Chore Whore (17 page)

After dinner,
while Blaise writes a report, I finish my grocery-shopping list for Roberto. I then go into my bedroom and shut the door. In my closet, I open the fireproof safe I bought after my disastrous trip to the bank and take out all the contents: the duplicate pictures I had made of Lucy and her sex gang, my .38 Rossi revolver, my wedding ring, our passports, my last five hundred dollars in savings, checkbooks, petty cash for all my clients, my credit cards and, finally, Tommy Ray's mama. Here I have his mother in my closet and I don't even know her name.

I sit on the floor unexpectedly overwhelmed. I can't believe that I took a copy of the pictures just in case. Just in case of what? I feel ashamed of myself. Lucy trusted me to do this job. Slamming the safe door shut and spinning the dial on the lock, I get up.

The phone rings and I run into the living room to answer it.

“Hello.”

“Corki, it's Lucy. I just wanted to make sure everything went okay with the pictures,” she says with thinly veiled fear in her voice.

“Yeah, but it was really late by the time he got through printing them. I'll drop them off first thing in the morning. Eight-thirty okay?”

“Yeah, that's fine. But you know what? Put them on the top shelf of the foyer closet. I wouldn't want Alejandra to accidentally see them. She comes really early tomorrow,” she says.

“Lucy, I have a question.”

“Sure, honey, what is it?”

I want to ask her if I'm about to lose my job to a couple of flavor-of-the-week sex birds, but I choke.

“What is Tommy Ray's mama's name? Since she's here, I'd like to know.”

“Of course you would, honey. Hold on,” she says. She yells out, “Tommy, what was your mama's name?”

“Who the hell wants to know?” I hear him yell back.

“Just Corki, honey. She's keeping your mama safe and sound, and she wants to know her name,” Lucy says in her newly adopted Southern accent.

There are muffled sounds on the other side of the phone line. Tommy Ray picks up. His words are slurred.

“Sorry about that. I think it's real kindly of you to be lookin' after my mama the way you are. Her name is . . . shit, was Luella May Woods,” he says.

“Did she like to be called Luella or Luella May?” I ask.

“Why the fuck you wanna know, girl? You talk to dead people?” he asks hazily.

“Yeah! Especially if they're sitting in my closet. Sometimes they talk back to me,” I joke, but in a serious tone.

Tommy Ray drops the phone and starts screaming at Lucy.

“That Corki is one weird-ass chick. She's some kinda voodoo queen or something. I don't like no voodoo. That kind of shit freaks me out.”

Lucy comes back on the line.

“Corki, just ignore him,” she whispers. “When you come here tomorrow morning, I want you to clean out the wine cellar. I want all of it out of this house and I never want to see it again. Clean it out, everything!”

“What do you want me to do with it?”

“Consider it an early birthday present. Happy birthday! Crack open a Dom and celebrate your fortieth in style. Tommy Ray doesn't know it, but we have an intervention planned for him tomorrow night. So make sure you don't need to come by here after three o'clock,” Lucy whispers.

First she wants to get him off pork and now liquor. I can hear my mom's sage advice, “Don't go into a relationship thinking you're going to change a man.”

Amen, Mama.

Before Tommy Ray
and Lucy wake up, I deposit the photographs in the foyer closet and quietly haul away all the liquid in the house stronger than NyQuil: seven bottles of Dom Pérignon champagne, thirty-three bottles of various wines, six after-dinner liqueurs, one unopened bottle of Remy Martin Louis XIII and the half-empty one from a couple of weeks back, as well as nineteen bottles of various hard liquors—tequilas, rums, vodkas, etc. I drive directly home, haul the boxes upstairs and shove them in the corner.

Driving to Jock's house
to start the work he assigned me in his last message, I have just enough time to fit it all in before the painters arrive and I go do my grocery shop for Count Roberto. Shelly promised to take all the kids to a five o'clock movie so I can prepare for my early dinner date with Officer Holt.

I let myself into Jock's house, go to the kitchen and turn off the pool and hot tub heater. Next, I go to move the boxes from his bedroom to the range. I walk to the back of the house and into his dim, secluded bedroom. I can't believe what I see.

The boxes are ripped to shreds and their contents dumped and thrown all over his room. Stacks of CDs, cassette tapes, videos and scripts are torn apart and strewn everywhere. The tops of the boxes are so violently ripped open that half the cardboard still sticks to the tape. Jock's clothes are scattered on the floor along with a few photos of his sisters and brothers. The sheets have been torn off the bed and the pillows taken out of their cases. Everything in the room is covered with a thick layer of goose down that resembles snow.

