1 Cupcakes, Lies, and Dead Guys Page 15

  “Fine.” Derrick sniffed. “Barry Cooperman, my former manager. 310/555-4242.” Derrick lay on his back on Annie’s living room floor and did more sit ups. “Maybe I’m depressed. Need to work out more. Endorphins, you probably know, are nature’s anti-depressants.”

  Annie sat on the couch and dialed. “Hello. My name is Annie Graceland, and I’d like to speak with Mr. Cooperman.”

  “Today’s assistant, tomorrow’s mogul. First, ask for Cooperman’s assistant’s name,” Derrick said.

  “What is this regarding?” a young harried male voice on the other end of the line asked.

  “What’s your name, Sir?”

  “Troy. What’s this regarding?”

  “The untimely demise of Mr. Cooperman’s former beloved client, Dr. Derrick Fuller. I know they had a long, mutually satisfying professional relationship and I’d like to ask—”

  “Interview,” Derrick coached. He now did push-ups and grunted.

  Teddy the cat stared at him slit-eyed from a safe distance across the room on top of a bookcase.

  “I’d like to interview Mr. Cooperman for…”

  “For your doctorate thesis in psychology at pick-your-choice university. Ask Troy something personal that’s non-confrontational.” Derrick flicked Annie in the forehead with his thumb and index finger.

  Annie shot Derrick her death ray. Unfortunately, it had zero effect on him because he was already dead. “I’d be honored to interview Mr. Cooperman for my Psych Ph.D. thesis on successful business managers and how they effectively deal with narcissistic clients. Mr. Cooperman’s spent years dealing with obnoxious self-centered individuals and would be an enormous help. Might I add Troy, you, are doing a stellar job of helping your boss ward off the loonies during the media frenzy surrounding the death of Dr. Fuller, who some say, had an ego the size of an elephant’s behind.”

  Annie smirked at Derrick.

  He smirked back at her. “You’ve noticed my perfect buttocks. Jealous?”

  Troy sighed. “Give me your name and number, Miss. But honestly, Mr. Cooperman’s swamped and won’t be available for interviews with academic publications for at least three months.”

  “Thanks, Troy. You’re a great guy and will be a very competent manager yourself some day.”

  “Thank you,” Troy said and his voice lowered to a whisper. “You didn’t hear this from me. The recently fired manager of a former femme fatale actress, who was known for her ‘basics’, would be a great interview for your thesis. Good luck.” Troy hung up.

  “I tried,” Annie said.

  “Hello? You just earned a new liaison and got a fresh lead. You scored,” Derrick replied as he lunged and clenched his butt muscles into two rock-hard, smallish volleyballs.

  Even though only Annie could see him, unless she wanted to gag or hurl multiple times per day, she’d have to come up with some sort of solution to deal with this ninety-five percent naked butt-clenching dead blue guy. Perhaps she could be more tolerant, peaceful. Accept his nudity inclinations and exercise obsession. “Hey, Dorko. You really think that this exercise matters with you being dead and all?”

  “Oh, right. So I stop exercising and turn into a porker. You’d probably find that funny, but I don’t think so.”

  “Fine. Exercise until you’re blue in the face. Oops. You already are. Hah!”

  “You’re irritating. I can deal with that. It's time we get creative. Do you have any wigs?” Derrick asked.

  Wigs, Annie thought? “Only one that’ll cover your big blue butt. Oh, is that cellulite I see?”

  Usual Suspects

  Description: Take a night off from baking and join your friends for the best fast-food available in the area. Calories don’t count. Friendships do. Share your dreams as well as your fears. Bitching appropriate. Alcohol encouraged. Screw the cholesterol.

  Appropriate Occasions: List-making. Cold calls. Creative lying.

  Best Served With: Contracts. Restraining Orders. In-N-Out Burgers. Supporting your friends’ efforts and dreams. Purple push-up bras.

  Thirteen

  A Tea Party

  Unfortunately Annie had to wear the big, blonde, ten-pound Dolly Parton wig that she procured for a former Halloween party (and Mike’s occasional blonde fantasy) to Barry Cooperman’s Century City office. Technically it was almost Century City because it was on a side street off of Santa Monica Boulevard (not Avenue of The Stars), in a three-story brick walk-up because the piece of crap elevator was broken.

