Chore Whore (20 page)

“Miss Corki!”
I hear on my answering machine. “It's Mrs. Shay Goode!”

Shay, Jock's financial account manager for the last seven years, calls from Maginniss, Crest and O'Leary, the business office that manages the money for Hollywood's biggest movie stars. M.C.O. sits on Ocean Walk in Venice Beach. Its serious business image is slightly eroded by the tracks of sand leading up to the front door, an ocean breeze coming in through open windows that constantly blows papers off the desks, and an outdoor shower utilized by employees who surf or swim on their lunch break. M.C.O. is also the only accounting firm I know, and I'm familiar with many, that employs forty-four women, of whom thirty-eight are black. Around town this is seen as a particularly smart hiring strategy because when the partners fire someone, it can never be attributed to color. When I hear that there are never enough blacks behind the scenes of the film industry, I want to dump that person at the entrance of M.C.O. These women manage the hundreds of millions of dollars their stars earn.

I pick up the phone.

“Top of the morning to you, Mrs. Goode. To what fortune do I owe your call?”

“Oh, brother. You need to come into the office. I have a package for you. ASAP.”

“What is it?”

“Come in and you'll see.”

I shower quickly, get dressed and get on the 10 freeway head-ing west to Venice Beach. Finding street parking immediately and giving a nod to the parking gods, I get buzzed into the office of M.C.O.

“Haven't seen you in a long time!” says Yvonne, queen of the front office. A grandmother at forty-two, she keeps the office workers on a tight leash, but still remains well liked. She's been with M.C.O. since its conception.

“Same here!” Shay announces as she walks into the reception area. “Come on back here and see my new office,” she says, leading the way.

Her new office is much nicer than the last one. The top half of one wall overlooks the sea. “Hey, hey, looks like you've moved up in the pecking order.”

“So have you, apparently,” she says.

“No. My whole career is falling apart before my eyes and I'm hustling to get some semblance of order back to it.”

“I might be able to help some with that.”

“Got a new client for me?” I ask.

“Nope, better than that.”

“All right. Give it up.”

Shay unlocks her drawer and spreads a fan of one-hundred-dollar bills on the table.

“Damn, Shay, you're loaded!”

“No, you are. There are sixty of them and it's been requested that you count it, then sign right here saying that you've received the money,” she says as she pushes a form toward me.

“Stop messing with me,” I declare, praying she's not.

“This is for you, too. We received an early-morning FedEx and explicit instructions from Jock to give this to you along with the six thousand dollars in cash.” She hands me a sealed, taped manila envelope. On the outside, in Jock's handwriting, is printed
OPEN IN PRIVATE
.

“So, tell me, Mrs. Corki, what did you do to deserve this?”

“I quit.”

“You quit? So, I've been using the wrong tactics all this time by staying?”

“I'm serious. I quit and I hung up on him.”

Shay raises her eyebrows. “Anything else you'd like to tell me?”

“Yeah. I have to go to the bathroom. I'll count the money when I come back.”

I walk down the hallway with the envelope stuffed under my arm. I enter a stall, close the door and lean down to check to see if there's anyone else in here with me.

I open the envelope carefully and read the note written in Jock's handwriting.

Corki,

Please accept the $6,000 Shay will be giving you as a token of my appreciation. I talked to Jerald and he pointed out I have not given you a Christmas bonus or birthday present for six years.

This is in no way an attempt to persuade you to help me, but if you feel so inclined . . .

Jock

Shay sits at her desk waiting for me. “Ready?”

“Yep!” I count the money, sign the paper and stuff the cash and note deep into my purse.

“Shay, thank you.”

Finally, I have some work.
Maybe suffering from an ounce of guilt, Lucy has loaned me out to two celebrities. This week I work for Meg Ryan while her assistant, Leslie, is on holiday in the South of France. It's only seven days, but I'm thrilled. I clean out Meg's spare garage and take her drapes to be cleaned and packed for storage. Also, I oversee the plumber who's come to fix the sewer line for the guesthouse and I help her housekeeper, Eva, figure out a dinner menu. Calling my favorite company, Dave the Window Washer, I schedule them to come clean the panes throughout the house.

