Chore Whore (27 page)

“Corki, it's Veronique.
I tried calling you at home, but . . .”

“It's been cut off,” I say into my cell phone.

I explain what happened with being refused payment for all my services rendered.

“I'm on an express train to ruin.”

“Stop it! You are not. Look, we're home in L.A. Would you like to come over for dinner? Say about seven?”

“You're cooking?” I ask, surprised. She never cooks.

“Believe it or not, yes. Roberto will be helping, though.”

“I would love to.”

I drop off Blaise
at Shelly's house with his strict promise, made in writing, that he will not start any fires or do anything destructive. Blaise even offers, with a mischievous smirk, that he will be happy to sign it in blood.

He kisses me goodbye and I drive from Baldwin Hills to the Hollywood Hills, giving myself a stern lecture about honor and values and morals—all of which are teetering dangerously on the verge of destruction. I can't help considering Bob Caplan's offer. Thirty-five thousand dollars could last me to the end of the year, even if I had no work whatsoever. Then, if I add in the porno pictures of Lucy, Tommy Ray and the girls in their romp, that could bring in even more money—maybe another thirty or forty. Even more.

I park in front of Veronique's house and sit in my car for a moment trying to remember who I am. I'm not Hubert, willing to take advantage of someone's lack of character. I'm not . . . or am I?

I knock on Veronique's door and she opens it with a big hug.

“You look better, Corki,” she says, examining my face. “At least you can open your eye now.”

“I feel better.”

She takes my hand and leads me through her home, which is decorated with antique Italian, French, Mexican and Spanish crucifixes adorning the walls. Religious figurines, saints and icons compete for space with petite brass bells and Buddhist gongs. Smoky incense fills the air.

We cross the room to her outdoor balcony overlooking the hills and canyons. Roberto joins us and we drink Italian wine and watch the last of the sun dipping down into the Pacific Ocean. In the distance, coyotes start their nightly ritual of howling to one another, readying themselves for their dinner hunt. Through the back door, we hear a kitchen timer ring.

“Roberto?” she asks, “can you get that?”

“Most certainly.”

· · ·

We eat a dinner
of pan-seared scallops with pasta and spinach out on the Mexican-tiled deck of Veronique's four-bedroom, four-and-a-half-bathroom home. In the distance, over the din of the Hollywood freeway traffic, we can hear the heavy clanging of church bells striking eight times.

“So, Corki,” Roberto says with that roll of the r, “what now?”

“Well, quite frankly, I don't know.”

“Are you tied to Los Angeles or will you be looking for work elsewhere?” he inquires.

“I've been an assistant for twenty years. It's the only thing I'm qualified to do, and L.A. is the only place I could do it. There's New York, but I don't know the city well enough to start up a business there. I'm not qualified to do any other type of work. I suppose I'd better start looking for other clients, but I'm not sure that's what I want.”

“I see.” Roberto leans back, retrieves a cigarette out of his pocket and lights it. He offers one to me and I kindly refuse. We sit in silence, mosquitoes buzzing us, for a while longer.

“You can cook,” he offers.

“That's true, but I don't know of anyone who's going to pay me to consistently cook for them. I'm not exactly a trained professional.”

“What is the largest number of people you've cooked for at one time?” he asks.

I look over at Veronique, pondering the question.

“Was it the time you did my Oscar party?” she asks.

“Yeah, I was thinking about that. How many were there?”

“At least a hundred. Probably more.”

“I think that's the tops. We'll call it one hundred.”

“Can you do it again?” he asks.

“If it pays the bills, I could do it every night.”

“That was what I was thinking.” Roberto leans back and balances carefully on the two back legs of his chair.

“I'm sorry, I missed it. What were you were thinking?”

“Cooking for a group of people. Have you ever been to St. Bart's?” he asks.

“Oh yes, years ago. In fact, I went with yours truly!” I say, pointing to Veronique. We laugh at the memories.

“I was shooting a Dutch film in St. Martin with Rutger Hauer,” Veronique says, “and Corki and I went to spend the two days we had off from shooting in St. Bart's. It was gorgeous, but the flight over was harrowing.”

“To put it lightly,” I say, and we both laugh again as we remember the scariest flight of our lives. “Over the open sea, in a nine-seater, a red light started flashing in the cockpit, followed by a loud buzzer. Everyone in the plane looked at each other as if knowing it would be one of our last moments alive. Veronique even screamed, which scared the pilot more than the buzzer!”

