Dead Ex Page 4

  “Fine.” I hesitated. “It was a long time ago. The details are fuzzy.”

  “Aha!”

  “Not because he wasn’t. . . . He didn’t seem conflicted.”

  “But you’re tall. There’s something masculine about a six-foot woman.

  If you remove the breasts. Did you make love in the dark?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “And Joey’s flat-chested. She’s like a boy. And no hips at all.” Fredreeq snapped her fingers. “I see a pattern. He likes women he can pretend are men.” She saw me staring. “Then ask yourself how come you two didn’t live happily ever after.”

  “He didn’t want kids, for one thing. Ever. He was very clear about that, and I knew I did, so we decided to quit before it got complicated.”

  Fredreeq frowned and set down the protein bar. She settled back into her leather armchair, meticulously arranging her layers of chiffon, and said, “Perhaps you should have discussed those issues before indulging in recreational sex?” Despite a taste for provocative couture, Fredreeq had a strict moral code.

  “Perhaps,” I said. “But we were young. I was, anyway. He broke it off.

  3 0 H A R L E Y J A N E K O Z A K

  I think he found me naive and didn’t want to corrupt me. I’ve been thinking about this all day.”

  “What do you mean, corrupt you?”

  “He had an experimental streak.”

  “In bed? And you knew this how?”

  “Just the way he’d ask casual questions, like did I ever dress up or act out fantasies or do group activities. Use props.”

  “Those are casual questions?”

  Hearing Simon’s key in the door, I had a moment of paranoia, wondering if the room was bugged and Simon could hear us. It was the sort of thing my mother would warn me about, the downside of living with an FBI agent. Of course, my mother would say there was no upside to living with anyone employed by the federal government.

  “Hi, Simon,” I said, jumping up to kiss him. On the cheek, because Fredreeq’s presence made me shy. He returned my kiss on the cheek with amusement.

  If my boyfriend was surprised to come home and find his apartment taken over by three women, one of them comatose, he didn’t show it. But Simon was professionally nonreactive. I assumed they taught that at Quantico. It’s not that he wasn’t emotional—I’d seen a wide range from him in the six weeks I’d known him—but he was in charge of what got expressed and when and in front of whom.

  “Fredreeq, a pleasure,” he said, reaching down to give her a kiss on the cheek too. He looked toward Joey. “Good party?”

  “Not for her,” Fredreeq said. “But you should’ve been there. Wollie was the star. They unveiled her frogs.”

  “Sorry I missed that,” he said, loosening his tie.

  “I understand you were working,” she said. “Surveillance?”

  “Fredreeq,” I said, “if he won’t tell me, he’s not going to tell you.”

  “If it were my husband,” she said, “coming in at midnight dressed to kill, I’d ask questions. You can’t use that tired old ‘national security’ excuse forever, Simon.”

  “Fredreeq, stop,” I said. “Stop, stop, stop.”

  “Speaking of security issues,” he said, “please tell me that Joey walked up here of her own volition.”

  “As opposed to—?” I asked.

  “As opposed to being hauled around by the two of you all through the

  D E A D E X 3 1

  parking garage and elevators, which was picked up by various surveillance cameras. Providing Ali with some interesting viewing.”

  “Who’s Ali?” Fredreeq asked.

  “Night doorman,” I said.

  “Well, I’m prepared to tell whichever scenario you want to hear,”

  Fredreeq said. “Unlike Wollie, who’s never told a lie in her life. That’s the kind of trait a guy in your line of work looks for, by the way.”

  I tried to speak but choked, and went into a coughing fit.

  “Just look at her, standing there,” she continued. “Built like a lingerie model, a natural blonde, never has to worry about getting her roots done.

  Too tall for most guys, but a man like you, I don’t see you with a woman much under six feet. And the best part about her? No police record.”

  “Yet.” Simon nodded. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m going to change. And then I may need a drink.”

  “He’s not the only one,” I said, watching him retreat to the bedroom.

  “Fredreeq, you have to lay off the—”

  “Honey, every girl needs a Jewish mother. Go on in there with him.

