Felix.
“A bit out of shape, aren’t we, love?” he asked. He was dressed in the same rumpled khaki, today paired with a blue striped button-down, open at the neck as he casually leaned against a tree, his camera dangling from one hand. Though, I was satisfied to see, his blue eyes were rimmed in purple today, a white bandage taped across his nose.
“You!” I said, pointing an accusatory finger at him. “I should have known.” I stood up, trying in vain to wipe the grass off of me. I had a nice green skid mark down the front of my once-white shirt and a deep scratch punctuated the leather skirt, spanning from my hips all the way down to the hem.
“You all right, love?” Felix asked. Though I noticed he didn’t stop clicking that damn camera.
“I’m fine,” I said, blinking away the little points of light dancing across my vision. “No thanks to you.”
“Now, now. Don’t blame it all on me. You’re the one tottering about in those ridiculous shoes.”
I sucked in a shocked breath. “Ridiculous? I’ll have you know these are Roberto Cavalli, Italian calfskin pumps worth more than your monthly salary, pal. These are not ridiculous. They’re fabulous,” I said, with as much dignity as a woman in a ruined skirt and a grass-stained blouse could muster.
His eyes roved down to my feet. “They don’t look very fabulous to me.”
I looked down. He was right. One sad little heel was jutting out at an unhealthy angle. “Noooo!” I wailed. This day just kept getting better and better. I stood up and took my shoe off, inspecting the damage. There was a slim possibility it could be repaired by a professional, but it would require major surgery.
I was just contemplating whether my MasterCard had enough room on it for a replacement pair when Felix took a picture of the poor damaged victim.
“No pictures of my shoes!” I yelled.
“Shhhh,” Felix said, putting a finger to his lips. “Your boyfriend might hear us.” He gestured to “Bruno,” now lounging against the side of the Lincoln.
“He’s not my boyfriend,” I argued. Which was, sadly, only too true. We couldn’t even have a conversation together, let alone a relationship.
“No? Because I could have sworn I saw you two making a little time in the back of that Lincoln there.”
Damn. This guy didn’t miss a thing.
“We weren’t making time. We were…” Arguing about reporters? Discussing an ongoing investigation? “I mean, he was…” Undercover? Ordering me back home? “Well, I was kind of…” Hiding from a mobster with my head in his lap?
Felix raised one eyebrow. “Indeed.”
“Look, it’s not important.”
“It’s not?”
“No. He’s nobody.”
“Nobody?”
“Nobody.”
“You routinely hop into the backseat with nobodies?” he asked.
“No! Look, maybe I kind of know him, but not like that. Not like you’re thinking. He’s not…and we’re not…and there’s nothing going on. I mean, we haven’t done anything. I haven’t done anything in months. So long that I’m three weeks overdue with
Felix raised the other eyebrow. “Indeed.” Then he snapped another picture of me.
“I swear to god if you take one more picture of me, I’m going to kill you.”
He grinned, showing off his slightly crooked teeth. “Can I quote you on that, love?”
I felt my left eye starting to twitch. I took a deep breath and counted to ten. Then counted to ten again. I was pretty sure that strangling him with his own camera strap would be bad funeral etiquette.
“What are you doing here anyway?” I asked instead.
Felix shrugged. “Paying my respects.”
“You didn’t even know Hank!”
“Did you?” he asked, leaning in.
I narrowed my eyes. “Oh no. No. You’re not getting a story out of me, pal.”
“Too late.” He grinned. Then shot another picture.
“Stop that!” I yelled, waving away the little flying specks of light. “I’m going to go blind.”
He cocked his head to the side, narrowing his eyes as he stared at me. “You’ve got a little something…” He trailed off, pointing to his upper lip.
“Yes, I know! I’m growing a mustache. Okay? So freaking what? You want to make a story out of that? Oh I know, how about calling me the hairy yeti woman of Los Angeles, that oughta sell copies for you. Hey, maybe you’ll even be up for a Pulitzer. Go ahead, take a picture of me with my big fat hairy lip. I dare you.”
Felix’s lips quivered, threatening to explode into full-blown laughter any second.
“Uh, actually, I think it’s grass.”
“Huh?” I put my hand to my lip. Sure enough, I came away with three little blades of green grass. Mental forehead smack.
“Oh.”
The laughter broke free, and Felix shook with it, his entire body spasming as he clicked away, taking a series of pictures he’d have to caption, “Woman dies of embarrassment-police investigating the role of lip hair in her untimely demise.”
Before I could make any more of a fool of myself in front of the press, I turned and hobbled over to where Marco was chatting up his Material Girl.
“I have to go,” I whispered. “
I waited while Marco and Madonna exchanged phone numbers, hugs, jelly bracelets, and a series of air kisses, then dragged him and Dana back to the Mustang where we all piled in. (Me behind the wheel this time as I still had an indentation of cardboard Elvis’s microphone on my tush.) I pulled the car back onto the main road and out to the 15. True to my word, we were leaving Vegas. But…I had one quick little stop to make first. The Regis Salon. I had a four-thirty lip waxing and after the embarrassing monologue I’d given Tabloid Boy about my yeti lip, there was no way I was going to miss it this time. I glanced down at my watch. 4:22. I eased the gas pedal just a little farther down, zipping by a sports car in the left lane.
“Slow down,” Marco whined. “Dahling, this car is a classic. She’s not a dragster.”
I ignored him, passing a pickup on the right. It may be a classic, but I was on a mission.
“Seriously, Maddie, slow down. Elvis keeps falling in my lap,” Dana whined from the backseat.
Nothing doing. We were two exits from the Strip with a minute and a half to spare. I could make it this time. The next time Ramirez pulled one of his surprise lip-locks, I was going to be smooth as a baby’s behind.
Then the unthinkable happened. Blue lights flashed in my rearview mirror.
Marco turned around. “Uh oh.”
“Uh oh” was right. I spun my head around. “Shit!” A police car was glued to my bumper. He turned on his siren and motioned for me to pull over.
“I told you to slow down,” Macro said.
I gave him the death look as I eased the car over to the right shoulder.
The police car parked behind me. I looked at my watch. 4:29. Shit, shit, shit!
The highway patrolman motioned for Marco to roll down the passenger-side window. He was in his late thirties with a pronounced midsection and wore mirrored aviator glasses and a little brown Magnum P.I. mustache. He placed his hands on his hips and popped a piece of gum between his teeth. “License and registration, ma’am.”
Marco opened the glove box and fished around for the registration while I searched my purse for my driver’s license.
“I’m sorry, was I going too fast?” I asked, batting my eyelashes at him.
“License and registration,” he repeated. Clearly he was not into the flirtatious blonde routine. Damn. In L.A. that shtick killed.
Marco finally found the registration and handed it over to the officer. I was still searching.
“Look, maybe I was going just a teeny tiny bit too fast, but I had a really, really good reason. See, I’m late for an appointment and I can’t miss it this time.”
