“No. No, I have not been drinking. I only had a Diet Coke at the bar. But then Ramirez showed up and I really wanted a martini. But I couldn’t have one because of the Muppet. And, oh my aura is just ruined now. Can you believe it, it never rains in L.A.?”
“I’m going to need to give you a breathalyzer test, ma’am.”
“Oh God. I can’t go to jail. Look at me. I’m a hooker!”
“Ma’am, please step out of the car.” All sympathy had gone out of CHP Guy’s eyes, his hands hovering near the cuffs on his utility belt. Nothing highway patrol loves less than a drunk driver. Except maybe a drunk hooker driver.
“Please, I’m not drunk. I’m just… I’m just…” I searched for words to describe the night I’d had. I came up with nil. “I’m… I’m Detective Ramirez’s girlfriend!”
Oh God. Why did I say that?
CHP Guy looked dubious, but his hand was off his cuffs. “Detective Ramirez?”
I decided to go with it. “Yes, he works in homicide. You can look him up.”
“Do you have his badge number?”
Crap. Badge number. Then I remembered the business card still tucked in my purse. “Uh, just a minute.” I grabbed my purse and dumped the contents onto the passenger seat, spilling my cell phone, a tampon, tube of lipstick, a breath mint, a handful of change, and Ramirez’s business card. I read off the numbers.
“2374.” I handed the card to the officer.
He took it, going back to his squad car. I watched in the rearview mirror, praying he didn’t call Ramirez to ask he if was dating a hysterical hooker. Luckily, I only saw him punch a few keys on his keyboard before returning, apparently satisfied.
“All right,” he said, handing back the business card along with my registration and license. “I’m going to give you a warning this time. But please slow down. And, uh, don’t worry,” he said awkwardly. “It’s going to be okay.”
I swallowed. “Thanks,” I sniffed out. Though I didn’t really believe him. Things were so far from okay, it would take a layover in Cincinnati to get there.
I watched the cop pull back onto the freeway, trying to get a hold of myself well enough to drive back home. I took deep breaths and finally got the hiccupping under control before pulling back onto the freeway.
I slowly navigated the oil slick roads, watching the unexpected rain gather in the gutters, creating mini floods along the drainage impaired L.A. streets. By the time I pulled up to my studio, it was an all out downpour. I covered my hair with an old copy of
At that point I was too tired to feel scared, alone, or any other emotion that had assaulted me during the evening. All I wanted was my warm cozy bed and the familiar, uncomplicated Letterman to lull me to sleep. I stripped out of the wet spandex and wrapped myself in a Lakers T-shirt before snuggling under my quilted blankets. I didn’t even get to Dave’s first guest before I fell asleep.
I was sitting at the edge of a tiled swimming pool watching a man swim laps. I couldn’t tear my gaze away. His long, sleek form cut through the water, the muscles in his back flexing as he swam for the far side of the pool. It was like a Cool Water commercial, his movements in slow motion so every muscle tensed, every move was exaggerated. As he hit the end of the pool and began swimming back toward me, I felt water falling on me. It was raining. Fat, clear drops hit the glassy surface of the water making rhythmic sounds like nature’s orchestra.
The man swam closer and I leaned over the edge of the pool to get a closer look. But suddenly I was wearing Strawberry Shortcake high tops that were three sizes too small and I tripped on the sparkly laces. I began to fall toward the water. It seemed like I was falling forever, as the rain orchestra picked up tempo, plinking out a frantic William Tell Overture. I screamed, and the man stopped swimming. He reached up to catch me. And that’s when I noticed the black panther tattooed on his right bicep.
I opened my eyes, jerking to a sitting position. My gaze whipped wildly around me as if expecting the swimming man to appear. All I saw were the tangled sheets on my bed, harsh sunlight slanting through my windows and a pile of rain soaked spandex on my floor. The only thing that remained of my dream were the strains of William Tell coming from the region of my purse. I rubbed my eyes, fumbling with sleep clumsy hands for my cell phone.
“Hello?” I mumbled, still trying to shake the image of Ramirez’s tattooed muscles.
“It’s gone.” Mom’s voice assaulted my ears with a high- pitched screech.
“Mom?” I rolled over to look at the clock on my kitchen wall. Six-thirty. I groaned.
“Maddie, the cliff is gone. The whole thing is just gone.”
I blinked the cobwebs out of my eyes, trying to figure out what she was talking about. “What’s gone? What cliff?”
“The cliff in Malibu,” she shrieked. “Where I’m supposed to get married
Oh. That cliff.
“Mom, don’t panic. We’ll think of something. Did you call the Malibu office?”
“Yes, yes. I talked to them first thing this morning. They said they’d refund the deposit for the site, but Maddie where on earth am I going to have the wedding now? Oh God. This is your grandmother’s fault. She said we should get married in a church. She said God would never forgive me if I didn’t get married in the Catholic Church. Now look, I’ve pissed off God so badly he’s destroying Malibu.”
My head was pounding, screaming for a double mocha espresso. “Where are you, Mom?”
“I’m at Fernando’s.”
“Okay, give me twenty minutes, I’ll meet you there and we’ll think of something.”
“This is it Maddie. I’ve heard about these sort of Catholic curses. I’m doomed. This marriage is doomed. Oh God. I’ve doomed Ralph too.”
“I’m hanging up now, Mom.”
I pressed the end button and flopped back onto my bed. I closed my eyes, hoping that maybe
Somehow I dragged my exhausted body to the bathroom and managed to shower, dry my hair and throw on a little makeup without gasping in horror at the sight of my puffy eyes. After the good, long cry I’d had last night I resembled a bug-eyed cartoon character. That’s it, no more feeling sorry for myself. My eyes couldn’t take it. I quickly slipped on a pale blue sundress and a pair of low-heeled, silver mules before deciding I was fit for human eyes again.
After checking my voice mail, just in case Ramirez left a message saying he had Richard in custody, I grabbed my keys and headed for my Jeep.
Fifteen minutes later I pulled up to Fernando’s. I parked on the near empty street (Beverly Hills doesn’t rise before ten unless it’s Oscar night.) and pushed through the glass doors.
“Dahling, thank God you’re here!” Marco greeted me. He had his hair spiked up in crisp little points today, his eyeliner even thicker than usual. He leaned in and pseudo whispered. “I put your mom in the back. She’s pulling a Whitney Houston freak-out on us.”
“Where’s Ralph?”
“
“Mrs. Lopez. Jen’s Mom.” He nodded solemnly. “She always comes in early to avoid the tabloids.”
“Ah. I see.”
“Come on. That psychic lady is with your mom, but I don’t think she’s actually helping things. She said she had a vision of a tornado.”
