Roll with the Punches (29 page)

The cops turned stiffly and left. Then Cop #1 started back toward me and I froze. Were bad cop jokes illegal?

"Ma'am, he left this in his car. It's out of date. You need a new one." He held out the damned blue handicapped parking card. Just the thing I needed. I led Dad inside for a lecture, but he wouldn't stop laughing.

There was another knock. The FBI? The DMV? Nope. It was a florist truck with a huge, autumnal arrangement from James and a cheerful, glittery note. I gloated for ten whole minutes until Dal came in from his class and went straight to his room without a word. I heard the shower.

Then the trick-or-treaters started coming and Music Man fought me for the candy bowl and the privilege of loading up kids' bags between eating fistfuls of Mars bars, himself. I was just closing the door on three pink princesses when Dal sailed down the hall all in black: dress pants, shirt, and sports jacket, and some yummy cologne.

Oh, yeah.

It's not like I really cared how he looked or anything. I mean, I was on Halloween candy duty, a very serious job in our household. But
wowza
. He'd let his ponytail loose for the evening, and it glistened and flowed past his shoulders in black waves. His earring had never looked sexier. The steely blues were set off perfectly by all that black, and the nose looked absolutely regal. Without a word, he went to the fridge, took a swig of juice straight from the carton, and headed for the door and his date with Harley.

As the screen door banged, I yelled, "Hey, don't just come in here and drink out of the juice carton with your mononucleosis germs!"

Much later, after serving sixty princesses, fifty pirates, forty wizards, and thirty ninjas, I turned out our light and picked up three smashed jack-'o-lanterns from our sidewalk. Then Music Man and I put on shiny, metallic wigs and went to see Mom. We played hearts for an hour.

Dad was stretching his legs in the hospital hall when Mom said, "What did Ed wear tonight? Did he go to a party?"

Shuffling, I bent the cards so hard they flipped all over the floor. "Yeah.”

Mom laughed. "Rhonda, fifty-two pick-up at our age? Hey, how's the agency caregiver doing? Did she find the ironing board? Does Harold like her meat loaf?"

"Uh, sure." I had accidentally on purpose forgotten to tell Mom our caregiver problems. Her heart might not take it well.

"Because James came by here again. That nice boy bought a bundle of Tupperware from me and brought me a picture. Did you know he can paint?" She pointed at a watercolor landscape leaning against the wall. "He also gave me a referral for your Dad, to a Dr. Matlin or Dr. Madman, maybe. Takes Medicare."

"You hate doctors, Mom."

"But I like James." Her eyes twinkled. "Don't you?"

*
      
*
      
*

At 2:33 a.m., Dal opened the front door and tiptoed past me as I dozed on Dad's plaid couch with B-movies blazing on cable across the family room. "Nighty-night, Rhonda." He waved, looking way too happy, and loped off to his room.

There was drool on my cushion. I hit it hard and made feathers fly.

At 3:28, Bing woke me from a tortured sleep with a damp nose on mine. The front door was closed. Music Man was snoring loudly. But Bing stood by the door.

"You went out already," I groaned.

He insisted. So I let him out and stood in the front yard, shivering and stargazing, while he checked his peemail around the yard.

Turning to go back in, I noticed a new car in the shadowy driveway—not Dal's Toyota, but a vintage flower power Volkswagen van from the 1960s, painted in bright rainbow-hued cartoons from nose to tail. Even the back windows were painted over. Shivering in my T-shirt, I went to investigate. Had Harley bought this monstrosity and brought Dal home in it? But that would mean she'd still be here. In his room. With him. And I'd have to strangle her.

The van wasn't locked, so I opened the driver's door and peered inside. The upholstery and dash were cherry red, and the walls and ceiling of the rear end were covered in quilted cherry satin. A plush cherry quilt and pillows covered the large futon spread out where the back seats had once been. A TV/DVD player perched over the bed. It all screamed pimp-mobile.

A touch on my right hip made me jump and hit my head on the roof. "Shit!" I said, heart racing. "What the …?" I whirled around and came face to face with some traitorous sweatpants, a ponytail and some mocking blue eyes.

"Why are you up, Lover Boy?" I tried to sound blasé. "Don't you have guests?"

"No. I couldn't sleep. Never can after a big date. Like my new car?"

