At First Sight

Chapter 14

ONCE I GOT HOME FROM CHARLOTTE, I FOUND OUT THAT our Talmudic attorney, Jube Shiver, had managed to get Melissa's bail set at twenty thousand. We had to put down 20 percent, so in my absence, Evelyn charged it on her trusty card for all occasions, the good old black Amex. Once Evelyn bailed Melissa out of juvie, our grateful daughter immediately skipped her bond, or, to put a better face on it, she disappeared, and nobody quite knew where she was. According to my wife, it was my job to try and find her. That meant I had to call Big Mac. I got him on the phone after trying at least six times. I shouldn't have wasted the effort.

"Look, man, I ain't the bitch's babysitter," was the way he addressed my question as to her current whereabouts.

"Mr. McKenna, I am not suggesting that you are. It's just that if Melissa has some crazy idea about running and not facing these charges, then things will only get worse. She needs to put herself in the hands of our attorney and fight this in court."

Before you say, "Duh, Chick"-or more to the point, "Why don't you take your own flicking advice?"-let's remember that Melissa was only facing a possession with intent to sell charge, and I was facing second-degree murder. In life, the way you choose to deal with any given problem is usually in direct relationship to its degree of jeopardy.

"If I see your bang-tail daughter, I'll tell her, but I'm fuckin' tired a gaffling with that bitch. What a dumb-ass move leaving her meth in my crib. Now I got major heat coming down on me. Fucking pisses me off."

"Yes," I said softly. "I can certainly see how it might."

Okay, okay. I know. Don't even go there. But the guy scares me. So, I couldn't find Melissa. God only knows where she was.

Evelyn and I got into a huge fight a day later. It was about Mickey D and the American Express account, which was a collective topic as well as a selective one. My no-limit Black Card had just been canceled because of the Hawaii trip. I'd failed to stay current. The less valuable Optima Card was only good for up to ten grand. Four had gone for Melissa's bail, but Evelyn spent another six-and wait till you hear what it went for. She maxed it out by prepaying a two-room, high-roller suite for her and Micky D at the Bellagio Hotel in Vegas. It was for the coming weekend, and cost twenty-five hundred a night. Apparently, Mickey D was going to compete in the Mr. USA bodybuilding show there. She spent another thousand on new clothes for the occasion. She wanted to be there to root Mickey on. Rooting, in case you forgot, is something hogs do.

Why was this happening?

Did Evelyn really think I was going to finance a trip to Vegas for her and this walking woodpile, who I'm now absolutely certain is wet-decking her?

You're probably saying to yourself: "Why all this anger, Chick? You don't even like her. Since you're working up to a divorce and you don't want to make love to her yourself, what's the problem if her trainer fulfills your sexual obligation? Once you hire the private detective, Mickey D is gonna get a starring role in your divorce anyway. It's win-win." I'm sure that's what you're thinking. Am I right?

So here's the deal on that. It's about respect, okay? The fact that I'm thinking about divorcing this angry woman, and would probably be thinking about it even if Mickey D wasn't in the picture, just isn't what it's about. If you think it is, then you're missing the point completely.

Not to be overly simplistic, but let's say I've got a car that I don't drive any longer because there are things about it I don't like. Let's further say that I have a newer, better car that I enjoy driving much more and I'm even thinking of getting rid of the first one. Does that mean I'd let some asshole I hate drive the old car around when I'm' not using it? See the problem?

So I said no to the Vegas trip. Mickey D could get somebody else to oil him up before his big pose-down.

Of course, Evelyn went completely off the tracks over this.

"Nothing is going to happen, Chick. It's just a sporting event."

Right. It's a sporting event like eating shit is a dining event. Standing around in a bikini brief, glistening like an oil wrestler in a strip joint, does not, in my opinion, qualify as a sport.

But Evelyn was in full rant; her pinched features turned blood red with anger. "You know, Chick, you sit around all day bitching about everything. The business sucks, the gardeners suck, the way I want to train sucks, Melissa sucks. But what do you do? What interests you besides complaining?"