  He may want help with his shoes or something. His pants.”

  “I thought you were against recreational sex.”

  “There’s nothing recreational about this. This is purposeful sex, and I think you know what purpose I’m talking about.”

  I was telling her what I thought of her retro advice on snaring a husband when a cell phone rang. The sound came from Joey.

  “Let’s answer it,” Fredreeq said, helping me roll her over. “If it’s Elliot, I want to yell at him.”

  I unearthed the phone from the pocket of Joey’s blue jeans. “Hello?”

  “Hello. Joey Rafferty?”

  “Who’s this?” I said.

  “Glen Gill, Associated Press. Miss Rafferty, I’m sorry for your loss. I wonder if you’d mind giving us your reaction upon hearing of the death of your boyfriend. Where were you when you got the news?”

  “My what? Boyfriend?” I said, slow to understand the question.

  “David Zetrakis. Hey, is it true that your marriage to Elliot Horowitz is breaking up and—”

  “Oh, my God,” I said, putting the pieces together. “Don’t you have something real to report, like global warming? Get lost.”

  Fredreeq took the phone from me. “This is Miss Rafferty’s mother,

  3 2 H A R L E Y J A N E K O Z A K

  Mrs. Rafferty. How may I help you?” She listened, then said, “Do you realize all the media in this country is owned by Reverend Sun Myung Moon? You go get yourself a nice job. Working in a slaughterhouse, for instance. Leave this poor girl alone.” She hung up.

  “How could they get her cell phone number?” I asked.

  “The whole town’s got her number. She’s Miss Friendly. She used to be careful about that sort of thing, but once she stopped working, she got sloppy.” Fredreeq shook her head. “This has officially turned ugly. And it’s gonna get worse before David’s corpse is cold. Joey’s rich, she’s a red-head, and she’s been on the cover of Vogue. Unless they can implicate Michael Jackson in this, they’re gonna go with her.”

  We studied her. Normally, she had a skinny, tomboy look, but cover her freckles, calm down her hair, and throw her into a Valentino, and Joey was a runway model. “You’re right,” I said. “I thought you were exaggerating, but you can now say ‘I told you so.’ ”

  “I’m too classy.” Fredreeq wrapped her layers of red firmly about herself. “Prepare for the onslaught. We could pop up in People too. Do not leave the house in sweatpants. In fact, burn all fleece. That man in that bedroom is not going to be seduced by fleece.” She kissed me, then called good-bye to Simon, who called good-bye in return.

  That man in the bedroom was sitting on the king-sized bed reading reports, his briefcase nearby. He himself was in sweatpants and a T-shirt, both items looking either brand-new or ironed. All his clothes looked new. No ratty socks. No faded jeans. No T-shirts from early Grateful Dead tours.

  I sat next to him, and he moved aside his papers, flipping them facedown.

  “It’s all right, I’m not going to peek at affairs of state,” I said. “Sorry about bringing Joey here. I didn’t know what else to do with her.”

  “Does she pass out often?”

  “Never, since I’ve known her.”

  “Well, with some people it doesn’t take much. Two drinks and they’re gone.”

  “Not Joey,” I said. “She can drink like a fish and half the time I can’t see any effect.” I stopped. Simon was looking at me with a raised eyebrow, and I felt another protective surge toward my friend. “She had a bad day,” I said.

  D E A D E X 3 3

  “She has bad coping skills.”

  “She has a philandering husband. She just found out.”

  “Getting wasted isn’t going to help.”

  I wanted to defend her, but everything I could think of sounded . . .

  defensive. Her snores could be heard even here, in the bedroom, cutting into my thoughts.

  “You don’t know her,” I said, after a moment.

  “Do you?”

  “Yes. What do you mean?”

  He looked me in the eye. “She has a drinking problem. You’re either unaware, which means you don’t know her as well as you think, or you’re in denial. Which is it?”

  I stared at him. “Those are my choices? Can’t someone pass out once in a while? She probably didn’t eat today. She forgets to, and she’s skin and bones. Plus, David died. And she’s Irish. If you’re Irish and someone dies, you drink. It’s a cultural imperative.”