The next week, I work for actress Rebecca DeMornay, while her assistant, Charlotte Pepper, is off for a week in—of all places—Antigua. A sudden rush of sorrowful feelings for my lost husband surprises me. I quickly squelch the thoughts of loss and get to work.

Rebecca is a personal assistant's dream come true. She writes out clear instructions and thanks me profusely for everything. We get along so well I find myself dreaming that Charlotte will fall in love in Antigua, the way I did, and I could be a permanent replacement.

During the week I do the usual: grocery shop, drop off the dry cleaning, take her golden retriever in for a “fluff and fold” and nail clip at the groomers, then to the vet for a “forty-thousand-mile checkup.” I finish the week having obtained one cool peacoat that Rebecca never wears and an application for a 529 plan for Blaise's college education.

I also take Rebecca's Volvo in for service.

Volvo is the car of choice amongst stars, especially stars who are new parents. They cost a pretty penny but not as much as some other cars, so no one can call a Volvo driver ostentatious. In L.A., they are also often outfitted with Yakima or Thule-brand bike racks, roof racks and bumper racks. Liam Schwartz once asked me if perchance Yakima made a shotgun rack for his Volvo. I was politely informed they do not.

I sit out on my
balcony with a cup of coffee and my neighbor's plundered newspaper. After two weeks of being deliriously happy with Meg and Rebecca, by week three I'm jobless again. My funds are all but gone and I only have those nagging porn pictures in my safe to keep my hope of survival alive. How long will I have to suffer financially before I cave in? I am clueless as to whether Lucy and Tommy got the house. I have no idea if Jock received my thank-you note and acceptance of the mission at hand. I haven't heard from Esther and Liam, and Veronique must be on a “tour of love,” because she has slipped out of sight.

I hate the thought
of Jock being lily-livered and just giving Hubert the cash. I'm not sure why I didn't think of it before, but there just might have been enough cameras and tape recordings playing to beat Hubert at his own game.

I make a mad dash to Jock's house and gather tapes and DVDs from the surveillance system, Jock's bedroom safe/camera and the camera/video recorder in the range. After obtaining the list of numbers dialed from the fax machine, I make a quick call to a security specialist who works specifically with celebrities and politicians.

With all my heart, I know that Hubert has every intention of selling the DVD of Jock and Tree out to the media. I don't care what he promises to sign, he's the one triplet of Concepcion's who has always wanted to screw folks over and make a quick buck. Even when he was younger, he would quickly disregard someone if it meant gaining something for himself. Not lacking in intelligence, he constantly talks about how he's going to make his first million, and this hundred thou will be his grand start.

Before heading home, I cruise down Sunset Boulevard and stop at a spy equipment shop and am instantly transported back in time.

After UCLA, when I was still youthful and full of worldly ambition, I filled out applications for the CIA. They were very interested when they learned I had taught myself Greek, French and Italian through tapes borrowed from the Beverly Hills public library, as I had once dreamed about a job in the Secret Service or in overseas espionage work. I'd seen way too many episodes of Mission Impossible and had formed romantic notions of what it would be like to live abroad looking over my shoulder at all times. The crick in my neck would mean nothing—I would be an international spy. Music from spy-themed movies would be pumped over invisible speakers and I would wear black turtlenecks with a mysterious medallion hanging around my neck that established me as a member of a secret sorority organization of female CIA agents.

I watch the geeky, techie-looking guy working behind the counter. He looks like a two-year, prepaid subscriber to Wired magazine.

“Sir?” I call out.

“Yes, ma'am, can I help you?”

After I describe what I want, he brings out a $795 pen that records audio and has video capabilities, too. He waxes on about its lovely features. Then he shows me how easy it is to use and how stylish and sexy it is as a writing implement. I haven't exactly cleared this purchase with Jock, but have decided that under these conditions it will save him money in the long run and that it will most certainly be a tax write-off. Paying for the pen with the remaining petty cash, feeling smart and, I must admit, sexy, I leave the shop.