  Dolly Annie wearing four inch stilettos, black leather hot pants, fishnet stockings and an amply padded leather bustier wobbled up the building’s stairs that featured worn gray carpet and dingy walls. “This is killing my ankle,” Annie said. “Why do I have to wear this ridiculous disguise?”

  Derrick bounced up and down two stairs to her every one. “Because Barry’s into soft S & M and you’re supposed to be a foreign actress seeking local representation. Therefore, you have to look the part.”

  He acted so perky Annie thought he’d downed a couple of espressos. She huffed up another half a flight and paused. She reached down and rubbed her ankle. “Jesus,” she said.

  “Well, you won’t have to be that spectacular, but Barry will be looking for new talent. I’ve obviously left an enormous hole in his roster.” Derrick said.

  Annie stood in Barry Cooperman’s small, tidy reception area where photos lined the dark wood paneled walls. All these framed photos featured Barry sporting different dos. Some showed a younger Barry with thinning hair. Those were juxtaposed next to more recent photos of Barry with funky toupees and weaves as he shook the hands of celebrities and politicians.

  Barry’s assistant, Troy, was barely twenty-five, but sported under eye circles worthy of a man three times his age with multiple alimony and child payments. He sat behind his small ergonomically designed desk and regarded Annie skeptically.

  “Now would be the time to work it, Cupcake,” prodded Derrick as he stood behind Troy and rubbed his shoulders.

  “Yeah there,” Annie said and launched her rehearsed lie complete with a fake accent. “I am Irena Dragoslava and I meet Mister Barry Coopermanski at film festival in Zagreb, Croatia. I am actress with plenty good success in my country. The very kind Mr. Coopermanski told me to pook ups him when I come to America. So,” Annie said and threw her hands up in the air. “Am here. And I pooks.”

  “Yes, Ms. Dragoslava. Please leave us your contact information, headshot, reel and we’ll get back to you,” Troy said. His eyes crossed as Derrick massaged his shoulders. “In your country, do people have tight shoulders?” he asked Annie/Irena. “Like, you know, from the stress? My shoulders are so tight. Why am I even sharing this with you? I apologize. Your reel?”

  “Reel in immigration. Stuck. Mr. Coopermanski said headshots and bio could facilitate work at 4:30 p.m. I very much like talk with Mr. Coopermanski. Ask him for only five American minutes, please?”

  “No can do, Ms. Dragoslava.”

  “Okey dokey,” Annie said. Thank God. She swiveled on her four-inch heels and tottered toward the door.

  Derrick jumped into her path and held out one hand in the official crossing guard ‘Stop’ position. “No-key dokey.”

  She stopped. Wobbled.

  “This is the time to toss your golden locks and let the boy get a look-see at your legs, which are pretty good, might I add,” Derrick said as he alternately checked out Annie’s legs and a large framed photo of he and Barry on the wall of fame.

  “Fine,” she said between clenched teeth. She turned back, approached Troy slowly and attempted slinking. It might not have appeared to be slinking, more like she had a bad hip and one knee replacement, but she was in very tall heels with an iffy ankle, after all.

  Troy’s eyes widened. “Excuse me?” he replied.

  “No. Scusay meya.” Annie looked at Troy, fluttered her eyelashes, hoisted her foot up on his desk and displayed her relatively average length, albeit shapely leg. She bent over, grabbed Troy�
��s face with both hands and squeezed his cheeks. “I vant to copulate with Mr. Coopermanski.”

  “Let me see what I can do, Ms. Dragoslava,” Troy said, his face inches from Annie’s leg. A hot female leg was still a turn on for a straight guy no matter what age. Troy was that guy, but also slightly unsure of how to proceed.

  “Danke.” Annie tossed a fake dusty, cat hair-embedded curl in his face. Then two more.

  Troy sneezed uncontrollably. “Sorry.” He extricated himself from Annie’s grip, stood up and ran five feet to a small closet. He sneezed again. “Darn!” He pulled the door open. Searched frantically up and down the shelves filled with files, folders, reels and ink cartridges. “Where are the tissues?” he asked and sneezed. “I hope it’s not a cold. Can’t be allergies. The only thing I’m really allergic to is cats. A moment, please.” Troy ran out the front door of the office.

  Brilliant. A perfect opportunity to snoop.

