Chore Whore (22 page)

I do it and like a champ, the back tinted window opens effortlessly.

“Corki, do you want me to come in the back and help you out?”

“No, I can get out myself, but—”

“Corki, don't worry. I'll take care of the glove compartment,” Officer Bill says.

I draw my legs up and bend over, crawling through the space between my bucket seats. I see my purse in the back along with a few of Blaise's magazines and my cell phone. I pick them up and put them in my purse and bring it out with me. Gorgeous helps me out and walks me to the ambulance. He seats me on the bumper at the rear. The paramedic who comes out looks mighty familiar.

“We meet again!” I say.

“Yes,” he says. “I thought you looked familiar.”

“Bank robbery a while ago in Beverly Hills,” I offer. “Bloody nose.”

The paramedic, Angelo, nods. “That's right. I knew the face was memorable, I just couldn't place the accident. You specialize in bloody incidents?” he asks.

“I try not to. I just seem to always be in the wrong place at the right time.”

“Remind me. Your name?” he asks.

“Corki Brown.”

“Okay, Corki, bend your head down so I can take a look at this cut on your scalp.”

I lean over.

“Corki, we're going to have to take you to the hospital to sew the laceration on your head. It's just a bit bigger than a butterfly bandage will hold.”

“No. I can't go. I have things I have to get out of my truck and I have to pick up my son.”

“Corki, no one is going to take anything out of your truck, and you can use my cell if you want to call your son's school.”

“I have a cell and I'll call, but I have to get a few things out of my truck. Please, talk to Officer Bill. He knows. I really have to.”

“All right. Just let me wrap your head to stop some of the bleeding and then we'll go talk to him.”

After Angelo's handiwork, I feel as if I've been freshly delivered from a facelift. My eyes feel swollen and puffy and the rest of my face is wrapped with white gauze. I call Envision and Shelly and arrange for Blaise to be picked up.

I walk over to Officer Bill.

“Excuse me, but did you get the glove compartment open yet?”

“No, I have someone who is about to do it,” he says. “You want to show me the CCW now?”

“Yes, but I need to ask you to watch whoever does it, because I have something else in there,” I say sheepishly.

“What is it?”

“A huge amount of cash. A hundred thousand dollars. I don't want it accidentally falling into someone's pocket.”

“All right, Corki, let me see your license and CCW.”

“I didn't do anything wrong!” I say defensively.

“Never said you did.” He holds his hand out while I nervously fumble through my wallet to get him the papers he's demanding. “Stay right here.” Suddenly he's more cop than friend.

I wait by the curb. I can see my glove compartment being opened, my weapon and the money being removed and taken directly to Officer Bill as he sits in his car checking out my record. As far as I know, I don't have one. But that doesn't stop my imagination from wondering. What if a police report shows I put a toilet paper roll on backward? After ten solid minutes, Officer Bill calls me over.

“Corki, is this your money?”

Oh shit, I've been sitting here on the curb for ten minutes watching the tow truck flip poor Betty upright and I haven't begun to think of what to say about the money. Did I think Officer Bill wasn't going to ask?

“Is this your money?” he asks again.

I'm not getting in trouble for Jock or anyone.

“No.”

“How did you get it?” he asks. “To whom does it belong?”

“It belongs to the person I work for,” I say, rubbing my now-aching head.

“Why do you have the money in your possession?”

“It's a long story and my head is starting to really hurt.”

Officer Bill and his partner,
Officer Dan, accompany me to Cedars-Sinai Medical Center's emergency room. Cedars-Sinai is a movie-star hospital. Every room is a private suite complete with cable television, beds, a couch and a huge widow with a view of the hills or a cityscape of downtown Los Angeles. This is the place Elizabeth Taylor and other celebs frequent. This is where rock stars' babies are born and sick actors die. The eighth floor is where all stars are housed.

I'm in the ER, on the first floor, where the resident in charge shaves a nice big two-inch-by-three-inch rectangle in the middle of my scalp, then sews me up. It's so neatly shaved, it almost looks like a hairstyle . . . but not quite. Before he starts sewing, I ask him if perhaps he has a suture material that matches my scalp color rather than my hair.

“This is a hospital, not a hair salon,” he says, incredulous.

“Then perhaps some transparent thread?” I ask.