I walk cautiously through the rest of the house. Nothing else has been disturbed. I go to Jock's walk-in closet and go through his bureau. I look in his sock drawer where he keeps wads of hundred-dollar bills rolled in pairs of socks. All eighteen Ben Franklins are exactly where he left them. He even has one Grover Cleveland one-thousand-dollar bill he keeps inside the lining of a ski hat, and it's still there. I reroll his socks in the particular way he likes them and put them back in the exact order.

I go back to his bedroom, sit down on the mattress that is now half off the bed frame and dial Squid's number. The secretary at Film Industry Entertainment puts me on hold, despite my telling her that it's an emergency. Eventually, I get Squid on the line.

“Hey, this is Corki—”

“What's wrong?” he interrupts. “What's the emergency? I was in the middle of an interview,” he says, not quite as agreeable as the last time we spoke.

“Well, if you'd let me finish my sentence, I'll tell you! I need Jock's world cell phone number immediately. Something terrible has happened at his house, and I need to speak to him.”

“Aren't you his assistant?” he says, irritated. “Isn't that what you're paid to do? Take care of disasters without having to bother your client?” he asks, getting testier and nastier as he speaks.

“Well, I guess you would know, Squid, since you're a peon assistant just like me. When I do eventually speak with Jock, I'll make sure to tell him that the reason I couldn't reach him sooner was you and your pissy attitude. For your information, not that it's any of your business, someone has ransacked his house. Now, give me his goddamned world cell number!”

The line is silent. While I try to decide whether he's hung up or not, I say a prayer to ask forgiveness for taking God's name in vain.

After what seems like an eternity, Squid gets back on the line. He rattles off the number sans the 011 for international and the 33 country code for France. I try to recover a little dignity and say “Thank you,” but he has already hung up.

I call Jock immediately. Thankfully he answers.

“Jock, it's me, Corki. I came to your house to take the boxes down to the range and someone has ransacked your bedroom.”

“What the hell's that supposed to mean?” he asks.

“Every box is torn apart, your bed is ripped apart, your pillows have been shredded, there are feathers everywhere. There are CDs, DVDs and videos thrown helter-skelter. Your books even have pages torn from them. Pictures of your family are thrown around, with the glass smashed in the frames,” I say in a rushed panic.

“Oh God. Oh God,” he says.

“Should I call the police or what? What do you want me to do?”

“Hell no, don't call the police. Listen to me, Corki. I'm going to guide you through what to do and you need to take care of this, not the police, not a detective, no one else. Take the phone with you and go into my bathroom and open the cabinet. The one next to the fireplace,” he demands.

He waits for me.

“Okay, I'm here,” I say.

“Now remove all the lotions and everything. When all that stuff is gone, you'll find a safe. Do you see it?” he asks.

“Yeah, it looks like the one I just bought,” I say.

“Good, then you'll know what to do. Now, go to my dressing room, the walk-in closet off the bathroom, turn left, and open the top drawer on the right side. In there you should see my yarmulke and tallis bag.”

I dig through some other stuff, his tefillin, his siddur prayer book, the Zohar, a book on the teachings of the Kabbalah and his Bible.

“It's a little bag with embroidery on it,” he says. “It's purple velvet and has a zipper and it's where I keep my prayer shawl,” he adds.

“I know what a tallis bag is, I just don't see it. Wait a minute, yes I do. I got it,” I say.

“Okay, open it and unfold the shawl and inside you'll find a key that will open the first part of the safe,” he tells me, calming.

I return to the safe, insert the key and a button pops out.

“I got it open, now all I need is the code.”

“Here it is. Point the dial to zero. Then turn the dial to the left passing zero at least three times. I do it four. Then stop at number twenty-four. Then turn the dial to the right and stop the second time you get to the number thirteen. Finally, turn the dial to the left and the first time you get to the number seventy-nine, stop. It should open,” he says.

I can tell he is holding his breath.

“Voilà! It's open.” I see a recording device.

“Now, Corki, listen! Flip down the black panel, push the rewind button and when you see who did this on the screen, push play.”

I do as he says and see myself discovering the mess in his bedroom in reverse order. Dear God, who knew he was recording my every move?

“God, Jock, do you record what goes on in every room?” I ask.

“That's none of your business, but yes, I do. I know when you look through my drawers, but I also know that nothing has ever been taken. You just like to snoop,” he says.

“I snoop with good reason. You lost your passport three hours before you were to go . . . Oh, wait, here it is. Hold on. Let me just rewind a little more,” I say.

“Oh shit, Jock!”

“Don't ‘oh shit' me. Who is it?” he demands.

“Who are they? Oh no. I can't believe it. It's all three of Concepcion's boys. Hubert's the one tearing stuff up, though.” I watch the playback video of him stabbing the pillows and ripping the custom-made French mattress to shreds with a butcher knife.

“Jock, they're going through all your stuff very carefully, especially the DVDs and CDs. One at a time. And that's what they leave with, either a bunch of CDs or DVDs, I can't tell,” I confess. “That's it. The next person coming in is me. What do you want me to do? I mean, we have it on tape, why don't we call the police?” I ask.

