve seemed pretty into me, considering he was completely unavailable.

“Not really,” I said.

“How do you
not really
see someone?”

“I’m still working on it.”

“Who would think that women as cool as we are would have difficulty finding worthy men?” said Jelicka.

“Maybe we’re not as cool as we think we are.”

“No, we are.”

I reached down and gingerly palpated my ankle, feeling another pain shoot up my leg. “My ankle is a mess.”

“Want the name of a good ortho guy?” She might be a know-it-all, but she was always ready with a doctor recommendation.

“Maybe I should just go see Kiki.”

“She’s training to be a Nurse Practitioner, Quinn, not a foot and ankle specialist.”

“How hard can it be to tell if it’s broken?”

“It’s probably just sprained. Wrap it up, take some Advil, and stay off it.”

“Fine.” I slowly pressed myself up to standing, putting as little weight onto my injured limb as possible. This would be brutal, but somehow I had to make an appearance at the office or Jamie Harris, my boss and one of the partners at Talent Partners, might be that much closer to replacing me with her ambitious assistant, with whom at least a few of us at work are sure she was having sex with.

“You know…” Jelicka started back up, “we wouldn’t have to tell her we’re investigating on our own.”

“Jelicka, I gotta go. The Velocoraptriss said I could come in late, but at this point, I’m beyond pushing it.” I hopped on one foot toward the bathroom. “And it doesn’t matter to her if I can walk or not.”

So we’re just going to drop the whole thing? What if there’s something going on that’s a threat to national security?”

“If it makes you feel better, call the NSA or Homeland Security or whoever.”

“Useless,” she snorted. “They didn’t do anything when the FBI agents told them there were terrorists in the U.S. learning how to fly jumbo jets.”

“So maybe now they’ve learned their lesson. What else can you do? Infiltrate the Mossad?” I immediately realized my mistake. “I take that back. Jelicka? Don’t. Hear me? Don’t.”

She grunted what I hoped was her assent.

Splashing water on my face, I toweled off and studied myself in the mirror. Tired and drawn, my skin looked splotchy, reminiscent of scorched earth. The weather in Japan had been gray and gloomy, and now I saw both in my eyes, not that I should necessarily be blaming the weather.

Ugh—what day was it? I always lose track when I cross the International Dateline. Let’s see...if I left Tokyo on Wednesday and they’re sixteen hours ahead...the flight lasted twenty hours so that would mean it was still Wednesday. No. It was Thursday.
Oh, shit.
Thursday was usually the day I saw married guy. Not today, though.
This Thursday I am going to be strong!

I stare at the hollows under my eyes—forty-two going on sixty, and what did I have to show for it? Even Jeannette Walls, who started with nothing but burn scars, has surpassed me. So what if her mom is a dumpster diver. My own mother has glaucoma and macular degeneration and just moved to a retirement facility outside Fresno. Jeannette has a great writing career and a husband who loves her. Me? I ain’t got nobody save somebody else’s man for an hour a week.

It’s true I have great friends and a good career that I enjoy—a career a lot of people would be desperate to have. After eighteen years booking “C” and “D” list actors on commercials for everything from douche to donuts, I’m now booking the “A”-listers. I work at a prestigious talent agency with top talent, and I’m considered skilled at what I do. You’d be surprised just how many movie stars are willing to sell out to big corporations so long as the deal states the commercials will only air in foreign markets. But now, with the proliferation of online video, ensuring
that
is well nigh impossible. The idea that any commercial will remain unseen by a star’s core audience is ludicrous these days.

But I digress. At this point in my life, I’m able to afford the lifestyle Hollywood and non-Hollywood types alike dream of, and I know I shouldn’t complain. The thing is, other than the Muffs and pole dancing, I don’t have much else. No husband, no kids; my dad died, my mom might as well be dead, and my brothers are either in jail or in religious cults. So what do I do? Apparently, I thought it was a good idea to have an affair with a married man whom I meet up with on Thursday evenings for fast and furious sex, hoping one day he’ll leave his wife. The whole thing is beneath me, beneath any woman of my stature. How does a smart, successful woman like me get herself into such a situation?

Well, in my case, married guy is smart, sexy, and he owns a cutting-edge architecture firm with offices in L.A. and Milan and a factory in Malaysia where his company makes prefab houses with built-in solar panels. He’s so far ahead of the curve that he’s doubled back on himself before the other guys have started. And he doesn’t just run the place; he
owns
it. In the industry, people call him Mr. Greenhouse. He understands higher math and physics, which is just too sexy. But, like a lot of geeks, he can be a social nitwit. I must have a soft spot for nerds since I lost my virginity to the biggest math geek at Fresno High who wowed me with Pythagoras, Pi, and polynomials. He even showed me the mathematical significance of the name Quinn, which, suffice it to say, made me cream before I even knew there was a word for what was happening between my legs. And ever since, math makes me horny.

