Chore Whore (23 page)

I live in Los Angeles
and still avoid downtown like the plague. There's a part of downtown that is modern and beautiful, but it's impossible to find parking, and when you do, there's an eleven-dollar minimum fee. My yearly ritual of dropping off the Academy Award ballots on the last day of voting (because Jock and Lucy can never decide until the last moment how they'll cast their votes) is enough. My annual pilgrimage from West Hollywood to Price Waterhouse Coopers' downtown office is actually enough to set off an anxiety attack. I forever get lost because Los Angeles's streets dead-end in odd places and change names when they continue elsewhere.

The part of downtown I'm in, however, does not qualify as beautiful or modern. It's dirty, run-down and littered with skid row's spookiest occupants. The desperate faces of life's most downtrodden scare me and I don't feel comfortable leaving my car, even if it is in front of the L.A.P.D. I imagine my insurance company's reaction if I were to total Betty and a few days later get the rental stolen.

I park anyway and walk into the station in order to feel safe. It looks equally dank and depressing. Fluorescent lights cast shadows on the faded green tiled floors. The station needs a woman's touch. At least the officers earn a consistent paycheck and hopefully good benefits.

It turns out
that “sort of” was bull. They don't give me back one dollar. All they do is ask me a ton of questions, none of which I feel are their business, but I answer them anyway because I want to go home. I've seen enough police shows to know they'll get the answers eventually. I'm no hardened criminal, but they're treating me like one. Just because I have dark windows doesn't mean I have anything to hide. Not that much, anyway. I feel misled and know that when Jock comes back, I won't have a job with him either.

I have trouble negotiating
the rental car through traffic because I can't turn my head very easily to check the blind spots. My brace keeps my neck and head stationary while I cruise home at fifteen miles an hour behind a city Metro bus that stops every couple of blocks.

I come home to a message from Veronique asking how I am. She says she's in town for a while, then off to Italy. She leaves her world cell number and asks me to drop her a line.

The next message is from none other than Officer Bill, wanting me to continue planning on meeting Hubert and asking me when I'd like the money returned. Why didn't he ask me that while I was sitting in his office? I'm not going down there again. If he's going to mislead me and play games, he'll have to do it here at my house.

· · ·

I stand corrected.
He did not mislead me or play games. One and a half hours before I am to meet Hubert, the money is returned to me. I spend thirty minutes counting it out on my coffee table and signing a release for it.

I gather all my stuff together to nail Hubert. I have my spy pen in perfect working order, the portable DVD player and the edited DVDs. This has all been weighing so hard on me that I'm actually looking forward to seeing him. I just want it to be done and to be paid for the time I spent doing it.

I drive into the back
parking lot of Clafouti's, and circle around it a number of times looking for Hubert's Mazda, as well as a place to park. I don't see his car, but I half expect him to appear out of nowhere the moment I park mine. I'm thankful, only this one time, that I have a rental and not Betty. He's known Betty since he was ten years old and won't be looking for me without her. Sitting for a moment, rehearsing exactly what I'm going to do and say, I rethink all my plans, backup plans and backups for backups. I scan the parking lot to make sure I'm not going to be hit up for money by a homeless person before I even get to Hubert.

With all the spying equipment stuffed in my purse, I calmly walk up the potato-vined arches of the exterior stone staircase. The place is packed and it's barely noon. Scanning the front sidewalk area, I see only one table left without a reserved sign. Remembering my little experience at the Four Seasons with Lucy, I ask first. It's free. I slip into the seat and order an iced tea.

I chose twelve o'clock because I knew the place would be packed with all the unemployed actors, models and singers who desire to be seen.

Clafouti's and all the top fashion stores that line what has been dubbed Sunset Plaza are perched on the side of a hill. Contractors flattened out the area behind Sunset Plaza to create a huge, muchneeded parking area for the retailers. The restaurants lining Sunset Plaza are the places to be if you want to be seen, and I want to be seen, desperately. As I scan the crowd for Hubert, I see we have a special on well-built men today. Bringing out my spy pen, I wait.

Before the waitress can bring my tea, Hubert, along with his two brothers, Wilbert and Rupert, all plop down in seats opposite me. I guess it's payday for everyone involved. Looking at Hubert's mug in triplicate is not pleasant.

“What happened to you?” he asks in a disgusted tone, noticing my brace.

“Nice to see you, too, boys. Is that how you were raised? You don't even say hello and how are you?”

“Hi, Corki. How are you?” they all say.

“That's more like it. I'm fine. I was in a car accident. Now you're supposed to say ‘Oh, I'm so sorry to hear what you've been through,' ” I instruct.

“Yeah, Hubert, that was sort of callous, man,” Wilbert adds. Thank you, Wilbert. At least one is promising on the manners front.

“Whatever, enough of the niceties. Did you bring what you were supposed to?” Hubert asks truculently.

“Yes. However, there's one thing more,” I add.

“Oh, man, I knew this was going to happen. Why can't shit just go off as planned,” he says to no one in particular. “What now?”

“You didn't think Jock was going to have me hand over a hundred grand without you signing a statement that you're returning all the DVDs, did you? I need the originals you took and any duplicates you made,” I whisper.

“I didn't make any duplicates,” he says flatly.

I put my hand in my purse and pull out the legal documents I had made up. I push them toward Hubert.

“What's all this shit?” he asks, growing more irate.

“You know what, Hubert? I'm not going to give you squat if you don't straighten up. I'm old enough to be your mama and don't need to hear your nasty mouth. You don't have anything on me, and I'm the one holding what you want. Deal?” I'm getting increasingly irritated with how disrespectful this twit is acting.

