Death by Pantyhose (7 page)

I came thisclose to hurling myself across the
stick shift and into his lap for a torrid good-bye
kiss, but you'll be happy to know I restrained
myself.

Instead, I hoisted myself into the cab of the
tow truck (treating Andrew to another scenic
view of my tush) and headed off to vent my
spleen on Crazy Dave.

"One of my cars is broke? Impossible!"

Crazy Dave AKA Vladimir polished off the
piece of baklava he was eating and shook his
bald head, incredulous.

"Crazy Dave's cars never break!"

Yeah, right. Crazy Dave probably had a place
of honor in the Tow Truck Hall of Fame.

"Maybe you just need change of oil," he said.

"How about I keep the oil and change the
car?"

"No! No!" he insisted. "Nothing wrong with
car.

After wiping his sticky fingers on his jeans, he
opened the engine hood and peered inside.

"Aha!" he exclaimed, with all the solemnity of
Einstein discovering the Theory of Relativity. "I
see problem! The fan belt snapped. Happens all
the time. To fix is easy-sneezy, one two three!"

He went scurrying into his office and minutes later came out waving a dirty fan belt.

"Practically brand new," he exclaimed.

And true to his word, in no time at all he'd
changed the fan belt. I got in the car, started the
engine and Wheezy sputtered back to life.

"See?" Crazy Dave beamed. "Nothing wrong
with car. Good as new!"

Wheezy belched a huge cloud of exhaust.

"Still purring like kitten," he said, stroking
her hood.

"Right," I sighed, then started to pull out of
the lot. I hadn't gone very far when I looked in
my rearview mirror and saw Crazy Dave running
after me, holding something in his hand.

"Wait!" he cried.

He caught up to the car, breathless.

"I have something for you."

He held out a gooey hunk of baklava
wrapped in waxed paper.

"A present," he beamed, grinning. "To make
up for your troubles."

I looked down at the baklava in his greasy
hands. This was his idea of making amends?
Well, if he thought he could buy me off with a
measly piece of baklava-he was absolutely
right. I scarfed it down at the first traffic light.

So much for venting my spleen.

she last thing I wanted to do that night was
see Dorcas's comedy act, but she was my one
and only client, and so, after a nutritious dinner
of peanut butter and pretzels, I got in Wheezy
and headed over to the Laff Palace.

The club was on a busy street in the heart of
West Hollywood, where parking spaces at night
are as scarce as straight men.

I drove around searching for a spot for about
ten minutes. Finally, I gave up and handed
Wheezy over to the Laff Palace's valet parking
guy, a skinny teenager in a red jacket and black
bow tie.

He looked at the ancient VW in disdain.

"You want me to park it-or shoot it and put
it out of its misery?"

Obviously, a budding comic.

I tried to think of a snappy comeback, but
what could I tell him? That my real car was a
Corolla? So I just tossed him the keys and headed
inside.

If I could pick one word to describe the Laff
Palace, it wouldn't be palatial. A dark, cavernous
room with a tiny stage up front, it had all the
charm of a meat locker. At eight o'clock, early in
the evening in the comedy world, the place was
only half full.

A bouncy barmaid in tight shorts and a T-shirt
that said Cute, but Psycho came up to me, holding
her round bar tray aloft. She wore her jet black
hair in a ponytail at the top of her head, Pebblesstyle.

"Table for one?" she asked.

"No," I told her, "I'm with Dorcas MacKenzie,
one of the comics."

"Oh, her," she said dismissively. "She's over at
the bar." She pointed a neon pink fingernail to a
bar at the back of the room. Then she trotted off
with her drinks, her ponytail swishing as she
walked.

I headed over to a worm-eaten bar and inhaled the intoxicating aroma of beer and Lysol.

Dorcas sat at the end of the bar, sipping a
Coke through a straw.

"Hi, Dorcas!" I said, with fake enthusiasm, as I
sat down next to her. "How's it going?"

"Okay, I guess." She looked about as happy as
a condemned prisoner waiting for her last meal
to show up.

"Actually," she confessed, "I'm a little nervous. I always get nervous before I go on."

I'd be nervous, too, if I had an act like hers.

"I'm sure you'll be great," I lied.

At the other end of the bar, the nasty comic
I'd seen at the deli was deep in conversation
with his writer.

"Isn't that the guy I saw the other day at
Pinky's?" I asked.

"Yeah, that's Slick Vic. All the comics hang
out at the bar while we wait to go on."

Indeed, I saw a few other guys standing
around, mumbling their monologues to themselves. Dorcas was the only woman in the bunch.

It was Open Mike night at the club, a night
when they let anyone get up and perform. Apparently regardless of talent. Up onstage a
chubby guy oozing flop sweat was trying in vain
to amuse the audience by making fart noises
with his underarms.

"They always put the weak acts on first," Dorcas explained, "and save the stronger comics for
later. "

"Which means you should've been on hours
ago," Vic quipped.

The comics at the bar snickered, and Dorcas
turned red.

"Shove it up your kazoo, Vic," she shot back.

At which point, the bartender, a beefy guy
who looked like he could moonlight as an extra
on The Sopranos, came over to take my order.

"Hey, Pete," Dorcas said. "This is Jaine, my
writer."

"Nice to meetcha," he said, with a wink.

I got the not very pleasant feeling that Pete
was taking a shine to me.

"So you're gonna write for Dorcas, huh?"

"Lots of luck," Vic called out. "You're gonna
need it."

'Just ignore him, Dorcas," Pete said, loud
enough for Vic to hear. "He's a jerk."

I could see Vic's jaw clench in anger, but Pete was a refrigerator of a guy, and Vic was no
dummy. He pretended not to hear.

"So what'll you have, sweetheart?" Pete said
to me, wiping a glass with a dishcloth that
looked like it had just come from a car wash.