I climbed out and rubbed my arms to get warm. "It's not a car. It's Aphrodite's Mobile Service Unit."

"Leave
all
your detailing to us." Dal grinned. "Yeah. Harley really liked that bed in the back.”

I punched him, hard.

He doubled over and I stalked back to the house, whistling for Bing. Except Bing had already gone in, like a smart dog. And Music Man had been up locking doors. And my keys were in my purse. In the house. Again.

I looked back at Dal, who was still doubled over, half laughing, half in pain.

"Locked out again?" he gloated. "Aren't you glad I got a car with a bed?" He opened the back door of the van, and made a chivalrous, sweeping motion toward it like a seedy chauffeur. But the grin was too sure of itself.

I smiled, started to climb in, then stole his red quilt and ran off to spend a chilly night on a lawn chair in the back yard. Which was why I got fired the next day.

I'd probably slept a total of three pillowless hours, my head banging on the hard aluminum frame of the sagging lawn chair, when Music Man came out and woke me up with: "Rhonda! You'll catch your death of chill. Get inside!"

By then it was time to get ready for work. In my rush to get to the condo for fresh clothes, I had no time to orient the new caregiver, who I later learned was a burly idiot named Delmar.

The problem with Delmar, I found out at 4:00 p.m., was that he tried to force Music Man to do things at exactly the time on the written schedule we had posted, things like getting dressed and taking medicine. Music Man rebelled and got angry and Delmar got angry back. Music Man dug in his heels and refused to do anything the guy said, including eat. He pushed Delmar out of the way when Delmar tried to do the dishes. Delmar pushed back, and Dad hit him with his cane. Scared, Delmar attacked, knocking Dad down and giving him a cut on the head. Dal arrived soon after and sent Delmar packing.

The agency had run out of people who were willing to take Dad on. They'd send me a bill for four days plus the price of some missing personal items and the urgent care visit for Delmar. A lawsuit was pending.

But I’d had my own problems that day. Right after lunch, I settled a group of first graders from a nearby school into a reading group with Hulk, the Reading Dog, a very sweet, trained Saint Bernard who loved to hear good fiction read by just about anyone. I started the story, then let the kids take turns reading.

The room was so peaceful. The halting reading of tiny little voice after tiny little voice brought back my first grade class with Mrs. Kinder, where I had often drifted off to a pleasant doze. Now finally warm and comfy after my short, chilly, cramped night, I sipped hot tea at my desk and sneezed. Then I pushed back the keyboard and rested my head on my arms on the desk, just for a second. When I awoke, there was a pool of drool and a pink slip on the desk in front of me.

I tried to reason with Marla. After all, I'd personally led the librarians in winning the cutthroat spelling bee against the local sixth grade teachers for the last five years running. But all she would say was that I was unreliable, on the phone too much, and that my snoring had scared the children. And that poor Hulk would need library-funded doggie psych counseling for weeks.

Stunned, I got in the car and called Harley before I remembered she had stolen my un-boyfriend.

"You never really liked that job." Harley said. "Now you can write more."

I went home to my condo and stopped cold inside the door. The contents of my place had been thrown around, and the cupboard full of manuscript copies was bare. Booknapping, again. And this time, it felt icky. Someone had been in my house, handling my stuff just today, just since I'd come home this morning and left my manuscript here, the one Dad had read. Shaken, I called James.

"Anything else gone?" he asked.

I looked around. "Oh, my Gwen Stefani poster. And my CD player."

"Sounds like a bored teenager. Or a rollergirl prankster."

“Hippo? Cleo? Yvette? Maybe. But why take the manuscripts?"

"Rhonda, it's a Halloween prank. Your rollergirl friends specialize at those. Were the locks busted?" he asked.

"Uh—" I looked. "I don't know. How do you tell?"

"Scratches by them. You got a key in a dog turd somewhere?"

"Maybe." I chewed a fingernail.

He sighed heavily. "Okay. Who has keys?"

"Oh, good question. I, uh, hmmm. A few people." Actually, about fifty ex-boyfriends. And Manuela.

"Let me guess. More people have keys to your place than full manuscripts of your book. Well, call the cops if you like, but if a lot of people have keys, I'd just wait. The stuff will probably show up again in a couple of days with a 'ha-ha-I-fooled-you' note. Meanwhile, I think we may have solved your Reynard Jackson mystery. Somebody probably just waltzed into your place, grabbed a manuscript, and published it."