“Fine,” he says. “What is this?”

“This is a legal document stating that what you're handing over to me is everything you took. It also states that you are handing over any copies, in any format, that you've made. It also says that I am giving you one hundred thousand dollars, in cash, for the return of Jock's possessions.”

“I'm not signing that,” Hubert says indignantly.

“Okay.”

I stand up, gather my things and start to leave.

“Wait, wait, wait,” says Rupert, startled at how quickly I got up. “Hubert, you're giving her everything you got, man. Just sign the paper. Don't be an idiot.”

“Fuck off, Rup,” he says. “Corki, just give me the money like you were supposed to do.”

“Excuse me, Hubert. Who dictates how I'm supposed to do this? You? Or the guy who pays me?” I sit back down. “I don't have a lot of time. Sign the paper or not. I don't really care one way or the other. If you want to earn the easiest money you've ever made, sign it. If not, don't. But if you think you're going to pull one over on Jock by getting his money, then putting this all over the Internet, it's not going to happen. Sign it or don't,” I hiss.

I get the documents and spy pen back out of my purse and hand them to him. Hubert just sits staring at the paper and holding the pen as though he's frozen. I decide to pull a little trick that works with Blaise every time.

“Hubert, I'm going to count to three, then I'm out of here. One. Two. Th—”

He quickly signs the document then hands the entire thing back to me. I put the spy pen down on the table, the documents in my purse and pull out the portable DVD player.

“I want you to see something, boys.”

“I don't have time for this, Corki. Just give me the—”

“You'll have time for this, Hubert,” I say, interrupting him. I play the DVD player with the edited tape showing Tree calling him on the fax line, the scenes of the boys trashing Jock's room, and the tapes of them coming onto the property and leaving. Then I plug the pen directly into the portable DVD player and it plays back the scene that just took place—the triplets' arrival, the entire conversation in audio and digital.

“Now, boys, you can see I have evidence, including fingerprints, that proves what you did,” I say. “If I wanted to, I could have all three of your asses strung up together. But I'm going to make it easy and give you the money. But I swear—and you'd better tell Miss Tree this, too—if so much as a peep of this gets out, I'm handing everything over to the cops. And don't think you're going to follow me to the car and swipe this from me either, because while I'm sitting here taping you, someone else is videotaping all of us. I'm also not the only one with copies of this, so don't get any ideas. You lucked out this time. All you have to do is behave yourselves. Hear?”

The three of them say nothing, but with scowls on their faces, they nod their heads.

“Do what you promised, Corki.”

I look around the crowd and see my good friend Noah and smile at him. Noah, a longtime dedicated Rastafarian, has blond dreadlocks down to the backs of his thighs. His Swedish ancestry shows through his shining blue eyes and super-high cheekbones, but Noah is as Jamaican as one can get without having been born there. He walks over with a Hermès shopping bag slung casually over his shoulder.

“Hey, sister.”

I stand and we kiss each other hello as he casually drops the bag onto Hubert's lap. I watch over Noah's shoulder as Hubert looks inside the bag and appears satisfied. He puts the stolen DVDs in my held-out hand, then he and his brothers get up and leave without saying a word. Noah sits down, winks and smiles wide for the spy pen.

Without any warning, four of the well-built men I'd been admiring earlier abruptly get up and lunge past us. They're on top of Hubert and his brothers before they even get to the curb. Within seconds two unmarked police sedans pull up with lights flashing in the rear windows. Six uniformed officers surround the Brothers Grimm before they realize what's happening. Hubert looks back at me with hate in his eyes and spits in my direction. I can't exactly walk up to him and tell him that I had no idea this was going to happen. I helped plan it. From parties to sting operations, I plan it all.

I pay for the iced tea and leave with Noah while watching Officer Bill and Officer Dan, doing what they get their salaries to do, protect and serve.

· · ·

At home I listen to
the message on my answering machine. There is only one.

“Mrs. Brown, this is Principal Davidson at Envision Prep. I need to speak with you. Please call me at your earliest convenience.”

The high I've been on since pulling off a successful sting operation drops to an all-time low. He doesn't say “Goodbye” or “Good day” or any of the sign-offs that might let a parent know their kid is okay, but then again, he didn't call my cell, which indicates it's not an emergency. I call back.

“Ah, yes, Mrs. Brown,” Mr. Davidson says with restraint. “I want to talk to you about your son. I'm afraid I misjudged our ability to help him with his educational pursuits.”

“What do you mean?”

“It means that I don't think Envision Prep is well suited for his needs.”

“What did he do now?” I ask.

“Ma'am, the question should be, what hasn't he done? He somehow got hold of the second-grade roster, pretended to be a teacher, and called the parents to inform them that their children have been showing Homo . . . sapien tendencies. Half the parents don't get past the “homo” part, especially when the second half of the term is swallowed and barely audible. I have thirty-two angry parents calling asking to have their kids removed from our campus. I've received threatening, angry e-mails and letters asking for my resignation. I think your son needs more . . . more discipline than we are legally allowed to perform.”

“Well, where is he supposed to go?” I ask in a panic. “It's almost the end of the school year. Can't he just finish there and I'll arrange something different for next year?”

“Mrs. Brown?” he says, then pauses. “No. He will be dismissed from Envision as soon as I get the paperwork through the proper channels. That will take a week or two, tops. Please make other arrangements at your earliest convenience. Good day.”

He hangs up without my response. I lower my head. My eyes are brimming with tears. What has happened to my boy?

The phone rings. I sniff back my tears and answer it.