Faux Dad paused. “Mads, you seem a little distracted lately. Is there something on your mind?”
I resisted the urge to break out in manic laughter.
“I’m fine.” Ha! “Sorry, Ralph, I gotta go. I’m going through the canyon.”
I hung up and made a quick maneuver into the right lane, merging onto the 2 East toward Beefcakes.
This was turning out to be quite a week for me. Hookers, and Porn Stars, and Strippers. Oh my!
Chapter Thirteen
Beefcakes was located between La Brea and Highland in an old Hollywood speakeasy that had been turned into a Mecca for bachelorettes, divorcees and horny housewives. The interior was done in all black with pink velvety sofas lining the walls. Down the middle of the floor was a catwalk, surrounded by purple tables and chairs where hordes of screaming, middle-aged women with dollar bills in their hands acted like teenagers at a Hillary Duff concert. I spied Mom and Mrs. Rosenblatt at one of the tables near the end of the runway. Beside them was a cowgirl in Calamity Jane attire screaming out boisterous wahoo’s as “Fireman Bob” took to the stage.
“Mads!” Mom yelled above the girlish squeals. All traces of her post-cliff trauma were gone. A cosmopolitan in one hand, she bobbed her head in time with the pulsating music. Mom was dressed in her party chick clothes tonight. A black spandex halter top, minus the much needed bra, a pair of polka dotted capris, and red Converse sneakers. In honor of the special occasion, her blue eye-shadow reached all the way to her eyebrows tonight. Mrs. Rosenblatt sat at a table beside her, dressed in a purple flowered mumu that perfectly matched the two chairs she took up.
“Having fun?” I asked as I gave Mom a quick hug.
“I’ll say. Oh, God, Mads, isn’t he a hunk?”
I looked up at Fireman Bob, dressed in boots, suspenders and little else. I was instantly reminded how long it had been since I’d had sex, as my eyes strayed to his little red G-string.
“Check out that package,” Mrs. Rosenblatt said, as if she could read my mind. “Reminds me of my fourth husband, Lenny. Lenny was royal putz, but the Universe blessed him with a package like you wouldn’t believe.”
“That’s nothing. You should see my Ralphie.” Mom held her two index fingers ten inches apart, wiggling her eyebrows up and down.
Ew! Mom and sex – two things I never wanted to think about in the same breath. I felt like putting my fingers in my ears and chanting, “I can’t hear you.”
“Maddie, you made it!” The exuberant cowgirl turned around. I did a mental forehead smack. Dana.
“Nice boots, cowgirl,” I said.
“I came straight from a shoot. Charmin commercial.”
“As in toilet paper?”
“Cowboy’s invoke the image of strength. No one wants weak toilet paper. So,” she asked, leaning in close, “how goes the great boyfriend search?”
I quickly filled her in on my mistress theory, punctuated by her occasional wahoo’s as Fireman Bob dropped his suspenders. I finished off by recounting my visit to Big Boy studios with Porn Star Barbie.
“Did you say Bunny Hoffenmeyer?” Mrs. Rosenblatt asked, coming up behind me with a fresh drink in hand.
“Yes. Why? Do you know her?”
“Actually, my Lenny used to work with her.”
I blinked at her. “What do you mean, ‘used to work with her?’ You were married to a porn star?” I could feel my nose scrunching into an icky face.
“No, no, no. Not that Lenny couldn’t have been, mind you. But he was her insurance broker. You gotta have a lot of insurance in that industry. As Big Boy’s owner, Bunny brought him a whole lotta business.”
“Wait – owner?” I’d pegged Bunny as a dimwitted double D, not a savvy entrepreneur.
“Oh yeah. Bunny was raking it in back when I was married to Lenny. But then she expanded the whole operation into soft core. You know, stuff with storylines and candlelight. Erotica for ladies.”
“And that didn’t do well?”
“She lost her shirt. No pun intended. Turns out women don’t buy as much porn as men.”
Go figure.
“Last I heard Bunny was in debt up to her implants,” Mrs. Rosenblatt continued. “I heard she’s even trying to get some mainstream roles now to pay the bills. Poor thing.”
Right. Poor thing. Poor enough to bump Greenway off for the money? After my interview, I’d moved Bunny to the bottom of my suspects list, thinking her IQ rivaled Jasmine’s for lowest in L.A. County. But now I had a feeling Bunny was sharper than she let on. If she could fake an orgasm I guess she could fake innocence too.
“Want a drink, Maddie?” Mom asked, signaling a shirtless waiter.
Did I ever. “I’ll have a Diet Coke.”
“Oh come on, honey. Live a little!” Mrs. Rosenblatt drained her glass and set it on the waiter’s tray. “How about a Virgin Mary?” she suggested.
Honestly, I was sick to death of Diet Coke. As long as it was virgin, I decided I could afford to live a little tonight.
“Okay. A virgin Mary.”
Mrs. Rosenblatt ordered one for me and one for herself. Cowgirl Dana, staying in character, ordered a shot of Jack Daniels. Mom ordered another cosmo and stuck a ten in the waiter’s speedo. (Ew, ew, ew!) By the time Fireman Bob had collected his suspenders and cleared off the stage, we all had fresh drinks in hand and I had that nauseous, my-mom’s-talking-about-sex feeling somewhat under control.
Music started to pulse from the speakers again and the crowd took to their feet, craning to see the next beefcake.
“
The sound of a motorcycle engine revved through the speakers as a man in all leather appeared on the stage in front of a cloud of smoke. He strutted down the catwalk, shedding his leather jacket to reveal a six pack Budweiser would be jealous of.
“Oh my God.” Mom made the sign of the cross.
“What was that for?” asked Mr. Rosenblatt.
“I just had the unholiest of thoughts.”
Ick. Okay, so I
Damien gyrated down the catwalk, shedding leather like a snake until Mom grabbed a cocktail napkin and started fanning herself. “Whew, I think that man just gave me a hot flash.”
“That man is hung. You think he’d go for an older woman?” Mrs. Rosenblatt asked, elbowing me in the ribs.
I tried to be kind. “He’s probably gay.”
Mrs. Rosenblatt scrutinized Damien as he stripped off his leather chaps to reveal a thong with a Harley Davidson logo.
I took a big sip of my Virgin Mary. Wow, he did have a nice package. I took another sip.
“I just love a man in leather,” Mrs. Rosenblatt continued. “I saw this documentary about how dominatrix tame their men with leather whips. Now I don’t go in for all that chains stuff, but I could go for a guy in leather.”
I drained my glass and signaled the waiter for another.
“Ralphie doesn’t like leather,” Mom chimed in. “But he’s nuts about lace. I bought this adorable lace teddy at the mall today. One look and we’ll be spending the whole honeymoon in bed.” Mom winked one heavily shadowed eye. “If you know what I mean.”
If a person could die of ickiness, I was just about flat-lining. I searched frantically for that waiter with my fresh Virgin Mary. Luckily, he appeared just as Damien gyrated his way in our direction and Mom dug into her purse for