I figured anything that didn't come in a glass
was a safe choice.

"I'll have a bottled water."

"That'll be six bucks."

Six bucks for a crummy bottle of water?

"Plus a three-drink minimum."

There went my first week's salary.

"But for you," he said, with another wink, "I'll
make it a two-drink minimum."

"Then I'll live it up and have two bottled waters. "

Pete flashed me a gap-toothed grin and hurried off to get my waters.

At a nearby table, I saw a customer eating a
burger and fries. The fries looked pretty darn
good, and I was tempted to order them. But if
the kitchen was as filthy as Pete's dishcloth, I
didn't want to risk it.

"Is it safe to order the food here?" I asked
Dorcas.

"Not unless you've got a stomach pump in
your purse. Rumor has it the chef seasons his
burgers with sweat."

"I guess I'll stick with water."

"Smart choice."

By now the fart comic had farted his last fart,
and a potbellied emcee came bounding onstage. He wore an electric-blue jumpsuit unzipped halfway to his navel, exposing a small
forest of chest hair, and enough gold chains to
stock a QVC warehouse.

"Interesting fashion statement," I said.

"That's Spiro Papadalos," Dorcas said. "He
owns the club."

For his sake, I hoped he had better taste in
comics than he had in clothes.

Spiro proceeded to introduce a "hot new
comic" making his "debut appearance" on the
Laff Palace stage. A gangly guy in jeans, T-shirt,
and a blazer, which seemed to be the standard
stand-up outfit, came out onstage, terror shining in his eyes.

Something told me this was his debut appearance on any stage. He had no confidence whatsoever. He mumbled his material and was
sweating into the mike so badly I was afraid he'd
electrocute himself.

"Where'd Spiro dig up this guy?" Vic said
loudly. "He makes Dorcas look like David Letterman.

The other comics laughed and Vic looked particularly proud of himself, having managed to
trash two comics at once.

Just then I noticed a fragile beauty with long
Botticelli hair approaching the bar with a violin
case.

"That's Allison," Dorcas whispered, following
my gaze. "Vic's girlfriend. She's a concert violinist. She must've just come from a rehearsal."

"She looks sweet," I said.

"She is. Way too sweet for a creep like Vic."

"Does she always bring her violin with her to
the club?" I asked.

Dorcas nodded. "Last year her violin got
stolen from her car, and now she won't let this
one out of her sight. Especially not around here.
It's not exactly the safest neighborhood."

That was encouraging news. Maybe someone
would steal Wheezy and then Crazy Dave would
be forced to give me another car.

Allison walked over to Vic and kissed him on
the cheek.

"Hi, babe!" Vic called out, not bothering to
lower his voice.

Vic's writer, Hank, smiled at Allison shyly,
then quickly went back to making notes on
index cards.

"So, babe," Vic boomed. "How'd the rehearsal go?"

"Shhh, honey," she said, glancing at the
comic onstage. "You're talking too loud. The
audience won't be able to hear him."

"Trust me," Vic said. "I'll be doing them a
favor. "

The audience burst out laughing. Much to
Vic's chagrin, the gangly comic onstage had
scored with a joke.

I looked up and saw he was looking a lot
more sure of himself. The tide had turned. The
audience, previously indifferent, had decided
they liked him. And with good reason. Now that
he'd stopped mumbling, he was a funny guy.

Dorcas poked me in the ribs.

"Watch Vic," she whispered. "I bet he takes
out his recorder."

Sure enough, now that he realized the kid onstage was getting laughs, Vic took out his "cigarette lighter" and pressed a button.

I shook my head in amazement. This guy
made pond scum look classy.

The comic finished his act to loud applause
and Spiro came bounding onstage, gold chains flashing, thrilled at last to have someone getting
laughs in the Laff Palace.

Spiro wasn't so lucky with his next act, the
Incredible Roberto, a guy who told bad jokes
while juggling steak knives. One false move, I
thought, and he'd be the Incredible Roberta.

By now, I'd finished the first of my six-dollar
waters and needed to take a tinkle. I excused
myself and asked one of the barmaids for directions to the ladies' room. She pointed down a
long dark corridor.

"Last door on the right."

I walked down the hall past a couple of doors
till I got to the ladies' room, a disgusting cubicle
that had last been disinfected when mastodons
roamed the earth. I'll spare you the gory details.
I'm only bringing up my trip to the ladies' room
because of what happened when I was through.

I was heading back down the hallway, wishing
I'd brought along a spray can of Lysol, when I
heard a woman's voice raised in anger.

"I've had enough of your excuses!"

It was coming from one of the rooms along
the corridor. The door was partially open, and I
peeked inside.

What can I say? I'm nosy.

It was a supply room, and standing there
among the crates of swizzle sticks and Brand X
booze was Pebbles, the Cute, but Psycho barmaid,
looking pissed. And the object of her hissy fit
was none other than Vic.

"When are you going to tell Allison about us,
Vic?"

"Soon, baby," he said, stroking her cheek.
"Real soon."

"That's what you said six months ago," she
said, swatting his hand away.

"Hey, it's not easy. Allison and I have been together for three years."

"I don't care how long you've been together.
You promised me you'd leave her. And you'd better do it. Or you'll be sorry."

At that moment, her ponytail quivering with
rage, she seemed to live up to the Cute, but Psycho warning plastered across her chest.

Then she turned on her heels and headed
for the door.

Which was my cue to get the heck out of
there.

"What took you so long?" Dorcas was a bundle of nerves when I got back to the bar. "I go
on any minute."

She picked up an oversized tote bag from the
floor and set it on the bar. I peeked inside and
saw that it was filled to the brim with pantyhose.

"I buy them by the gross," she said, grabbing
a pair and stuffing it into one of her pants pockets.