  “And the Irish have a cultural propensity for alcoholism,” he said. His calmness annoyed me. “Have you ever passed out from drinking?”

  “Yes. Our first date.”

  “You didn’t pass out, you fell asleep. At three a.m. In your own home.

  I’ve never passed out either, and I’ve had some very bad days.”

  I considered a number of responses but opted for a dignified silence.

  I went into the living room to cover Joey with a blanket, then walked back through the bedroom into the master bath, where I spent forty minutes with a tubful of bubbles and the Economist, the only
magazine Simon had lying around.

  I put on pajamas for the first time in three weeks. I did not iron them.

  Simon was still working. I crawled into bed, turned my back to him, and mumbled, “Good night.”

  “Not yet,” he said, pushing his papers off the bed. He threw back the covers I’d pulled over myself and settled his body along the length of mine, his front to my back. He breathed into my ear. “I’ll let you know when it’s a good night.”

  “You think so?” I said. “All right. Give it your best shot.”

  And he did.

  When I woke in the morning, Joey was gone.

  E i g h t

  D avid Zetrakis didn’t make the front page of the Los Angeles Times, but he was above the fold in the California section. The article focused on facts I already knew, with a sidebar listing film, theater, and television credits. Emmy nominations got an asterisk, and Emmy wins got a double asterisk.

  There’s something singularly disturbing about death the morning

  after. Night can sweep away memory so perfectly that you have to live through it all over again, turning off your alarm or shuffling into the bathroom, the tile cold on your feet as you realize something bad happened, something that will take you by sad surprise every morning for a long time. Now I read the Los Angeles Times as if memorizing it, as though to imprint it on my brain so that the news could never again come as news.

  I put in time on paperwork, doing greeting card invoices, wondering how to squeeze more income from my business, but my mind kept stray-ing to a note from Joey on Simon’s coffee table.

  W—thanks. I’m okay. I’ll call you. J.

  p.s. Can you believe he’s dead?

  No. And I couldn’t believe she was okay. I called her and got voice mail.

  I hung up and my phone rang. It was the assistant for Jen Kim. It

  D E A D E X 3 5

  took me a moment to recall Jen Kim, the woman from the party smoking by the pool, but by then I’d already agreed to meet with her, on the studio lot where they shot At the End of the Day. The words job interview temporarily displaced thoughts of David and Joey.

  I showered, dressed for success, and straightened the apartment to the standards of a four-star hotel. Simon was already gone, off to the gym at daybreak, sleep deprivation being another thing he seemed to thrive on, probably learned at Quantico.

  News of David’s death accompanied me north. The radio spoke of his battle with cancer, leading to early conjecture that his death was suicide.

  Now that people knew the wound wasn’t self-inflicted, rumors of assisted suicide were surfacing. It was not reported who was doing all this conjecturing and rumormongering. I suspected the reporters themselves, desperate to create a story during a slow news week.

  I headed over the hill to Burbank, a town thick with film and television production facilities. People lived there too, those willing to endure the heat of the Valley in exchange for relatively affordable housing. Burbank had little cachet and meant a crummy commute for those working in L.A., but it had a killer view, the San Gabriel Mountains in the distance like a painted backdrop, when not obscured by smog.

  Maybe I could live in Burbank. Or Toluca Lake, right next door. I’d check the apartment listings. I couldn’t stay at Simon’s forever; even if things kept going the way they were going, it wasn’t my place. My art supplies needed to stretch out. My drafting table would never feel at home in a Wilshire Boulevard penthouse.

  At the studio entrance, a security guard disappeared into his wooden hut with my driver’s license, perhaps checking it against a list of terror-ists. Then he searched my trunk. Then he gave me a map and directions to a parking structure and Building 47.

  Even on a Saturday, there was a buzz of activity. Golf carts rumbled down mini streets, with their own mini street signs, as if the studio were a town. It was much like the lot I’d visited when Joey had filmed her TV

  series Gun Girl, years earlier. Who were these worker bees, dressed in overalls, business suits, and, in one case, a full body cast? Crew, executives, actors. And where did I fit in?