“No,” he says patronizingly, “then the doctor couldn't see them to take them out.”

“Of course. I just figured with Cedars being located in West Hollywood that perhaps there might be something on the order of a vanity stitch. You know how casts now come in a variety of colors? There's even one that glows in the dark. I just thought that perhaps . . .” I say, letting my words trail off.

“No. Our variety is black stitches and staples. Head wounds require black stitches. That's your choice. Black stitches.”

I sit still. Afterward, he gives me a mirror to check the results. I compliment him on his technique and ask if he got an A in Home Economics.

When I'm done, Officers Bill and Dan interrogate me thoroughly, then very kindly drive me home in a new cruiser that was delivered to them at the scene of the accident. As Bill drives, I sit in the backseat like a common criminal, telling them my Hubert story, minus some “minor” details, like what was on Jock's DVD.

“Why were you guys following me to begin with?”

They look at each other, then Officer Dan looks back to where I'm sitting.

“You have ‘limo black' windows. People with dark windows usually have something to hide.”

They drop me at home . . . minus the money.

Now, instead of one hundred thousand dollars, I have a receipt for what they've taken until my story checks out true.

I lie in bed feeling
terrible and understanding why Mr. Gorgeous Fireman told me not to say I wasn't hurt. I can barely move. The trauma to my body has set in and I'm sorry I refused the pain medication the hospital offered. My head is throbbing. How stupid! I should have just taken the damn drugs.

When Shelly arrives home with Blaise and the girls in tow, she stays for a while and helps me by running a hot shower and covering my hair and stitches with a shower cap. She makes dinner, washes my dishes and helps the kids with their homework. We all do a gentle group-hug goodnight and I hug her extra tight even though it hurts.

The next morning, after Shelly picks up Blaise for school, I spend six hours on the phone to insurance companies, doctors and attorneys. Dr. Trabulus insists I see an orthopedic surgeon for continued care, and the attorney who was recommended to me by Jock's accountant as being an “SOB” insists I do the same. I schedule an appointment.

There seems to be a fraternal network of “son of a bitch” providers—from doctors to lawyers to photographers to appraisers. Apparently using the word “SOB” means that that particular person will win you the most money in your impending lawsuit. The dirtier the word used to describe them, the more desirable they are to have on my “team.” Of course, desirability equals higher fees. It is Hollywood after all and I feel as if I'm putting together a production of sorts—a legal one to produce a picture about the terrible thing that happened to Corki Brown. All the SOBs want a piece of my lawsuit winnings, and apparently it will be more lucrative if I have anything broken. If it's just “soft tissue damage,” I'll get a nominal amount.

Now I need a rental car. Thankfully, where I live in urban Los Angeles there is a rental agency around the corner. My car insurance will pay for a thirty-day rental, so I walk over and get one.

At my expedited appointment with a Beverly Hills orthopedic surgeon who charges exorbitantly for a full checkup and X-rays, I find myself hoping something's broken and am ashamed at my own thoughts. I'm starting to think like Hubert—what is everything worth?

One might think that a stitched head and a bald patch in litigious-crazy Hollywood, where it pays to look hot, would be worth financial damages, but I'm not paid to be sexy. I think the pain and suffering and hours wasted on phone calls might be worth something, too. They're not. And even trustworthy Betty isn't worth much.

The doctor returns and stoically slips my X-rays into the light box, showing me that nothing is broken. I schedule an appointment for physical therapy and leave.

Since it looks as if Betty will be a total loss, I drive over to the tow yard to empty her out. Catching a look at myself in a window of the tow yard office, I am surprised I was brave enough to get out of bed this morning, let alone go out in public. Besides the thick foam neck brace, standard fare for car accident victims, I have two black eyes, a swollen nose and a bandaged head. I look terrible. No one will be clamoring to ask me out on a date.

However, Blaise was sweet enough last night to tell me I looked just fine and then offered to sleep next to me to keep me safe. I think he wanted to make sure I was going to live through the night. I try not to think of the accident, but I keep thanking God that Blaise wasn't in the truck when it happened.

I take pictures of Betty with my camera and wish her well in whatever new form she takes after recycling. Los Angelenos are bonded to their cars, and true to form, so am I. She's been my loyal SUV for eight years and I feel an affinity for her. I remove all my stuff, including the cassette of Bob Marley that's been lodged between the front seat and the console for three years.