For the past two years, the object of my misplaced affection is one Steven Zucker—not any of THE Steven Zuckers—the producers and bankers and other rich and famous Steven Zuckers. No, this is Steven I. Zucker. And the “I” does not stand for Ives or Irwin or anything like that. In married Steven’s case, the “I” stands for Ignatius.
Who does that to a kid?
And I didn’t find out from him, trust me. One Thursday, when I realized, for the 100th time, that our affair wasn’t going anywhere, I went through his wallet while he was showering—just to see how much I could torture myself. There were the pictures of his family and, of course, they were all lovely. The woman was gorgeous—perfect hair, perfect smile, perfect body—as were the two beaming kids, which only made me feel more insecure and horrible, no matter how many times he tells me his wife is frigid and won’t have sex with him and that he wants to run away with me.

The bottom line, and what’s been hardest to admit to myself and anyone else I talk to about it, is that he
doesn’t
run away with me, nor does he talk about how we’ll do it if he were to actually follow through. The pain of that admission is the fuel that stokes my denial. If I stop denying, I have to change, and change is hard.

What’s most ironic of all is that if one day he ever did follow through and announce that he’d worked it all out—our life together lay ahead of us, stretched out like a beach towel—I don’t think I’d be able to follow through myself. I’d feel guilty. I know it’s messed up, but it may be the drama and unfulfilled, unfulfillable illusions about each other that have kept us together.

This is my fault more than his, and I know I have to break it off once and for all, which is why I started telling the Muffs I stopped seeing him when I technically haven’t. It’s also why I agreed to try online dating with Vicki, even though success will elude me unless I get a total attitude reboot to simply get over feeling that there’s no one else out there for me.

I unplug my phone from its charger and stick it in my purse. This whole thing with Steven is so boringly predictable, that’s what’s so irritating. I should know better. In fact, I
do
know better; I’m just not doing it.
Yes, yes, yes, yes; thank you, thank you, thank you, thank you
.
I am destined for great things
.

Well, at this point, I’ve pretty much given up on great things, but I
am
going to become a better person.

With my damaged foot in a purple croc, I limped off the elevator and onto the fifth floor offices of Talent Partners, Inc. as gracefully as I could. Everyone, save for the receptionist, a recent college graduate named Daniel, seemed to be at lunch, which was just as well since when Jamie returned, I’d be at my desk, looking industrious, possibly negating the reality of how late I was.

Making my way across the mostly-open floor plan, over the tasteful wall-to-wall wool carpeting in muted shades of gray and grayer, I reach my office—an enlarged cubicle, really, which we who have one call a ‘cubiffice’—and sit down. If half of life is just showing up, I’d made it. I’d shown up and my ankle didn’t even feel too bad, the double dose of NSAIDs having done wonders and delivering on their advertised promises. Too bad all the anti-wrinkle creams I’d purchased over the years had not.

My mobile vibrated, and I looked down to see Steven’s name on caller I.D. I considered picking up but let it go to voice mail. That was one place I would
not
be showing up today.

Other than making an appearance at Talent Partners, the only task I had to complete that particular afternoon was the paperwork for the Kubota shoot so that everyone involved on our end could get paid. You’d think that in the latter half of the first quarter of the 21
st
century I could have finished up the job from home with my ankle up on ice, but even with all the technological advancements and our faith in online transactions, believe it or not, some of what business required was still done on real paper and required real signatures.

As people slowly returned from their lunches, I chatted with colleagues who were curious about my shoe selection, Japan, and how Viggo looked on a tractor.

Sameer Kumar works opposite me in a cubiffice the size of mine. He’s a soft-spoken, dark-skinned guy of about thirty-five originally from Sri Lanka—a former cricket player turned agent who basically does the same thing I do at T.P. except instead of dealing with A-list actors, he books athletes—Tiger Woods for Nike, for example. He handled that quintuple-timing, under-par husband throughout his multiple sextscapades.

Carolyn Marcus, with a slightly smaller cubiffice, is the go-to person for PSAs—also known as public service announcements. When various charities or causes need a mouthpiece—wanting one of our clients to speak out against smoking, or to be the new face of “Got Milk” or whatever—Carolyn is the one to field that call. She’s whip smart and might one day call the shots at T.P. unless somebody hires her away to another agency first, which is probably what will happen since hiring from within seems to be threatening to those passed over.

The three of us—Sameer, Carolyn, and me— are assisted by a recent mailroom graduate named Rafe who puts out calls and basically takes care of our every non-sexual need, including indulging our caffeine addiction by driving to Peet’s Coffee several miles away, even though there were three Starbucks installations within walking distance.