Flavor of the Month (80 page)

It wasn’t good enough, so she got two trays of ice, threw the cubes into the sink, and swished it around with her hand. Lord, it was cold! But, though she hated to do it, another look at her face forced her to. Lord, she looked old—maybe thirty!

Her face pushed again into the ice water, she tried to distract herself from the thought of Flora Lee. Why did she have to be a drunk? Because she was one, and Sharleen knew it. If there was a single thing her daddy had learned her, it was all about drunks. Flora Lee had left them with her daddy, and she didn’t get no job to help them or try to find them. She just got herself drunk.

It hurt Sharleen right in her heart. And not only for herself but for Dean. Dean was Flora Lee’s baby, and sweet as sugar. How could she just up and leave him and never try to help him at all? And though he wasn’t so smart, Sharleen knew that Dean would wonder, too.

She pulled her face up out of the ice water. Then she remembered. For Lord’s sake, today she wasn’t shooting! Today was one of the few days she had off, but it was also the day she had to do that business for Dobe! Her face burned and tingled. All that ice water wasted!

With all the worries Sharleen had about her momma, the police, and the show, she had nearly forgotten about Dobe’s date for the Customs auction. It wasn’t easy to get time off when you were a TV star. Lucky it had come out this way. Sharleen told Dean not to tell anyone who called where she was going, just that she was going out.

She dressed quickly now. Her car and driver were right on time; it was only a green Plymouth sedan, not a limousine, and she’d ordered it not from the studio but from the car service that drove her cleaning ladies home. She looked at herself in the hall mirror before going out the kitchen door. Everything was right, she thought. The long black wig under the floral-print kerchief tied under her chin, the oversized Jackie O. sunglasses, the plain, tattered trench coat she had borrowed from Mai in Wardrobe covering the two bulky sweaters to make her look fat, along with a pair of baggy slacks of Dean’s. Just right. Not even he would recognize her.

“Federal Building,” she said to the driver when she got in. She noticed him glancing in the rearview mirror. She read the address off the paper Dobe had sent her.

“Do you work for her?” the driver asked as they drove away.

“Who?” His question had taken Sharleen by surprise.

“Sharleen Smith. That’s her house you came out of right? What’s she like?”

Sharleen relaxed a little, then smiled to herself. “Yes, I do. She’s a right nice person.” Well, that was all true. Lord, she told God. I do work for myself—and Dean, and now maybe Momma—and I am right nice. But, she realized, she hadn’t disguised her voice, so she’d better shut up. She didn’t know who might be watchin’ her or followin’. She just prayed Dobe wasn’t sending her into trouble.

Because now it wasn’t just Dean, it was her momma who needed her, too, at least for a while. Sharleen had already given her money to move, and money to register in hairdressers’ school, and some more money for some nice clothes. She couldn’t afford to get in trouble over this Dobe business.

At the Federal Building, Sharleen followed the directions to the auction room the man at the front desk had mumbled to her without giving her a second glance. A quick look around the spacious lobby told her there were no reporters, something she had come to expect whenever she left the house. Her disguise had worked.

She walked into the crowded auction room, and was suddenly caught up in the commotion and din. She registered under a fake name at the desk, just as Dobe had told her to, although Sharleen wasn’t sure if that was legal or not. The woman handed her a sheet of paper with instructions on how to bid, and a catalogue with descriptions of the lots. “Lots,” Sharleen thought, confusedly, were property. Dobe had wanted her to buy him property, hadn’t he? Sharleen found a seat in the last row and waited for the right number to be called, then flipped through the booklet, looking for Lot 604. She had to know what she was getting into.

As she skimmed through the pages of the inch-thick catalogue, she felt her heart racing. What was she bidding on? It wasn’t land. They called everything “lots.” But here was all kinds of stuff being sold.

Maybe she was bidding on something illegal. She liked Dobe, but she knew he wasn’t completely honest in business. Still, Sharleen trusted Dobe, she really did. If he said there was nothing for her to worry about, she believed him. But Dobe was nervy, she knew that.

Drugs? No, not Dobe. He was a good Christian, he’d never do that. But what? And was it illegal? Oh, Lord, she prayed, I hope not. Sweat broke out on her forehead and upper lip. She hadn’t really stopped to think this all out before she left the house.

