Poor Little Bitch Girl (11 page)

“I need you to come over right now,” he said, before clicking off.

“Who was that?” Mario asked, slipping into nosy reporter mode.

“A jealous lover,” I answered vaguely, grabbing my jeans while scanning the floor for my thong which was obviously nowhere to be found.

“I don’t believe you.”

“Of course you don’t,” I responded, deciding I had no choice but to go commando. “And nor should you.”

Mario threw me a long, quizzical look. “You’re different from most of the girls I come across,” he said.

“We live in L.A. so thank God for that,” I replied crisply.

“You’re direct,” he said. “An’ I kinda think I like it.”

“In that case,” I answered succinctly, “thank you for the memorable sex, but I’m afraid I must be on my way.”

He burst out laughing. I joined him.

Then he leaned forward and kissed me on the lips, a long juicy kiss –
sooo
nice.

“I’ll call you,” he promised.

“Sounds like a plan,” I replied, slipping on my shoes. “Don’t wait too long.”

And then I was out of there, in my car, and on my way to the Maestro estate.

* * *

Ralph Maestro was smoking a very large cigar, puffing on it and blowing thick smoke throughout the living room.

He was wearing a heavy silk maroon bathrobe, trimmed with black piping. On his feet were matching slippers. Once again I did not think that he looked like a man in mourning.

This must be my night for men in bathrobes, only I prefer the simple white version on Mario. And I certainly prefer what’s underneath.

“Hi,” I said, holding back an I-hate-cigar-smoke cough.

“You look as if you just got fucked,” Ralph remarked. Not a man who thinks before he speaks.

I decided to take the high road and ignore his sexist comment.

“What can I do for you, Mr Maestro?” I asked, attempting to maintain a professional client/lawyer relationship, while wondering if I looked as glowing as I felt. Apparently so.

“You can get on a plane and fly to New York,” he answered matter-of-factly.

“And why would I be doing that?” I responded. I’ve learned never to be surprised by the things clients request, although flying to New York at two a.m. is a new one.

“Because,” Ralph said, speaking slowly, “you know my daughter, and I can’t reach her. So it’s up to you to go get her and bring her back here.”

“It’s up to me to do
what
?” I asked, frowning, because it was a ridiculous request.

“You’re not deaf, are you?”

“Excuse me?” I said, thinking he was a rude pig, and that maybe he
had
shot his beautiful wife.

“For crissakes, girl, I’m not asking you to fly to the moon,” he said irritably. “Annabelle should be here with me, and you’re the only person I can think of to bring her back.”

“Mr Maestro – Ralph,” I said hesitantly, “I haven’t seen or spoken to Annabelle in years, so I hardly think she’ll—”

“I’ve already discussed this with Felix,” he said, interrupting me as if anything I had to say didn’t matter. “And he agrees that Annabelle should be here. He also agrees that you’re the one person who can persuade her to come.”

“But—” I started to say.

Ralph was not in a listening mood. “There’s an e-ticket on your laptop,” he said, all business. “United. Seven a.m.” He handed me a computer printout. “This is her address and phone number. I’ve left a message on her answering machine that you’re on your way.”

And with those words he blew a plume of vile cigar smoke in my face and waved a dismissive hand in my direction. “Goodnight,” he said, putting an end to any further discussion.

Beyond furious, I left the Maestro estate. Who the hell does Ralph think I am – an errand girl?

This is total bullshit and I cannot believe that Felix agreed I should do this.

Screw Ralph Mister Movie Star Maestro. And screw Mister Shark Teeth. I’m a lawyer, not a freaking escort service.

Why should I fly to New York to bring Annabelle Maestro home for her mother’s funeral?

Why does it have to be me?

A
fter calling Denver and connecting with her voicemail, Carolyn wished that she’d asked Kerri where she was going and maybe tagged along. Her adrenalin was surging, and she didn’t feel like spending Saturday night alone in her small apartment.

What was Gregory doing? Was he thinking of her? Was he thinking about their baby and their future together? Was he as happy as she was?

She simply couldn’t wait for them to be together out in the open for everyone to see. She imagined his wife’s face when he told her. Evelyn was a cold fish and quite obviously didn’t love him, so why would
she
care.

Gregory had told her many times that he and Evelyn never made love, that they had no shared interests, and that he would have divorced her long ago if it wasn’t for the children.

Carolyn knew it was a clichéd situation – married man with a wife who didn’t understand him – but she believed him all the same. Gregory was different, he had integrity, and she loved him with all her heart.

Thinking about it, she wished it hadn’t been necessary for her to yell and threaten in the office earlier. But being pregnant was not something to be taken lightly, and she’d been forced to jolt him into understanding that now their situation had to dramatically change.

He got it. He finally got it.

Now all she had to do was wait a little bit longer.

* * *

“Jesus, Evelyn, who
are
these people?” Gregory hissed in his wife’s ear.

Evelyn adjusted a ruby and diamond Cartier earring and responded
sotto voce
, “
These people
are reformed criminals who are making our city a much safer place.”

“What the hell does
that
mean?” he growled, none too pleased that she’d dragged him to yet another of her boring do-good events.

“You see that man over there,” she said, pointing out a bearded Latino man in an ill-fitting suit, with a fierce tattoo on his neck and a single gold stud earring.

“Yes, I see him. So what?”