“I own beach property over there,” Roberto says quietly.

“Nice,” I say, fantasizing about asking him if he wouldn't mind loaning me that someday. If it's as big as his “small apartment” in Portofino, I'd be a very content vacationer.

“It was a waste of space when I purchased it,” he says, shaking his head. “It had an auto repair shop on it. Can you imagine that on the beach?”

“Sort of bizarre!” I agree.

“Very close to the Hotel Eden Roc. You know it? Lovely beach, shallow for swimming and close to the airport.”

“We stayed at Eden Roc,” Veronique announces.

“What kind of home did you build on it? Is it gorgeous?” I ask, readying myself to ask to borrow it.

“I didn't. I bought it twelve years ago and have done absolutely nothing with it.”

So much for my vacation dreams.

“So, what do you think, Corki?”

I couldn't afford the ticket anyway.

“About what?” I ask.

“It's a prime piece of property.”

“Um, okay,” I say, still not sure what he's getting at.

“I'm an investor. I have a spectacular property in one of the best locations on the island. It's being wasted as a garage. I am willing to put money into fixing it up to be something of better use, but it would have to be executed quickly because I lose money in downtime. Renovation would be downtime,” he says thoughtfully.

“What are you going to build, a small hotel?” I ask. Maybe Blaise and I can get a discount at the place if we know the owner.

“Yes. Seven beachfront rooms and a small, forty-seat restaurant. I could invest the capital to get the place renovated and in working order. I could also invest two years' worth of what would be rent for the converted structure,” he says.

“It sounds lovely,” I say dreamily.

“Corki, for you!” Veronique says, incredulously. “You open the restaurant. Your menu, your ideas, your future. This is what you're qualified to do, not slave away for us for the rest of your life. And the parts you aren't qualified to do, you do your research and get qualified for.”

My mind is spinning.

“It will be more work than you think,” Roberto goes on. “But if you're as smart about money, cooking and business as Veronique makes you out to be, you could make some very good money in that location,” he says, shaking another cigarette out of his pocket and lighting it.

“I don't have any formal training. I just cook what I like and what I think other people will like.”

“I very much enjoyed your cooking,” Roberto says calmly, inhaling deeply, then blowing out billows of smoke into the air. “I'm not doing this just for you, Corki. If this is done properly—and I suspect it would be—I stand to make money, too, you know.”

I notify all
the clients I still work for—Liam, Esther and Jock, although he's questionable—that I'm done. It's a bit of a laugh, but I give my two-week notice.

Esther says now that Atom's well, she'll take Bella and use it as a third car to drive to their beach house in San Diego. She plans on taking Atom on more mini-vacations where they can relax and get away from all the stress of renovating their new home.

There has been no response from Jock. Figures. I haven't heard from him since the day I put myself on the line. I called and told him that Hubert and the Brothers Grimm were arrested and I had possession of his DVDs, which I subsequently destroyed. I also told him that I returned the one hundred thousand dollars to his safe.

Not one call.

I know he's still alive and thriving, because I read about him in the tabloids. I know he still checks his answering machine, because it takes four rings for it to pick up, which means he has listened to his messages and the machine is empty. I don't know if he's mad because the police got involved or because I directed it in the way that I saw fit, but as far as I'm concerned, it's over.

I sort through what's left in my garage of horrors. I have had two garage sales. I'm getting rid of all the stuff I don't want anymore and, more importantly, the stuff I've been holding on to for “when”—when I get a house of my own, when I get nice boyfriend, when Blaise grows up, when I have company over for dinner. All the “whens” are sold and I'm going to live for the now.

I'm down to a sordid selection of my clients' pasts. Liam's guns for which he never took lessons. Liam's gun safe to hold the guns for which he never took lessons and Liam's ammunition that goes in the guns. I have every diary and memory of Lucy's past that could have started a potential war under the domination of Tommy Ray. I have the wide array of liquor and wine from Lucy's cabinets. I call Mary at Almor Liquor on Sunset. She gives me the vintages, histories and prices of all the wines and liquors I have and tells me how I can ship the load of them to the French West Indies. She says I can sell the Rémy Martin Louis XIII for $150 U.S. per shot at the restaurant's bar.

Then there's the matter of the sex pictures in my safe. Bob Caplan from the National Enquirer got hold of my cell phone number and calls me every day. He says we have to “strike while the iron's hot” and if I keep stalling it will become yesterday's news. He says that time is of the essence, but I think sex is timeless. Movie stars embroiled in foursomes will be hot forever. He's upped the ante to forty thousand if I call back today and spill my guts.