A friend of mine
is a production editor and he agrees to help me with my Hubert video. He'll put everything I need on DVD and will lend me his portable, battery-operated DVD player. I finally feel ready to meet Hubert on my playing field, having the home team advantage . . . if he'd hurry up and call.

I'm on my way home when my cell phone rings.

“Mrs. Brown?”

It's Principal Davidson. I haven't spoken to him in so long, I was hoping I never would again.

“Yes?” I say tentatively.

“I have Blaise in my office.”

His voice is straining against rage. Whatever happened, it's big trouble, I can tell.

“It seems, Mrs. Brown, that your son was testing the hypothesis that flatulence is truly a gas.”

“Oh no!”

“It is a gas, so your son found out. His classmate is being treated right now for first-degree burns to his buttocks and groin region. I ask that you come in immediately and pick up your son. He is being suspended for a week.”

I hang up the phone, do an illegal U-turn on Sunset Boulevard and head out to Santa Monica.

The beginning of the ride
home is quiet. I don't know where to start with Blaise, and until I cool down, I wouldn't know where to stop. I breathe deeply and try to remember that he's only ten, in an Advanced Placement chemistry class with seventeen-year-olds readying themselves for college.

“It was just an experiment, Mom. And I proved my hypothesis. I thought you'd be proud.”

“Proud? You damn near burn a boy's testicles off and you want me to be proud? Try horrified. That's what I am, Blaise, I'm horrified.”

“But he said he could fart on command! He swallowed a bunch of air and could really do it. He volunteered, Mom. He backed right up to the Bunsen burner.”

“God, Blaise, don't you feel any remorse?”

“Mom, I'm not a psychopath! Of course I feel bad. I mean, I thought the gas would evaporate before it reached the Bunsen burner, so that part of my theory was wrong.”

I'm losing it.

“Blaise! Think about the poor kid who got burned, not about whether your theory was right or not!”

We fall into silence.

Finally, Blaise breaks the hush.

“That kid called me a ‘statistic.' ”

“Why?”

“Because you're a single mom.”

“I am not a single mom,” I say indignantly. “I am a married woman.”

“Come on, Mom. You were married for three days almost eleven years ago. You were scammed. This whole marriage thing is a farce—it's like a charade you keep playing.”

“You should have told that boy that you had a father and he died in a boating accident.”

“Did he?” Blaise asks.

I refuse to lie.

“I don't know,” I say quietly.

“I hope he did.”

“How can you say something like that about your own father?”

“It's better than thinking he just doesn't care.”

While Blaise starts
on a week's worth of Algebra II assignments that night, I listen to my messages.

Lucy calls to tell me that she has been cast in a fantastic historical epic with the part of the queen. She'll be in Vancouver for the next two months, and Tommy's gone, so she'd like to speak to me about moving. She also wants to know if I've seen the house. The next call is my car-loan company demanding my payment that they hope I've mailed out because the next one is due and once you get into the habit of letting things like this slip they tend to continue. Next is Fabrizio, a service technician at the Italian Stallion Ferrari place. Lucy's windshield has been replaced; however, broken glass tore holes in the leather headrests and they should really be replaced, and do we plan on claiming this through insurance, and who is the new blonde that oversaw it being dropped off, because she forgot to leave her number.

“Mom?” Blaise calls out. “What's a cosine of an angle?”

“I don't know. Isn't there an index or something?”

“It's a glossary, not an index. How did you graduate from UCLA?”

“I didn't, remember?”

“I see why. . . .” he says, going back to his work.

“You know what, Blaise? I've had just about enough of you for one day. I don't need a smart mouth on top of everything else that's going on. If you don't know what a ‘co-sign of an angle' is, look it up! Dictionary, Internet, figure it out.”

I go to my room
and call Jock, figuring he's probably awake. I'm right. He's awake and drunk.

“Hubert hasn't called me yet,” I say. “But I've figured out how to get you out of this mess.”

“You're a godsend,” he slurs.

“Where and how am I supposed to get the money?” I ask.

“I have it in a floor safe, in the range.”