  Building 47 was a boxlike structure that had seen better days. Jen’s assistant, a comely child, introduced herself as Sophie and escorted me into

  3 6 H A R L E Y J A N E K O Z A K

  Jen’s inner office, offering coffee. Jen, she said, was held up on the set. I looked at a wall full of publicity photos from At the End of the Day, many of them autographed. There was unbusinesslike paraphernalia as well: stuffed animals, a cocktail dress hanging on a closet door, a lighted makeup mirror, three gift baskets still in their cellophane, a bottle of Moët & Chandon, fresh flowers, a gumball machine, and a miniature basketball hoop. On an end table, a heavy glass bowl filled with M&M’s invited me to go ahead and pig out.

  A photo of Jen with David Zetrakis dominated the desk. They stood in front of a pyramid and bright lights spelling out Luxor, and David had both arms around Jen’s shoulders, like a proud father. Or a lover.

  “Wollie,” Jen said, striding in and shaking my hand. “Thanks for coming by. Did you get a chance to watch the show?”

  “Uh—”

  “SoapDirt. No problem. It runs six times a day. I’ll send DVDs home with you. Sophie!” she yelled to the open door. “Get some SoapDirts for Wollie and last week’s episodes of At the End of the Day. ” She talked fast, as if conversation cost money. “I line-produce End but my real baby’s SoapDirt. With David sick these last months, I’ve been on overload. Sophie!” she yelled. “Coffee!”

  She seated herself, removed a shoe, a sexy, strappy sandal in orange suede, and set it on the desk. She turned on a high-intensity lamp to study it. “They’re building sets over on End and I got a glob of glue on it.”

  Jen, I suspected, wore the highest possible heels she could function in, being both diminutive and round-faced, not the best physical attri-butes for one in a position of authority. “Okay,” she said, making the shoe disappear behind the desk. “What do I want from you?”

  “Are you asking me?” I said.

  “No. You’re asking you. What does this Korean chick want from me?

  Here’s the scoop. Soap Journal magazine is running a yearlong competition to see which show has the hottest guys in daytime. All categories.

  Juveniles, rapists, geezers. We’re going to piggyback on that and do a segment on SoapDirt with a dating correspondent. You.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You date, right?”

  “Well, yes. But not . . . professionally.”

  D E A D E X 3 7

  “But you have in the past. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.” Jen rummaged around on her overloaded desk, then yelled, “Sophie! Where’s the Wollie Shelley memo?”

  “On your desk!”

  “Oh. Here it is.” Jen read aloud. “Research subject for best seller How to Avoid Getting Dumped All the Time, which did a quarter million units in hardcover—”

  “I was the Bad Example, though. The What Not to Do.”

  “No one cares. You won Biological Clock. ”

  “The show was canceled before the final vote,” I said.

  “You might’ve won. Anyway, the perception is, you’re a celebrity, you’re an expert, you’re the Date Girl.”

  How to explain to Jen Kim that I had no desire to be known for

  anything but alternative greeting cards? My brushes with fame, failed romances, dismal dates—all this I hoped had faded from the public consciousness, of whatever public was conscious of me in the first place. But could a TV producer understand a desire for anonymity? “I think you’re overstating it,” I said. “And anyway—”

  “No. You have a Q rating that’s remarkable for a civilian. And it’s not like we’re going to get Paris Hilton, on our budget. The best we can do is a thousand.”

  “Dollars?” I said.

  “Per episode. We tape five episodes every Friday, because Tricia works on the soap Monday through Thursday. I can get you a small per diem for the actual dates, and we’ll throw in a car service. You want hair and makeup too?”

  “No. Oh! Can I bring my own?” I asked, thinking I could get

  Fredreeq a job. She’d done facials for years but had recently begun branching out.

  “No, I don’t have the budget. But you can come to the set and use whoever’s working on the show that day.”

  Sophie brought in mugs of coffee and set down packets of artificial sweetener in three colors—pink, blue, and yellow—along with artificial creamer. Apparently the only sugar on hand was what was in the M&M’s.