Forty thousand could help with my moving and survival expenses immensely. Even though things are starting to turn and life is looking way, way up, I'm still tempted. I've started to dial Bob's number again and again, but I've yet to do it. If only I was raised differently and could base my decisions on what feels good instead of on what my mother taught me. Mom always says, “Two wrongs don't make a right.” If only I didn't have to live with myself after I cashed that check.

I can't even deal with the contents of the safe right now. However, there's also the matter of Luella, who is not in my safe anymore. She's on my fireplace mantel. How can Tommy Ray refuse to pay me when I have his mama? Did he stop caring about her because he's found himself a new honey? Or has he forgotten all about her?

I sit at my desk, writing down notes of how to get all this stuff back to the rightful owners, when my cell phone rings.

“Cooorrrkiii, it's Lucy! Hey, honey!”

The nerve. She sounds as if Santorini never happened. What can she possibly have to say to me?

“Yes?” I ask, cautiously.

“Corki, my dear, you must be so mad at me for my bad behavior,” she says.

“I am.”

“Can you forgive me?”

“Why would I want to?”

“Because I love you and need you,” she says, playing the victimized child.

“Lucy, I want to be paid what I am owed, and after that I want you to pick up your stuff that's in my garage.”

The line is silent.

“In fact, I'm calling your business office right now. I want to go get my money and then we'll see about continuing this conversation. I'm giving you three minutes, then I'm calling Debbie.” I punch the button and hang up.

I don't need to wait three minutes, because Debbie calls me in two.

“I have your check waiting for pickup,” she announces, as surprised as I am.

“I'll be in the office in thirty minutes,” I say.

I throw on some clean clothes and walk out the door. As soon as I lock the door and spring down the steps toward Bella, my cell phone rings again.

“Corki, it's Shay, Jock's business manager,” she says jokingly, “in case you've forgotten.”

“Very funny. I haven't been able to call you.”

“Don't start lying, missy. Your fingers ain't broke!”

“You got me. I could have called. I've been so involved trying to stay afloat I haven't touched base with anyone.”

“Well, you might want to touch base now. You're doing something right again 'cause I have another check for you,” she announces in a way that lets me know she enjoys being the deliverer of good news.

“Hallelujah! What did I do to deserve this? I haven't heard from Mr. Straupman in so long I thought he forgot about his lowly little assistant.”

“Girl, shut up and get in here,” Shay says, laughing as she hangs up.

Two money runs in one day. Now, if I can get Tommy Ray to cough up his part, I'll be paid up. I think once I explain to Harvey that I have Luella, Tommy will rethink his tight fist. I swing by and pick up my check from Debbie and cash it immediately before Miss Lucy changes her mind. Shay's office is next.

Yvonne, office queen, stands up as I enter. She holds in front of her the magazine with me on the cover.

“Care to give the scoop?” she asks.

“Uh, no. What's the saying? A picture's worth a thousand words. Is Shay in?”

“You know she is. Hold on a second.” Yvonne rings Shay's line and announces my arrival. I am summoned back to her office.

“Miss Corki, this is too much dirt!” she says as she waves the magazine around.

“Who you telling?” I say in agreement.

“Girlfriend, I'm telling you, you need to write a book. Anyway, on to the here and now. Jock called out of the blue and asked me to cut you a check for fifteen thousand dollars. Said you'd know what it was for.”

“Maybe it's a going-away present!”

“Maybe,” Shay says. “Maybe he's just realizing how much you know. . . .”

On my trip home, I call Harvey and leave him a message that Luella wants to go home to her son, but her son still owes me money and Luella doesn't feel good about that and neither do I. I also tell him I'm leaving the country and I've had enough of this. I'm ready to put a lien on the house Tommy Ray and Lucy just purchased if this doesn't get straightened out quickly. I don't know if I can legally do this, but at least it lets Harvey know that I have Tommy's mama and I'm sick of playing games.

At home, I put Liam's guns, ammunition and gun safe in the back of Bella and drive to his and Esther's home in Pacific Palisades. I walk into the house and yell out hello. Shelly comes out of the dining room.

“Hey, Shell, you alone?” I ask softly.

“Yeah, you don't have to whisper,” she says.

“I'm just cleaning out the last of the stuff and thought I'd drop off Liam's guns.”