Could I be arrested? Sharleen thought, glancing at the uniformed security guards stationed around the auditorium. That would be terrible. They’d find out about Texas, about Dean and her. About their daddy. Panic began to well up in her throat, so she said the Lord’s Prayer, as she did whenever she was frightened. Then Psalm 23 for good measure, and, with a deep sigh of resignation, she returned to the catalogue.

She hadn’t yet found the lot description in the booklet when she heard the auctioneer call out “Lot Number 604,” and ask for an opening bid of one hundred dollars. Sharleen froze in her seat. She didn’t know what to do, so did nothing, since Dobe had said she probably wouldn’t have to pay more than seventy-five dollars.

When there were no bids from the floor, Sharleen heard the auctioneer drop the opening bid to fifty dollars. Well, she’d done the right thing. She felt her palm wet and hot on the handle of the paddle. This was when she was supposed to raise it, she knew, but the pounding of her heart was making her breathe too fast. She felt dizzy. The security men around the room scanned the seats. Sharleen pulled the kerchief forward on her face and raised the paddle in the air, then quickly pulled it back down.

The auctioneer nodded in her direction and took her bid, but then he didn’t seem to stop talking. He kept droning on, and Sharleen grew panicky. Torn between the fear of being pounced on by the guards or the police, and the need to get the bid in for Dobe, Sharleen felt her shakes increasing. If there’s dope in them packages, Dobe Samuels, and I go to prison, I’m goin’ be mighty mad. Here goes, she thought. Sharleen raised her paddle again.

“Sold! Lot Number 604 for sixty dollars to Bidder 123.”

Sharleen looked at her paddle number, just to be sure, then looked cautiously around the room. That was her number, all right. But no one was paying her any attention. The auctioneer was already going on to another lot. She took a few minutes to calm down, then stood up gingerly and walked back to the payment desk. She handed the bored-looking woman the money, got the receipt and instructions on when to pick up the lot, and where.

As she walked away from the desk, she tensed, waiting for a voice to scream out behind her, but none did. She got into a waiting elevator, and as the doors closed after her, she took her first breath in what felt like hours. She looked at the receipt for her purchase, which she still grasped in her hand, read the description of what she had just bought for Dobe, and gasped.

Why would anyone in their right mind buy 837 shoes—all for left feet only?

Neil Morelli dropped his fare in the box and walked down the aisle of the bus as it lurched into the traffic. He took the only single seat available, relieved that he didn’t have to stand all the way to the garage. Either a seat alone or stand—that’s the way it had to be for Neil. The thought of touching elbows or shoulders with these other people could make him gag right now. He screwed up his long, long nose at the odor. Neil had forgotten that people who rode buses and subways smelled. When he’d left New York, he’d thought he would never be riding public transportation again.

But that was then. Now, since the dynasty-bitch got him kicked off his gig on
Three for the Road
—his last hope—Neil was back riding buses. And
driving
cabs, not taking them.

It wasn’t even limos, with maybe some hotshot sitting back there, waiting to discover talent, someone who could give him a boost, someone who would take Neil’s résumé and head shot and maybe—just
maybe
—give him another chance. No, Neil was reduced to pushing cabs around the streets of Los Angeles. Okay, at least it was dispatch cabs, not cruising for fares. But, still, most of his work was hustling Vietnamese home after their office-cleaning jobs were finished for the night. The companies paid the tab. Or picking up a guy too drunk to drive himself.

And lots of runs to East Los Angeles, where Neil had to keep his eyes open, be on the lookout every minute he was on those streets. He never knew where it was going to come from. He hadn’t been held up yet, but the other guys in the garage—mostly Mexicans and Iranians—had warned him to be careful. Told him horror stories of how they had been ripped off for a couple of bucks and a pack of cigarettes. How a couple of the guys had resisted and were shot—in the head.

Neil took those stories seriously. He knew how dangerous the town could be. Even where he had spent most of his time since coming to the city, he knew how you could be robbed and no one would come to help. Robbed of your dignity, have your job stolen from you. Your livelihood. These wetbacks weren’t telling Neil something he didn’t know.