  “Snaps. Check what’s on his desk,” Derrick said.

  Annie glared at him. “Just because you’re the annoying dead guy does not mean you get to order me around.” She hurriedly shuffled through Barry’s notes, files, and zeroed in on the Daytimer. Flipped through and noted that each Friday was starred, “Eight p.m. – T.” She flipped backwards through the Daytimer—no address. Damn.

  “Where does Barry have tea every Friday at eight p.m.?”

  “Barry doesn’t drink tea. Only coffee,” Derrick said as he checked out the photos on the wall. “But he does get a massage every Friday at eight p.m.”

  “Where?”

  Derrick laughed.

  The Observer slouched in the driver’s seat of the car parked about half a block from Annie/Dimwit’s apartment. Through the sunset’s diminishing light, the Observer watched the blonde in tramp attire limp into Annie’s apartment. Was Dimwit associating with hookers? That would be interesting.

  Now it was dark and the car’s clock read 7:20 p.m. The Observer yawned. What started out as a little investigating was becoming tiresome. The Observer watched Annie exit her apartment, talking to herself, and walk to her car. The Observer held up the small voice-activated recorder and whispered in hushed tones. “Where is Dimwit going? Better not have anything to do with Derrick Fuller. Fuller. Fuller.”

  Annie’s Cabrio pulled out of its parking spot. The Observer started the engine and followed from a safe distance.

  The occasional streetlight shone dimly on gritty downtown L.A. Koreatown streets. This neighborhood was a far cry from the manicured Santa Monica community. Annie and Derrick drove past signs on billboards, stores and restaurants. They were all labeled in Korean, Vietnamese and Thai.

  “Why do you still bake and carry when no one’s buying from you?” Derrick asked.

  “Passion. Determination. My dream. An unexpected opportunity to impress a possible client. Everyone’s quest for the perfect brownie?” Annie said. “Besides you never know when a dessert will make the difference between having a good time or a bad one. Or nipping potentially dangerous situations in the bud. Well-crafted desserts have that power. Just like a sexy chick. Why are you still here when you’re obviously dead?” Annie asked. She was dressed in cute sweats and a vintage Rolling Stones Sticky Fingers concert T-shirt.

  Derrick crossed his arms and pouted.

  “You know we’ve got to work on your wardrobe. The thong will not be tolerable forever.” Annie said.

  “It’s Pucci.”

  “It’s creepy. Maybe you don’t need my help to find your killer. Maybe you’re more powerful as a dead guy than you give yourself credit for.”

  “I think that’s the first nice thing you said to me.” Derrick smiled.

  “Oh please, you slept with my husband. I’m not going to slap you on the back and bake you a peach pie.”

  Derrick tried to remember what her husband looked like. He drew a blank. He’d really like a peach pie. This whole going cold turkey with no food thing was as bad as any diet he’d ever been on.

  According to the large time clock at the local high school campus it was 7:50 p.m. and there was still thick pedestrian traffic. People of all ages and ethnicities waited patiently for buses on street corners, grabbed a deal at the local X#6&*, aka Korean Shop and Go, and walked to their destinations.

  “Look.” Annie pointed at the pedestrians. “People walking in Los Angeles. I think we should call the news. Where’s the spa? I think we passed the spa.” She hit a pothole and her car bounced.

  Derrick frowned. “You need new shocks on this piece of shit. Couldn’t Mike have sprung for a nicer car?”

  She frowned. “You and Mike never shared pillow talk?”

  Derrick frowned.

  “Don’t feel left out. Mike didn’t share that with me, either. By the way, I never spent his money and my car’s not a piece of shit. It’s timeless, cool and in a few more years will be vintage. Frankly, I’ve had enough shocks the past couple of weeks to last me five friggin’ lifetimes. Thank God I take anti-oxidants. Where’s the damn spa?”

  “On the right. Park on the street.”

  Annie looked, but saw nothing except plain storefronts, an unassuming Thai restaurant and one building that had a green awning but nothing written on the door or windows. “There’s nothing here,” she said

  “To your virgin eyes,” he replied.

  “My eyes are still alive.”

  “Brag, brag. Pull over.”

  Annie and Derrick stood in a small waiting room painted a pukey shade of light violet, furnished with several worn couches that probably saw some action in their younger days. Strange music played from small speakers mounted high on the walls. The vocalist was a soprano, the words were in Thai and the music attempted lilting, but was more on the screechy side. Annie frowned and rubbed her head.