“Corki!” Lucy's voice rings out
from the city of Vancouver. “Babe, are you there?”

No, I'm sorting out Betty's contents.

“Guess what?” she asks my answering machine. “We got the house! I'm so excited. I knew we would get it, I knew it! Babe? Are you there? I need a decorator with a flare for 1960s vintage charm. I know you're the one to ask. Help! Help! You know everyone who is good, with all the clients you've had. Help!” she screams out in excitement.

I've finally taken a pain pill and am having an allergic reaction. I can't stop scratching. I itch everywhere. I'm miserable. Besides itching, my thinking is a little batty. I pick up the phone.

“Hi, Lucy!”

“Oh! You're there?” she asks, disbelieving.

“Yeah. It took me a minute to get to the phone.”

“Are you okay? You sound down.”

“I had a car accident. I'm going to live, but Betty's dead.”

“No! Not Betty!”

“Yeah,” I say. “She's totaled.”

“Oh, honey, that's terrible. Do you have a car?”

“Yeah, my insurance pays for a rental for a month.”

“Listen, Corki,” she says. “After the month, use Grace. Do not go out and spend more money, I command you. I know she isn't your typical car for running errands, but I won't be home anyway.”

“Lucy, that is very sweet of you to offer, but—”

“I'm serious, Corki. Drive her until you can get a new car.”

A new car . . . how could I afford a new car and how could it replace my trusty steed-ette Betty?

“Tell me about the new house,” I ask in a happy tone that disguises how miserable I feel.

“Oh my God, Corki, I can't wait for you to see it. It needs a little work, but it's basically a perfect match for us. Five bedrooms, six and a half baths. We'll have enough room for Tommy Ray's kids plus ours when we start working on babies.”

“You'll certainly need a big house,” I say, remembering that growing up I never had my own room. I was happy to have my own bed.

“I think it would be really cute to do the house with vintage charm, but I need to be directed. I'm afraid I'll go overboard and Tommy Ray'll get upset.”

“God forbid,” I say.

“Stop it, Corki. He called and apologized for what he did and said. In fact he's going to reimburse me for the damage he did to Grace.”

“I never got an apology.”

“Is he still paying your weekly bill?”

“Point well taken,” I say, even though she hasn't had enough work for me to know whether he'd pay a decent-sized bill.

“Look, Babe, while he's away, I need you to act as me. I want you to play general contractor. Sound fun?”

“Yeah, I like to play,” I say as I scratch a bruise on my leg.

“Play and get paid! Okay, here's my fantasy. I want Tommy to come home from Mexico to a beautiful, finished home that is perfect in every way. I want his toothbrush waiting and flowers next to the bed. His clothes should be color coordinated in his closet and his boots in a neat row.”

“This sounds time-consuming. What about the girls? Are they going to be doing some of it?”

“Jolene's in Mexico assisting him on the set and Bobby Sue is here in Vancouver with me. I really need you to do this, Corki. I have no one else.”

I almost feel relieved, but I'm still worried. I remember the last time Lucy decided that I put too many hours into one of her projects. She refused to pay my invoice. Said I charged too much.

I might be able to count on a month's worth of income, then the “girls” will return and I'll become redundant once again.

“All right, give me the info,” I sigh.

I get back in bed
and screen my calls because there are so many I can't take. My head is still swimming from the pain pills. What if Jock calls and I need to explain that I don't have his money? What if Hubert calls and I have to tell him the same thing? Before I can get comfortable, the phone does ring. I let my answering machine pick it up.

“Corki, this is Officer Bill Roberts, L.A.P.D. Please give me a call at area code two-one-three, four . . .”

I scramble as fast as I can to get to the phone, which is only a little faster than a cadaver might move.

“. . . I'd like you to come down to the station.”

I pick up the receiver.

“Are you going to arrest me?”

“Is there something you aren't telling me?” he asks.

“No. I just don't want to come down there and have a surprise thrown on me. I haven't done anything wrong.”

“We know that now,” he says. “We spoke with the appropriate parties and your identity was confirmed.”

“Are you going to give me back the money?”

“Sort of.”

“What do you mean, ‘sort of'?” I ask nervously.

“Just come down and we'll talk about it.”

We arrange a time for me to go in tomorrow, once my drugged haze has worn off.