“Yeah, I heard,” she says. “Here it is my last week, nice and quiet, and then you call announcing you're bringing the guns back. She threw a fit. She said you could drop off the safe, but the guns and bullets are not to enter this property. She said to donate them to charity.”

“Yeah, right! ‘Oh hi, Save the Children, would you guys like a shotgun complete with three hundred rounds of ammunition?' What the hell am I supposed to do with a .357 Magnum and a pump shotgun? Donate it to the L.A.P.D.?” I ask desperately.

“I don't know. Call the police?”

I do and am surprised.
The L.A.P.D. gives me money for them, which I promptly donate to the Save Corki Brown Fund. Liam's not pleased with his stuff being sold, but given the alternative (his wife being pissed off), peace in the house seems to be a better offer. I sell my gun, too, as I don't think I'll be needing it anymore.

Lucy calls me again and again.

“I need you, honey. Bobby Sue isn't worth the birth certificate that was issued to her, and what am I supposed to do with this house? You and your sister did a beautiful job, but I need my stuff out of there before Tommy Ray gets back from shooting in Mexico. He'll be back in two weeks. Help! Forgive me please. I lost control. I know that and I promise it will never ever happen again. For God's sake, Corki, when I come home to L.A., I'll be homeless. I'm going to have to live at the Four Seasons, do you have no sympathy?”

Tommy Ray has Jolene
call and ask me for Luella.

“I want my back pay first,” I say.

“Are you holding his mother hostage? This is extortion, Corki.”

“Bug off! I've taken very good care of Luella. I even hand-carried her to Greece and back when he couldn't bother to show up for his own wedding. I could have left her in her urn on a cliff overlooking a volcano. I could have had my own little ceremony and spread her ashes out at sea, but I didn't do any of that. I brought her all the way back here and I expect to be paid what he owes me. Tell Harvey that I want the money in cash tomorrow morning because I'm leaving the country on Saturday. And if I don't have it, Luella, whom I've become quite fond of, is coming with me for a proper burial at sea.”

“Luella was terrified of the water!” Jolene says in a panic.

“Tomorrow morning then. In cash.”

I disconnect and wait.

Saturday morning is here.
I have sent the few possessions we want to arrive ahead of us by U.S. Postal Service. Blaise and I each have one large suitcase and a carry-on.

I hear a knock on the door and Shelly stands in the doorway.

“Ready, Freddy?”

“Ready!”

We haul our bags down and load one big one into the trunk and the rest into the back of her old broken-down convertible Mercedes. Blaise squeezes into the tiny bucket backseat next to the luggage.

Just as I go upstairs to lock up, a car screeches around the corner. Harvey pours out, in a huff, with an envelope in his hand. I can tell he's not used to being commanded to work on Saturday mornings. His pudgy face is unshaven and an aroma of coffee lingers on his breath.

“Here's your money. Count it, sign here”—he shoves a paper toward me—“and give me the urn.”

“Good morning to you, too, Harvey,” I say.

“Good morning. Sorry for the lack of civility, but I was told to deliver this to you on the double,” he says breathing heavily.

“Thank you, Harvey. I'm sorry Tommy Ray only came to his senses this late in the game and had to wake you up on a Saturday morning.”

I dig Luella out of my carry-on and hand her to him.

“Bye, Harvey! Bye, Luella! I'll miss you!”

I stand at the front door, sorting through my keys. I lock the door, but can't leave. I stand there for a long time.

Shelly toots the horn.

“C'mon, sister, the plane isn't going to wait,” she yells.

“I'm sorry,” I yell down. “I forgot one thing.”

I open the front door and come back in, get the key to the gas starter in the fireplace and light it. Flames jump up wildly in the brick encasing. I dig in my purse, gather all the sex pictures of Lucy, Tommy and the girls and toss them in one by one. I watch my ties to the past go up in flames and wait for them to disintegrate into dusty ashes, then turn the flames off.

I'm hopping down the front staircase, taking two stairs at a time, when my cell phone rings.

“Corki, it's Bob Caplan from the National—”

“I know where you're from, Bob.”

“The public is dying to hear the real story. It's over three weeks old. It's becoming yesterday's news. If you're going to change your mind, the time to act is now. What do you say, Corki? You want to tell what really happened? Warn others interested in becoming an assistant what it's really like? It could be like a public service announcement.”

I like his new spin.

“A PSA, huh?”

“Yeah.”

I'm silent for a moment as I negotiate my way through the gate and into Shelly's car.

“Call me in an hour,” I say. “I'll think about it.”