Deadly Dues (20 page)

First I had some minor business, as in my so-called career, to address. Mitzi had called with an audition for that afternoon. I told her about my black eye.

“Perfect,” she said, not missing a beat. “It's a commercial for the fight against domestic violence. Just try to look abused.”

“I am abused! Sherilyn Carp swung at me with a Kenneth Cole bag.”

“Which one?”

“Are you saying I am two-faced?”

“I mean the bag.”

“Mitzi! I didn't notice which edition! I have a black eye!”

The audition was the usual, the account executives grouped with the casting director, who today was Ramona. The usual handshakes, glance at the resumé and the photo, the obligatory videotaping. More handshakes, and goodbye. Ramona stopped me at the door, discreetly, her face a little concerned. Oh, dear. She's going to ask me about the black eye. I don't want to talk about it.

“Lu . . .” she paused delicately. “You did fine, but you went a little overboard with the makeup.” She gave my shoulder a reassuring pat and went back inside.

I stopped at Costco and bought a nice selection of facial masks, rubber gloves and protective clothing. I also purchased duck boots, aromatherapy smelling salts, anti-nausea tablets and some heavy-duty disinfectant wipes. I added garbage bags, breath mints and Irish Spring soap. There was a scary moment at the till when I thought my credit card might bounce, but after an interminable moment the cashier handed me the bill to sign, with what I interpreted as a strange look. Would I ever return to the days when every credit card transaction wasn't a source of extreme stress? I told myself that I needed this stuff as a professional expense. I think staying alive could definitely be categorized as a professional expense. Once this had occurred to me, I had thrown in a do-it-yourself will kit. You never know. And things weren't going so well for me at the moment.

I called Mitzi from my cell. She sounded distracted.

“How did the audition go?”

“Great. Ramona thought I looked perfect for the part.”

“Ramona loves you. Let's pray she lands a major feature.”

That would solve a few problems. A breakthrough role (oh, all right, maybe a second or third breakthrough role) in a huge feature would solve a lot of my problems, like income and career maintenance. I closed my eyes and tried to visualize this really, really clearly, then landed back in reality.

“Hey, Mitzi, want to go dumpster diving?”

I knew it was unlikely, but I wanted company, and Mitzi was usually game for anything.

There was a long pause.

“Lu,” she said slowly. “I know things are tough right now. I can lend you grocery money.”

“Oh, Mitzi, thanks, but it's not that—”

She started to warm up, much as an opera singer starts an aria slowly, then peaks.

“But it will never be that bad, Lu. Don't do it, Lu. Don't do it. You don't have to sink that low. Not that low, Lu. Not that low, Luuuuu!”

By this time she was hitting both ends of the vocal register. I had to stop her before she damaged my eardrum or broke my phone.

“Mitzi! Stop that! I'm looking for clues!”

Another pause.

But at least she was speaking normally now.

“In a dumpster? Clues for what?”

Oh, damn. I hadn't thought this through. I hadn't told Mitzi about Stan. All this violence was confusing me. What had I told her? Ah, right—Mr. Size Twenty—
whoops,
Zonko.

“The guy who tried to kill me kept asking me if I had something that Stan might have given me. I thought it might be in the dumpster behind the Arts Club.”

“When did you put it there?”

“Mitzi, are you in or out?”

“I am definitely not in the dumpster, but I'll meet you there for moral support.”

“I thought you might drive?” I asked hopefully.

“Lu, I love you. But if you are diving into a dumpster, you are so not getting into my car afterward.”

Right. Mitzi always told it the way it was.

• • •

Fifteen minutes later, I was at the Arts Club. At this time of day, it was deserted, thank goodness. The Arts Club didn't open until four o'clock, for pre-performance gossip and schmooze. I prayed that no street people had already rummaged through the dumpster in the past week. The dumpster was well inside the Arts Club parking lot and under a street light, so I might be in luck.

I pulled into the lane beside the club, then manoeuvred into the empty lot. The Sunfire chugged in protest when I turned off the engine. It probably guessed how I would smell when I got back in.

A dirty green fence backed the lot, which reassured me that I would be out of view as I embarked on my glamorous work.