“He’s a former gang member who has come over to our side. He currently counsels young boys about how
not
to get trapped into gang-life.”

Listening to Evelyn speak, Gregory was struck by how incongruous she sounded. What the hell did she know about gang-life? His wife, the do-gooder. She always had a cause. She always regarded herself as holier-than-thou.

“Come,” Evelyn said, gripping his arm. “I’ll introduce you to him.”

Gregory had no desire to be introduced to a former gang member. He had other things on his mind – like what was he supposed to do about Carolyn? Whiney, pregnant, cock-sucking Carolyn.

Evelyn steered him across the room, and in her best Lady of the Manor voice said, “Ramirez, I’d like you to meet my husband, Senator Gregory Stoneman.”

Ramirez threw him a hardfaced look.

Gregory recognized the look. It was a
fuck you, white asshole
look. This guy was no reformed gang-banger. He was a smart criminal forging connections.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Gregory said, placing a politician’s fake smile on his face. “My wife tells me you’re doing very worthwhile work for our city.”

“I’m tryin’,” Ramirez responded, his eyes darting around the room. “It ain’t easy, but I’m tryin’.”

“Excellent,” Gregory said, waving over a waiter. He needed another drink.

“Yes,” Evelyn said, twisting a thin diamond bracelet on her delicate wrist. “We need more funding for the centers Ramirez plans to open across the city. Right now we only have one, and it’s such important work, keeping young boys off the street. I’m hoping to put together a special concert to raise money. Ramirez seems to think we can get some of those rapper people involved.”

Rapper people! Evelyn existed in another world. Even
he
knew the correct term was rap artists.

“Anythin’ you can do to help,” Ramirez said. “Maybe you can drop by tomorrow, see for yourself the work we’re doin’.”

Yes
, Gregory thought,
that’s exactly how I plan on spending my Sunday.

“I might do that,” he said.
And then again I might not.

Ramirez had his eye on Evelyn’s bracelet.

Damn!
Gregory thought.
I hope he doesn’t know where we live.

* * *

Nellie Fortuna resided in the apartment next to Carolyn’s. Nellie was old – in her late eighties – and apparently she had no one left; they’d all died on her. No relatives. No friends. No one.

Long ago and far away, Nellie Fortuna had been a beautiful eighteen-year-old movie starlet living in a Hollywood mansion with a withered old producer – who happened to be a millionaire. Way back in the 1930s, millionaires meant something, whereas today you had to be a billionaire to be relevant. Anyway, that’s what Nellie said – she was very talkative and quite a character.

Carolyn tried to stop by at least once every couple of days to make sure the old dear was still alive, and to feed her rather mangy cat, Gable. Apparently, back when Nellie was at the peak of her career, she’d been the lover of many silver-screen icons, including Clark Gable – whose faded picture sat proudly in a silver Art Deco photo-frame on her mantelpiece. The photo was inscribed
To Dear Nellie, Love from Clark.

It could have been a fan photo, or it could have been the real thing.

Nellie assured Carolyn it was the real thing.

“Every tom-cat I ever owned I named Gable,” Nellie would often say. And then she’d smile and become all dreamy-eyed. “He was quite the man . . . I’ll never forget
that
one.”

When she had the time Carolyn enjoyed listening to Nellie’s stories of old Hollywood. They were filled with all the sparkle and glamour of yesteryear, and Nellie spun her tales with such relish.

“These gals today, they all look the same,” Nellie would grumble. “And their outfits! Downright disgusting! Now in
my
day . . .”

With Gregory on her mind, Carolyn knocked on Nellie’s door and was relieved – as she always was – to find the old lady alive and well, sitting in front of her TV watching the E! Channel, her favorite.

“Just checking on you,” Carolyn called out. “Can’t stay.”

“Hello, dear, you look so pretty today,” Nellie said, as always alert and astute. “You’ve got quite a gleam in your eye. Could we have a new boyfriend?”

Carolyn couldn’t stop smiling. “Well, not exactly new,” she said softly. “More like, I don’t know . . . committed.”

Gable the cat padded over and began languorously rubbing himself against her leg. She bent down to stroke him and he purred loudly.

“I think I know,” Nellie said, nodding wisely. “It’s that nice young man, your boyfriend – what’s his name? Ah yes, Matt. He’s asked you to marry him, hasn’t he?”

“No,” Carolyn said, shaking her head. “Matt’s history.”

“There
is
someone though, isn’t there?” Nellie persisted, continuing to probe. “Who is he?”

Carolyn wished she could tell her. Wished that she could sing it from the rooftops.
“I’m pregnant with Gregory Stoneman’s baby! I’m pregnant pregnant pregnant!”

“Just an old friend,” she said, keeping it vague.

“Ah, old friends,” Nellie mused. “I had plenty of those. Old co-stars. Old lovers. Old married men who couldn’t keep it in their trousers. Ah yes, old friends . . .”

“Have you fed Gable?” Carolyn asked, quickly changing the subject. Nellie loved to ramble on about her many affairs, and today Carolyn wasn’t in the mood to listen.

“Yes, dear, all done,” Nellie said. “But thanks for dropping by anyway – you know how much I appreciate it.”

“My pleasure,” Carolyn said, making a quick exit. On her way out she decided it would be a nice gesture to invite Nellie Fortuna to their wedding.