"Lotsa stuffl" I shouted.

"Not a fucking thing. Nothing! You got no hopes or dreams, no hobbies or interests. You're as boring as a boiled chicken dinner. Why don't you go do something? Anything. Why don't you try, just for once in your goddam life, to work up some enthusiasm for something?"

This from a woman who finds emotional fulfillment in measuring her own biceps. I'm telling you, it's over. I'm absolutely done with this marriage.

The argument raged, but I didn't back down. I didn't relent. In fact, I was sort of beginning to enjoy it, because it took my mind off everything else. But the thing about fighting with Evelyn is you have to be ready for it to turn dangerous. She's tough, and on a whim will attack you physically. So when I argue with her, I always keep some furniture between us.

The next morning I was still pissed. I left before she got up. I climbed into my new Porsche Targa, backed out of my driveway, and just drove around. I was dreading going into the office. Everything down there was a shambles. I was also dreading ever having to go back home and face Evelyn and my problems with Melissa. I was dreading turning on the news and hearing about Chandler, dreading running into Mickey D or Big Mac, dreading not being able to get it up next time I tried. I had nothing at all to look forward to.

I was about as low as a guy can get, down at the bottom, French-kissing the drain. Evelyn said that I had nothing in my life-nothing worthwhile that I cared about. While these words were shouted in anger without much thought, from a woman with the emotional complexity of a truckstop waitress, there was a modicum of truth in what she'd said.

Amongst all my possessions and accomplishments, I didn't really have anything I cared about. Nothing did interest me. I had only one ambition. I wanted to be admired by others. When you stop to think about it, that's a pretty worthless goal.

Okay, here's another embarrassing admission, which I'm sure you've already figured out anyway. Under all my strutting and boasting, I had been depending on other people to grade my paper-to validate me. And with bestmarket. Com falling on its head, that wasn't happening much lately. Since I wasn't proud of my accomplishments, I was left trying to be proud of a bunch of possessions, which, once purchased, had instantly begun to depreciate at about 20 percent a year.

So despite all of Evelyn's bullshit, there was some truth in her accusations. I let a bunch of hucksters on Madison Avenue define me. I wore Armani because David Beckham did, or the Breitling Navitimer because Travolta wore one and "It's the instrument of professionals." See the problem? Even my status-heavy black Porsche Targa, which I bought because it was a car "with no substitutes:' now just seemed like an overpriced Hamburg penis symbol. Despite all those flashy possessions, I was pretty much lost. I wanted other people to want what I had, and nobody seemed to care. Pathetic.

I drove around the UCLA campus with the top down, hating myself in my hundred-thousand-dollar sports car. I was a psychiatric joke-a middle-aged Balsa Boy who couldn't get it up, hoping college girls would think my car was cool and smile at me. Of course, they didn't think I was cool. They looked at me like I was a guy delivering a pizza. I couldn't take a full day of that, so finally I headed home, arriving around noon. When I got there, thankfully, Evelyn was gone and the phone was ringing. Maybe it was Melissa.

I had to run for it and caught it just before the answering machine picked up.

"Hello?" I said, out of breath.

"Chick?" a woman replied.

"Who is this?" I didn't recognize the voice.

"It's Paige Ellis." And right then, my heart leapt. I'm not sure whether it was from fear or joy. Fear, because what if she knew I'd done the hit-and-run on Chandler? What if she was about to accuse me of it? Joy, because the sound of her voice sent a pure streak of ecstasy through me. You can see how tangled up I was inside.

"Paige?" I swallowed. "Hey, how you been?" I was trying to sound lighthearted. But immediately, I knew that was a mistake.

Chandler's death had been a national news story. I should have been sad-should have told her how sorry I was.

"You haven't heard?" Her voice seemed small. "It's been all over the TV."

"Heard what?" I had no choice now except to play dumb, but I gotta tell you, this was really sounding lame.