I got out of the car and spread a plastic drycleaning bag on the driver's seat. Boy Scouts and Lulu: prepared. I had even found a pair of goggles that, although not flattering, completed the ensemble. I decided to add the
Oh, What a Lovely War!
helmet as a last minute embellishment. I was Ms. Rubber, Platex, Latex, Plastic, Anti-Bacterial and Heavy Metal, ready for Dumpster Diving.

Then there was the next, formidable step. Meaning I actually had to take a step, and then another, and then another, toward the dumpster.

For a moment, I had the disconcerting feeling that somebody was watching me. Of course, I was being paranoid. I was adorable, but not that adorable. Despite my fleeting fame, I had yet to attract a stalker. Zonko and the kid with the Crocs didn't count as stalkers. They were more in the potential murderer category.

It wasn't too big, as dumpsters go—not that I am a connoisseur of dumpsters. It was an oversized bin on wheels. Larger than a baby buggy. Smaller than a dump truck. Not as big as the one from which Stan's arm had dangled—
Lu, stop thinking about that!
—but still a substantial size, maybe the size of a small pickup truck. I could do this.

But I could smell it from where I was standing, having completed my first three steps. I pulled my mask on more tightly and pressed my goggles to my forehead.

Didn't I star in a commercial once, years ago, as Gertie the Cleaning Gal? I did a dynamite job, getting excited about diving into piles of filth on the set. Maybe I could get back into that mindset.
Go, Gertie, Go!
I remembered the cheers from the crew after my first dive. And also how nobody sat with me at coffee break afterwards.

I forced myself to take another step towards the dumpster.

It looked . . . full. It was overflowing, the way a kitchen garbage bin overflows—with tendrils and bags hanging over the edge—only more so. Much, much more so.

I couldn't smell it anymore because of the goggles and the mask, but I could guess.

I took another step.

I paused and sort of swayed, contemplating my life. I was the woman who had sat in the Polo Lounge, at Elaine's, at the Russian Tearoom, at high-end to-be-seen places across North America, and now I was no doubt not only in the bad books at McDonald's, my current employer—
I should have called to cancel my shift. Damn, where were my manners?
—and I was dumpster diving, and not for antiques and collectibles (which would be justifiable).

A car pulled up behind me. It was Mitzi in her Mercedes.

“Lu!” she shrieked, struggling out of the driver's seat. She was wearing a flowing navy blue caftan with tiny pink flowers embroidered throughout and navy patent spike heels that must have been at least three inches. Of course she was still barely five feet, even with all those accessories. Nevertheless, I was glad to see her.

“You shouldn't have come,” I said.
Liar.

She looked at me.

“Okay,” and she turned around and started back to her car.

“I was kidding,” I wailed. “Can't you tell when I am kidding?”

She looked me with a raised, impossibly tweezed and re-etched eyebrow. She wobbled on her heels, but her eyebrows told me she was hurt.

“I'm sorry,” I said. “I really would like some company here.”

The eyebrows went down and she relaxed.

“Okay, as long as I don't have to go in there with you.”

“No. But call Sanitation. Or the paramedics. Or maybe Dumpster Divers Anonymous—if I don't come out in a few minutes.”

Mitzi settled back into the driver's seat of the Mercedes and started to play with her BlackBerry. I had hoped she would strap herself to me with a rope when I went into the dumpster. No such luck. The BlackBerry is a wonderful invention but at this moment it was preventing people from connecting with other people on a real-life, immediate-need basis, such as being backup in dumpster diving.

I reminded myself of the time I had played an assistant private detective (in the days before
Darling, Detective
), the one who had to do the dirty work, in a low-budget film (trying to forget that I was knocked off in the first act and the lead actor spent the rest of the film trying to find my killer) and put my foot on the wheel of the dumpster. I hauled myself up and finally straddled the edge of the dumpster.

Oh, goodie. What a thrill to see the garbage of people's lives bare naked before you. I noticed a few credit card receipts.
Note to self: buy paper shredder.
I also saw at least sixteen tons of cholesterol in the discards of meals and tried to feel dispassionate, not barfy, about it. Then I ceased to be an observer and became a diver, goggles, gloves, boots and all.