He thought again of how Sy Ortis had betrayed him, of how Lila Kyle had ruined his last shot, a good shot, at getting a continuing part on
3/4
. No, the cabbies couldn’t tell him anything about getting ripped off that he didn’t already know about.

But they did tell him something he hadn’t thought of. Since the riots, all those guys had access to guns—handguns, rifles, whatever. And some of them carried while driving. Neil didn’t like the idea of carrying a gun, but he had begun to think about it.

And the more Neil thought about guns, the safer he began to feel. He reminded himself to ask Roger about that tonight.
If
Roger got in contact with him.

The trip to the garage was only a little more than ten miles, but with waiting time it took almost an hour, on the slowest bus system in the country. Why should it be efficient? It was only for the illegals, and the other poor. The people who worked for hourly wages if they were lucky to work at all. Neil looked around at the fat women and shifty-eyed men. No one was happy to be here, Neil could see. So how bad must it have been where they came from?

Living hell, he thought. He felt for them, but he had his own problems. And one of them was now approaching. His stop came, and he got out of the bus to walk the three long blocks to the garage, where he had a twelve-hour shift coming up. He’d worked for the last three nights without one word from Roger. After his initial contact, Roger had stopped calling. Neil wasn’t sure why. He knew why Roger had started to call him, but now he couldn’t understand why he had stopped. Two nights in a row, he’d gotten Roger’s messages, coming in over the dispatch radio in Roger’s best newscaster voice.

Of course, at first Neil had been surprised. He didn’t think Roger Mudd even knew who he was. But Neil guessed Roger had heard how Neil had respected the man, how he’d handled his career and all. And when Roger had radioed him privately, coming through on Neil’s own radio that night, and told Neil not to get down on himself, that he, Roger Mudd, was going to contact Neil again, and tell him how to handle this mess, how to get out of it, Neil began to feel better.

So Neil waited. He
knew
Roger was going to call again. He just knew it. But he was afraid. Because, without Roger, he didn’t know how he’d get along. Then it hit him. Maybe, Neil thought, maybe Roger meant
I
should radio
him
. Neil stopped on the sidewalk. He thought about that for a minute, then continued to walk toward the garage, now looming in the darkness at the corner.

But how do I get him? I don’t know how. Neil decided that he could figure it out. There had to be a way. After all, Roger Mudd had found
him
.

The cab smelled of some goddamn foreign food, not Mexican or anything from the Western Hemisphere. This smell came from like out of a desert tent, like rancid cabbage cooked over camel dung. Neil wondered how these fucking Arabs were able to get camel dung in this country. Maybe way down in the San Diego Zoo? I’d walk a mile for a camel turd.

He rolled down the window, trying to get some air circulating in the car, but he knew from other nights that the smell was here to stay. It gets in the fucking vinyl and wraps itself around the vinyl molecules, and combines with them, becomes a new substance, a new chemical. One that would never go away. Like the smell of dog shit on the bottom of a shoe. Once you know you’ve stepped in dog shit, you always smell it whenever you wear those shoes again, no matter how you cleaned them.

Fucking Iranians. They should stick to international terrorism. They’re better at that than cooking, for chrissakes.

His dispatch radio scratched into voice, startling Neil. He reached for the volume button as he rolled along Santa Monica Boulevard, adjusting it to a bearable level. The guy that was driving the car just before Neil must have been deaf. Or had his burnoose tied too tight.

Neil radioed in his position, then pulled into Century City, where he was supposed to sit and wait for his first call. He waited and waited. He turned off the engine, then put his head back. It was going to be a long, slow night, Neil decided. There hadn’t been one call since he got in, except for the location call. And Neil was tenth on line. He would have been twenty-second, but he had figured out the scam. If he paid off the dispatcher, he got moved up. So he had, but, still, he only had number ten. The fucking Iranians must have dropped a lot of rials tonight, to get so far ahead of Neil. Dollars aren’t what they used to be.

He wasn’t sleeping, Neil knew that. He had his eyes closed, and his chin had dropped to his chest. There was a short rivulet of drool out of the corner of his mouth. But he hadn’t fallen asleep. The voice from the radio was familiar.