  “Barry gets his weekly massage here?”

  Five guys and two cute little young Thai women in skimpy mini-skirts turned and stared at Annie. “Yes,” they replied in unison.

  “I asked the same question when he treated me one Friday night,” Derrick said. “You can go anywhere, Barry. Why this little dump in downtown L.A.? Ambience, he replied. He loved the ambience. And the tea.”

  Plastic plants were shoved into corners and two large wall signs read, “Thai Massage Spa: We refuse services to anyone who asks for Special Services. No Special Services!! You Cop—You go home. Now!”

  Annie noticed that Thai Massage Spa’s patrons were men of all ages and ethnicities. For the most part, they sat quietly on the couches and waited for their treatment sessions. She wondered why several of these guys snickered when they looked at those “No Special Services” signs.

  “I’m getting a slightly weird, um, empathic vibe from this place,” Annie said to Derrick and looked longingly at the front door. “Maybe we should go home. Now.”

  “That’s not empathic. You’re just reading the signs. We’re here for clues or confessions. Remember grandma in the Early Bird goes to Heaven first Catholic Smorgasbord?”

  A beefy biker with multiple tats and an emaciated guy holding a skateboard stared at Annie and leered.

  Skateboard guy moved first. He sniffed in her direction. “You smell like cookie dough or brownies. You smell like someone I know.”

  “Yes, Sir. That’s right. I baked brownies earlier today and I have a spare one right here.” Annie shoved her hand in her purse. “Do you see what I mean about the power of packing a spare dessert, Derrick?” she whispered, pulled out the bagged brownie and handed it to the skateboard guy. “My treat. Enjoy.”

  “Mmm.” Skateboard guy leaned close to her, buried his nose in her hair and sniffed.

  Annie recoiled. Suddenly her hair felt oily, dirty, filthy and riddled with crawly creatures. She scratched her head, pulled and yanked on strands of her hair. “Something’s wrong with my hair. I’m itchy. Maybe dust mites from the wig?” No, dammit, another empathic hit. This time from the skateboarder who probably hadn’t washed his hair in six years. “Ew, ew! I really don�
�t want to be here,” she said.

  “Hang on,” Derrick said. “Help is on her way.”

  The skateboarder leaned in for another whiff. “I know who you remind me of—Betty Crocker. My mom told me if I was a good boy, Mrs. Crocker would leave me a treat. If I was a bad boy, uh-oh, I’d get a spanking. I’ve been a bad boy, Mrs. Crocker. Hee-hee!”

  “Bye-bye,” Annie said. She whipped turned and bolted toward the door. But Derrick reached it before her, his arms crossed in an attempt to block her escape.

  A tiny but tough white-haired Asian woman burst through an interior doorway covered in polyester curtains. She grabbed the skateboarder with her gnarled hands and squeezed his shoulders in a death grip. He dropped to his knees and yelped. She cuffed him on his ears and yelled at him in Thai. “XY**#asb. No massage for you! You leave. And never come back!” She pushed him out the door that led onto the street.

  Annie stood in that purple waiting room watching her hands shake.

  “That’s Yang,” Derrick said. “She’s the manager of the joint.”

  The other guy patrons sat very straight and tall on the dilapidated couches. None of them looked at Yang because none of them wanted to incur her wrath.

  Yang bowed to Annie, hands pressed together at her heart. “Sorry, Miss. Very sorry. But I see dark eye circles, lines, droopy skin.” Yang poked Annie’s face. “You stressed. You need Thai massage. Good for stress.”

  “So now I have shaky hands, droopy facial skin, dark eye circles and this whole experience still sucks,” Annie whispered to Derrick.

  “Yang’s pushing her services, and except for the eye circles, you don’t look that bad. Tell Yang you’re friends with Barry Cooperman and you want the back room massage.”

  Hands clasped at her heart, Annie bowed back to Yang. “Yes, I’m stressed. I’m also friends with Barry Cooperman and I want the back room massage.”

  Yang looked confused. “No back room massage for you. Front room massage much better for women. Come with me. Special crème. You look years younger. You love.” Yang grabbed Annie’s wrist and pulled her toward the polyester curtains.