"Chandler was killed," she whispered. "A hit-and-run two days ago. Somebody just… just drove over him and then ran away."

"Oh, my God!" I was trying not to deliver the line badly. "My God, Paige. How awful."

"Chick, I'm so, I'm just… " Close to tears now.

"Oh… I know, I know," I said, cooing these words. But to be honest I was really angry with myself for the bungling way I was handling this.

"I just called to tell you that his funeral is on Saturday at two. I know you probably can't come, but I just wanted you and Evie to know about it."

"Saturday," I said numbly. "No kidding… " I was still at a loss. I'd killed her husband and now Paige was inviting me to his funeral. The insanity of it was mind-boggling.

"Gee, Paige, I'm so… I'm so sorry… so terribly, terribly sorry." You can see how weak all this was. I was floundering, but in the back of my mind, I wanted to make my opening mistake sound better, to clean up my mess, so I took a shot.

"The reason I probably hadn't heard about it is I'm smack in the middle of a big financial thing at the company$ I ad-libbed. "We've been kinda locked behind closed doors working on a big deal for the past week and I haven't seen much, if any, TV."

As soon as this was out of my mouth I cringed. Another mistake. Obviously there were dozens of people who knew that I'd flown to New York to meet with the gnome in the shiny pants and hadn't been locked behind closed doors for a week like I'd just said. See how tough it is to get this shit right?

"Paige? When's the funeral again?" I needed to change the subject and get off this.

"Oh, that's so sweet, Chick. But you don't need to come. It's so far for you. I just… wanted you and Evelyn to know that it's Saturday afternoon at All Saints Episcopal Church here in Charlotte. If you send something, don't send flowers. I've got enough flowers to open a shop. But we'd love a donation to Chandler's learning foundation."

"Right. Right… I'll do that. I know this is a horrible time for you, but I'll pray for you, Paige. I'll pray for Chandler."

I'm sure God was up there waiting for that fucking prayer. But there you have it. That's what I said. She was on the verge of tears again. I could hear it in her voice and her breathing as she thanked me.

I had an overwhelming desire to ease her suffering. So, unexpectedly, without even planning it, I heard myself say, "Don't worry, Paige. I'll be there. I'm never too busy for a friend. I'll help you get through this. I'll see you Saturday. You have my promise."

After we rang off, I stood there, realizing I had just agreed to go to the funeral of a man I'd killed.

Sometimes, I swear, I amaze myself.

Of course, that phone call changed everything.

An hour earlier I'd been fuming over the fact that Evelyn wanted to go to Vegas with Mickey D. Now I couldn't get her off on that trip quick enough.

The funeral was Saturday at two. I checked and there were no red-eye flights from L. A. to Charlotte, but I could fly into Atlanta if I got out of here right after Evelyn left for Vegas on Friday night. Evelyn said that the Mr. USA Oildown was a two-day thing, which meant she and Mickey D wouldn't be back in L. A. until late Sunday. With the time change from the East Coast, I could easily beat her home Sunday night.

My mind started racing while I paced, making plans. I even thought about what I would wear to the service. No kidding. Two days ago, I'd killed this guy, and now I was worrying about a sexy look for his funeral. None of the shallowness of these thoughts was lost on me, either. Even though I was appalled at myself for this line of thought, I decided to wear my new black Armani with the threequarter-length European cut. It's a long line and takes some pounds off. Not that it matters, but I look damn good in it.

I picked up the phone and booked the Friday night red-eye flight on Delta, then reserved a room at the Atlanta airport Hilton. I could get a few hours' sleep, rent a car, and easily make the drive to Charlotte in the morning.

Evelyn arrived back home at five. I knew she'd been at Gold's Gym helping Mickey with his pre-contest routine because she was in her spandex gear, her eraser-sized nipples clearly visible, protruding through the thin sports bra. When she saw me she threw her purse down angrily on the side table in the entry.