“That much in cash?”

“The range used to be a bomb shelter for a very paranoid family in the late fifties. It's safer than Fort Knox and I wanted to be prepared.”

“For what?” I ask.

He takes a rather large and loud gulp of tonight's vintage. “Nuclear war,” he chugs. “You'll need a code and keys. The keys are taped inside the metal frame of the bed in the guesthouse. Now the code . . . the code . . .” He trails off.

“What's the code?” I ask.

I wait while he sips and flips through his address book. He keeps everything in there. Finally, after a few minutes of mumbling, he gives me the code.

“One more thing. What color was the case for the DVD?” I ask.

“Hell if I know.”

Lucy isn't home,
so I leave a message telling her that yes, I saw the house, but only the roofline (since it's behind such a tall fence) and it looks extremely secure. I also tell her about the Ferrari's seats being cut and ask her if she wants to claim the whole fiasco as an accident, but I don't bother asking for Jolene's number because, quite frankly, I need the work.

The next day,
Blaise and I go to Clafouti's, a French café on Sunset, where I let him write with the surveillance pen. We drink iced tea and change seats so I can take notes on the best seat for lighting and clean pictures. Blaise doesn't mind doodling and swapping seats, it's all fun to him. I know he should still be under house arrest for the Bunsen Burner Debacle, as we now call it, but the way he opened up to me afterward moved me.

Blaise doesn't know he's helping my grand plan. I try to figure out how I'm going to carry one hundred thousand dollars and pass it to Hubert inconspicuously. He hasn't called and I wonder what sneaky things he's got up his sleeve.

· · ·

A week goes by
and I take Blaise back to school. Before he goes to class, he asks me to come close.

“Mom,” he whispers into my ear, “I forgot to tell you . . . I need a cell phone.”

“For what?”

“Everyone has them . . . in case of an emergency.”

“An emergency?” I ask, incredulously. “I made it through college and half of my career without a cell phone.”

“Everyone carries one except for me.”

“And has that argument ever convinced your mother of anything?”

“Sometimes.”

“Star and Eden don't have cells, and anyway, if Johnny jumps off a cliff are you going to do it, too?” I ask.

“Okay, drop it, Mom. You're becoming an embarrassment.”

“I'm so sorry I embarrassed you!” I say as he walks away.

I shake my head in disbelief. A cell phone at ten years of age . . . what is he thinking?

I drop in the school office to make an appointment with Mr. Barba, Blaise's counselor.

Mrs. Leigh, the school receptionist, is a matronly woman who looks as if she's wiped many a runny nose and tear-streaked cheek. She wears a wool plaid suit with flat, black oxfords. She has a round face, ruddy cheeks and a slight moustache in desperate need of plucking.

Mrs. Leigh leads me down a hall plastered with notices of clubs to join and swim team tryouts and then gently pushes me through a door and points to an office on the left. “Take a seat out here and he'll come get you in a minute or two.”

I wait until a man comes out of the counselor's office, followed by another man. The second man, who now approaches me holding out his hand, is of medium build with large brown eyes and salt-and-pepper hair. His demeanor exudes kindness and patience.

“Mrs. Brown, is that right?”

“Yes, I'm Blaise's mother.”

“Please come in and take a seat. May I get you something to drink? I think we have bottled water, Coke, Diet Pepsi or juice.”

The tone of his voice is distinctive and soothing.

“A diet soda would be great, thanks.”

He brings me one, then sits down at his desk.

“What brings you here today?”

“Well, I don't know if you have met Blaise or not. . . .”

“I most certainly have.”

“Then I suppose you heard what happened a week or so ago?”

“I most certainly did.”

I can't read his expression.

“Blaise used to be such a good boy. He never got into trouble; he was the quiet one, respectful and decent. Now he's doing things like burning people.”

“That was an accident,” he replies.

“I know he said it was, but I just don't understand why he would do such a thing.”

“Mrs. Brown, there's a very simple biological explanation for his behavior. He's a boy. You wouldn't know that his behavior is completely normal because you're a woman. Do you have a brother?”