When I resurfaced, I was carrying a nice early 1900s silver platter, half of an Occupied Japan cream and sugar, a pair of 1920s flapper shoes, a movie pass for two (good until next spring), a cigarette case with the Chicago World's Fair logo and a piece of tramp art (or maybe it was just some old bamboo). I pulled myself up and hung over the edge, gasping for air. I tossed my finds to Mitzi.

“Lu!” said Mitzi, grimacing as she dodged my treasures, letting them settle on the ground around her. At least she caught the cream and sugar. But the cigarette case now had one more dent in it.

“Are you all right?”

“Sure. Can I take your order? Do you want awful old food, awful old clothes, or just plain old offal?”

“Very funny. Did you find anything?”

“Maybe. Some home decor. But no suspicious hanky.”

I took another dive, going once again to the corner of the dumpster where I had (or thought I had) tossed Stan's hanky. And there it was. A sodden white wad in the corner, next to a McDonald's wrapper. (I felt a brief moment of nostalgia for McDonald's, who no doubt had me on their blacklist, by now). I stuffed the hanky into one of my boots, hoping it wouldn't give me a weird antibiotic-resistant disease, like Dumpster Flu.

I froglegged up the side, noting that all the rubber I was wearing was very handy, and gave me some unexpected grip, and hung over the top.

“Mitzi!”

She looked up from her BlackBerry, bored.

I lost my grip and her loud red curls disappeared from view as I slithered down the side again. Thank goodness I was wearing so much rubber and plastic and padding that it was like being on a fun ride at the fairground. I fought the queasiness in my stomach, reminding myself that eight-year-olds around the world loved these sensations and paid good money to get them.

I hauled myself back up, slipping and sliding on squishy garbage bags until the spongy bottoms of my boots sucked onto the side of the dumpster.
Damn, they were good.
Maybe I could start a business selling designer versions aimed at those who need extra grip in their step. And maybe eventually star in the commercials, which, by the time they got made, would place me in the appropriately geriatric age range. But what the heck, actors never retire—they just ask for fewer lines to memorize.

I finally got the upper half of my body sprawled across the rim and yelled again.

Mitzi snapped her BlackBerry shut and started tottering toward me. I lost my grip and half-fell, hooking my foot over the side, dangling gracefully for a moment, and then closed my eyes, let go and fell to the pavement. I landed on my back with a thunk, like a pumpkin falling from a truck. At least I didn't splatter into a zillion pieces. I was wearing so much plastic, rubber and padding that it didn't hurt. Not too much.

I raised myself up on my elbows, groaning, blowing a tendril of spaghetti from my face.

I expected some sort of support from Mitzi, but instead she ignored me. She was looking past my shoulder. Her eyes had glazed over. She was trembling. She looked as if she might keel over like a tree in the Great Northwest, an event that would register on the Richter scale. (Although she wasn't nearly as heavy as Zonko.)

I was terrified of what I might see behind me. I am susceptible to the images in horror films, and I was already imagining the ghost of Stan behind me, claws extended, Doggie Doggie Bow Wow food hanging from his mouth in little dollar-sign designs.

I slowly turned my head, despite the difficulty of doing so when encumbered with piles of plastic and layers of dumpster grunge on my person, and looked at whatever horrific and unexpected thing had silenced Mitzi.

It was a man. Obviously not real. He must have just stepped off the pages of
GQ
. He was standing by my car, at the entry to the back parking lot. He was tall, tanned, impossibly handsome and dressed in perfectly worn jeans and a leather jacket that probably cost more than half a year of my condo fees.

I grabbed the side of the dumpster and pulled myself to my feet. I tried not to squint as I looked him.
Note to self: see optometrist.

His hair was light brown, nicely layered. His face was strong, with a Mount Rushmore nose and a defined upper lip. Think Tom Berenger meets Richard Gere. Or maybe not.

I grabbed Mitzi for support. She recoiled and looked as if she were trying not to breathe (I didn't smell that bad, for pete's sake), without taking her eyes off the vision behind me.

“Hi, Louise,” he said. “I'm Hal. Hal Shapiro. I saw your Bow Wow licence plate, so I stopped to say hello. I've always wanted to meet a television star.”