“Corki, stop being so fucking naive. The first thing I want you to do is change the locks to the house, the guesthouse and the gates. Change the entry codes and delete all abort codes except for yours and mine. Alarm the house every moment—even when you're there. I want you to cancel any and everybody who is due to come to the house—the painters, everyone. Call Jerald Crest and tell him not to pay Concepcion one fucking red penny. I want her ass fired and then I want you to call those son-of-a-bitch kids of hers and get my stuff back,” he demands.

“Me? Are you crazy? People end up buried in concrete for less than this. Concepcion's ‘kids' are eighteen years old—they're men, Jock. I have a little boy. I'm not going to risk my life for a couple of CDs. Aren't there professional henchmen that do this kind of thing?” I feel panic rise in my chest.

“My entire career is on the line, Corki. I don't need a goddamned ‘henchman,' I need you to make one call. Politely ask for the DVDs back. Ask what they want and tell me,” his voice is firm, but tense with concern.

“Jock, I want to know what's on the DVDs.”

“You snoop so much I'm surprised you don't already know,” he retorts.

“Well, pardon me, but I don't. And if your entire career is on the line, if it's something that big, then it is my business. You're asking me to put my life on the line!”

He's silent, so I continue.

“You hired me to be your personal assistant—to do your grocery shopping and take your clothes to be cleaned. I don't need to get involved with stuff like this. Concepcion's boys know where I live. You don't pay me enough to get caught up in some weird shit like this. This whole thing scares me.”

“I'll give you a raise. Is that what you want? A bullshit raise?” Jock asks.

“Well, now that you mention it, I certainly am due one. And not like the last one where you gave me a two-dollar-an-hour raise and then took half my work away and gave it to your sister. I don't need that kind of raise,” I say, indignant.

“So, that's what this is all about? Money? Now you're into extortion, are you?” he asks, accusingly.

I try to calm myself by breathing deeply.

It's not working.

“Extortion? Jock, I've lied for you, pirated copies of movies for you, even signed passport papers for you—thus committing a federal crime. I've been nothing but loyal and you have the audacity to suggest I'm extorting you? I've blown right past every moral I hold dear to make sure your life runs smoothly. Well, I'll tell you what. I quit!”

I slam down the phone and burst out crying, which really pisses me off because I'm ruining my mascara. After I use thirteen of Jock's bedside tissues and calm down enough to stop, I go to his bathroom, get out some cotton swabs and try to do a quick face repair. In the middle of reapplying my makeup and fixing my hair, my cell phone rings. It's Shelly.

“Hey, sistah, have you heard about the job yet?”

“What job?” I ask, trying not to snivel.

“Hello! The Jennifer job!”

“No, but they said they were going to be interviewing throughout the week,” I say weakly.

“Girl, you been crying?” she asks softly.

“Yeah. I just quit my job with Jock.”

“Well, why aren't you jumping with joy? He's never treated you as you deserve to be treated.”

“I know, but I've never been accused of what he just accused me of,” I say, still wiping my eyes. “I've got my date at five-thirty and it's going to take me at least that long to get this room back in order before I leave to grocery shop for Roberto.”

“Forever the loyal assistant. You quit the job but have to get stuff in order before you go. Let the housekeeper do it.”

“Yeah, well, that's a problem all by itself. I'll fill you in later,” I say.

“That's cool. You know where we'll be. I'm going to take the kids to the theater at the Grove. We should be out by eight. Should we meet at your place at eight-thirty?”

“Yeah, that'd be perfect. I really appreciate you watching Blaise after what he did at your house. At least at the movies he's contained.”

I'm too old
for dating if the date goes past eight
P.M
. Shelly and I sit out on my apartment balcony with Blaise's telescope scanning the night sky. It's eleven o'clock on a Friday night and I'm starting to fade rapidly. Shelly's running out of fuel, too, but the kids seem to be getting their second wind. Eden, Star and Blaise sit on the living room floor creating a four-foot-by-six-foot scene of an underwater coral reef for their group project on the environment. They have encyclopedias and oceanography books around them to help them identify sea life and what function each form plays in the undersea ecosystem. All this is preparatory work for their upcoming trip to the Long Beach Aquarium.

Shelly and I star search and drink caramel tea from Mariage Frères, my favorite maison de thé à Paris. I brought back so many canisters of tea from Paris, I was stopped in customs. They thought no one could love tea that much.

“So, why was your date so bad?” she asks.

“Well, you know, maybe my values are from a different era, but I was under the impression that a man invites a lady on a date so they can both to get to know each other. Officer Holt was under the impression that after dinner he would enjoy me as dessert. I told him that wasn't going to happen. Then, when the bill came, he made sure he only paid his half.”