I sighed. I wasn’t in the mood to argue. "Um, James, I need my laptop back ASAP. I'm having to write my book on toilet paper and I have a lawyer appointment next Thursday. With the paper copies all gone, the basis for my copyright case is in that laptop.”

"I'll bring it to our date tomorrow."

*
      
*
      
*

I called the cops anyway. Big woop. The manuscripts weren't worth much, so they did nothing. Exhausted, I crawled into bed, waking only when the pounding on my door got loud enough to shatter my dream of two tall, hunky, white tuxedoed guys with flowing black hair and shiny earrings flanking me through the doorway to a glittering ballroom full of delicate people in white Regency ball gowns and tall white wigs.

My throat hurt. I got up and opened the door a crack.

"Trick or treat!" Harley said, muscling her way inside. "Time for the Amazon Halloween do." She wrinkled her nose. "You going as Phyllis Diller?"

"Huh?" I sniffed and wheezed a little. "I think I'm sick."

"The fundraiser. I promised we'd show up and cheer."

"But Halloween was last night."
Cough.

"Tonight's when they could get the rink.”

"You go." I sneezed. "I'm coming down with something, probably from that nursing home."

She rubbed finger and thumb together. "This is the smallest violin in the whole world, playing just for you."

"And somebody took all my manuscript copies," I whined. “Burglary. I’ve been violated.”

"All the more reason to go tonight and get more info on the Amazons, when they're most vulnerable—worried about going on stage.”

I considered my recent burglary. "Hmm. Could an Amazon have picked my door locks?"

*
      
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*

Harley grinned from the driver's seat. "Boy, is that Indian a kick. We had an awesome time last night. Wink, wink. Nudge, nudge." Speeding past a police car, she elbowed me. "I'm amazed. You actually saved him for me. Of course, he's not your type, but with your track record—"

He'd seemed exactly my type in the wee hours of Tuesday.

"God, our date last night …" she rhapsodized.

Blue lights flashed behind us. Oh, God.

Ten minutes later, we pulled away from the officer whom she'd charmed out of a ticket with her winning smile. "Okay, Rhonda. I'll only spill if you swear never to steal him from me."

Like I could get her not to spill if I tried. There was no way out of this but to lie. "Good God, no. James is my guy. Dal's a real pain in the ass.”

"Good. See, the Indian's not classically cute or particularly built, like the knights in shiny armor you always pick out. He's more gangly and terse, but he's so noble and kind. And so considerate. He asked me how I was and actually listened for fifteen minutes while I talked. I bet James never did that."

I blew my nose loudly. "So James talks a lot. Big deal."

"And after we had our double-doubles at In-And-Out, he took all the wrappers and cups out of my car, even the ones from last week, and threw them in the trash. Now that's a sweetie, a guy who'd clean up after himself
and
me."

"Whoa. In-And-Out meal in the car—way romantic. Call
The L.A. Times
," I almost grabbed the wheel as Harley swerved to miss a parked car.

"Well, In-And-Out on the beach. Prone … Hah! You'll never guess where I found sand this morning." She snapped her underwear elastic, not realizing how perilous her path was growing.

"Hey, I forgot my costume!" I said. "Gotta go home for my tiara."

"You mean you kept that fake bling from Garth all this time? After you stole—"

"I did not steal him!"

"Right. We've been over this before." She made an illegal left turn. "And I agree. Wimpy guys can't stand my amazing brilliance, so they run and find someone temporary and gullible, like you, and dole out dime-store jewelry. Then they dump you on your ass. Heartbreak all around. But the Indian—oh, wow. I can't find
anything
wimpy about him. He's straightforward, elegant, elemental, and just ripe for a commitment with me. Bling or no."

"Harley, I am not after anyone's bling!" I coughed. "And gullible?"

She gave me a long look. Okay, she could have that point.

"Mmmm." She smiled. "He and I just have so much in common—building stuff, helping people, romance. That nose of his is the sexiest thing on the planet, if you catch my drift. I mean it can really …"

I sat on my hands so I wouldn't wring her neck. Dal Baker had to go. He was messing up my best friendship. "It doesn't bother you that he's got no BA?" I blurted. "And he's rude and arrogant? The first day I met him, he walked right up and kissed …" Oops.