"Y'know what, Chick?" she fumed. "I've been thinking about it and this is total bullshit. The money in our charge account is half mine. This is a fucking community property state. If I wanna spend our money, I can spend it any way I want. I don't have to get your permission first."

"You're absolutely right," I said, taking her starch out faster than a Tijuana laundry.

"I am?" She seemed stunned. Over the past year, about the only thing we'd agreed on was not to exchange birthday presents.

"Yes, you are," I said softly. "I acted badly. You're interested in bodybuilding. Your trainer is about to enter a very important national contest. Of course you'd want to be there to see him compete. It was wrong of me to say what I did. I apologize. I think you should go."

"Really?" She was standing in front of me now, her long, tapered legs slightly spread, her expression puzzled. Evelyn wasn't used to this kind of stuff from me and was immediately suspicious. I had to rein in my Mr. Reasonable act, or run the risk that she'd totally reject it.

"I'm going to trust you and Mickey to be adults," I said, trying to get back on the right side of the line.

"I'm not fucking him, Chick."

She was such a delightfully subtle creature.

"I know you're not. I know that. I'm sorry I made a big deal out of the trip to Vegas."

She was still distrustful, studying me suspiciously, the way you'd study a large, black spider in the back of your cupboard, not quite sure if it was dangerous or how to handle it.

"This is for real?"

"Yeah, yeah… I want you to do the things that interest you and I'll try and find things to do that interest me."

"I'm not sleeping with him. I don't even find Mickey D the least bit attractive."

Boy, how dumb did she think I was? But I let her have that round. I just nodded and smiled and tried to look supportive.

Anyway, without giving you the whole play-by-play, it went down pretty much the way I wanted. She and Mickey were on the phone immediately, making plans. The conversation lasted for an hour. I found out later that some of his weightlifter friends and some girls who were competing in Miss Fitness USA were all going to follow each other to Vegas. A rolling steroid party.

Evelyn sat at her desk and was bright and animated as she talked to Mickey, waving her lacquered nails over the phone like a voodoo priestess blessing goat entrails. All thoughts of our bail-jumping daughter were left in the dust as we both planned for the weekend.

It occurred to me that Evelyn had not mentioned Chandler's death. It had been on the news for two days, and yet, not a word about it from her. I wondered how she had missed it. On the other hand, if she knew, why hadn't she said anything? I chewed on that for a long time. After careful deliberation, my guess was she hadn't heard.

I could think of no reason why she would fail to mention it if she had. So, how the hell had she missed it?

I had my suspicions there as well. They went like this: I knew that Mickey D didn't have a TV, because Evelyn had wanted to loan him one of ours, a while back. My guess? Evelyn and the man she didn't find the least bit attractive had been over at his place while I'd been in New York trying to save our business. Since there was no Melissa to worry about, she'd probably just moved in with Mickey for a few days so she could set his hand brake for him.

Well, okay, that's fine. I'm through worrying about it because once this all settles down, I'm gonna give Evelyn a standard California drive-by divorce. She can have half the community property, which right now, with all my liabilities, comes to minus eight million. If there was ever a cheap time to shed this marriage, now was that time. In case you're bad with math, her half of minus eight million is zip.

She left for Mickey's apartment Friday, with a big smile, carrying her luggage, which was just one gym bag. My nudist wife probably wouldn't be wearing much in Vegas, despite the fact that she'd just hit the charge account for a thousand dollars in new clothes-probably bought herself some snappy new nipple jewelry.

After she was gone, I turned on the answering machine, packed my overnight bag, and left. I had plenty of time to catch my flight.

With all of this going on, I still never once thought about Melissa. I know, I know. I should have been out on the streets driving around, trying to find her before she ruined her life, but I was so fucked up at this point, I had lost sight of my priorities. So I was off to LAX, my mind reeling with the possibilities that lay ahead.

A funeral probably isn't the best place to strike up a new relationship with the widow, but I wanted Paige Ellis more than I'd ever wanted anything else in my life.

I wasn't thinking straight. On that Friday night in April, I didn't have a clue what I was doing.