“And you were”—Deirdre searched for the right comparison—“Bonnie Parker.”
“Bonnie who?” Jackie said.
“He’s such a child.” Joelen pursed her lips. “What do you expect?”
They were quizzing Jackie on iconic rock singers, old TV shows, and more movie roles when the phone rang. For a moment, Deirdre’s throat went dry. Joelen crossed the room to the bedside table and answered it.
“Sure. Okay, I’ll tell her.” She hung up and turned to Deirdre. “That was Sy. He’s waiting for you. I’ll get the car and meet you by the back door.”
“Honey,” said Bunny, squeezing Deirdre’s hand, “it’s showtime.”
Chapter 17
Bunny packed Deirdre’s jeans and T-shirt into her messenger bag and led her to the end of the hall, through a door, across a dimly lit passageway, and down a back stairway. Mothballs. Floor wax. Deirdre gagged on the smells as she grasped the wooden railing and slowly made her way down steeply raked steps. Her memory of her father spiriting her out of the house after Tito was killed clicked into place. Of course he hadn’t led her out through a tunnel. It had been this narrow hallway.
They were halfway down the back stairs when Bunny stopped and turned to face her. “So you found the dress?”
Deirdre froze. She nodded.
In the half-light, Bunny looked tense and tired, her face showing her age. “Your father was supposed to take care of it.”
“Take care—?” Deirdre didn’t know what to say.
“Get rid of it.”
“Because?”
“Because no one needed to know that you were there.”
“I was?”
“You don’t remember?” Bunny asked, and when Deirdre shook her head, she sighed. “Just as well that you don’t.”
“But—”
“So what are you going to do?”
“Do?”
Bunny gave an exasperated sigh. “With the dress.”
From outside came the sound of a car horn tooting. Deirdre automatically looked toward the noise.
Bunny grasped Deirdre’s arm, bringing her attention back. “You have no idea what you’re playing with here. The last thing my daughter needs is to have things stirred up again.” She squeezed Deirdre’s arm so hard that it hurt. “Do you understand what I’m telling you?”
In truth, Deirdre didn’t, but Bunny didn’t wait for an answer. When the car horn tooted again, she released Deirdre and turned away. Deirdre followed her down the stairs. At the bottom, they emerged into a laundry room.
Joelen came in to meet them. “What’s the holdup?”
“Just putting on the finishing touches,” said Bunny. She opened a broom closet and pulled out a Ralph’s shopping bag. Into it she stuffed Deirdre’s messenger bag. She handed Deirdre the loaded shopping bag and then stood back, her brow furrowed. “Needs something more. Let me see—”
“She looks good. Just fine,” Joelen said. “Let’s go.”
“Good isn’t great and fine isn’t finished,” Bunny said. “Wait here. I’ll be right back.” She disappeared back up the stairs.
“Good isn’t great. Fine isn’t finished,” Joelen singsonged. “I stepped right into that. What can I tell you? She’s a perfectionist.”
Deirdre rubbed her arm where it was sore and reddened from Bunny’s grip.
Moments later Bunny reappeared carrying a battered black vinyl purse. She hooked it over Deirdre’s arm along with the shopping bag, smiled approval, then hustled her and Joelen out the back door to the car.
Deirdre threw the purse and shopping bag into the backseat and got in the front, her crutch across her lap. She wiped the sweat from her forehead. The too-tight underarms of her “uniform” were already damp with perspiration, and the fabric stuck to her back.
Joelen started driving down the long driveway. As she pulled the car out onto Sunset and turned south toward City Hall, Deirdre ran through the conversation she’d had in that dark stairway with Bunny.
You have no idea what you’re playing with here. She’d been right about that.
“Are you okay?” Joelen asked.
“Sure,” Deirdre lied. “Why?”
“I don’t know. You seem . . . tense. Upset.”
So you found the dress?
Your father was supposed to take care of it.
No one needed to know that you were there.
“You always were good at reading me,” Deirdre said. “I guess I’m feeling anxious about talking to the police. And”—she looked down at her getup—“ridiculous. Conspicuous.” She tugged at one of the sleeves. “Hot and uncomfortable.”
Joelen turned the A/C up and adjusted one of the vents so the cool air blasted out at Deirdre. “Does that help?”
“Thanks. Yeah, it does.”
“You’re sure that’s all?” Joelen gave her a concerned look.
“I guess it just seems weird.”
“What?”
“You know, being back in the house with you and your mom after so many years.”
“I hope not weird in a bad way.”
“Your mom’s the same—”
Joelen laughed. “I know. She’s a tidal wave. Wouldn’t want to get in her way, that’s for sure. What do you think of Jackie?”
“Handsome as hell.” Deirdre ran the back of her hand across her damp brow. It came away coated with dark makeup. “Sweet, actually. Is he still in school?”
“I wish.” Joelen waved her hand as if she were swatting away a fly. “He barely finished high school. Not because he’s not smart. He just wasn’t buying what they were selling. But he’s doing okay.”
“Doing what?”
“Selling his favorite toys. Harleys. He’s pretty good at it, too.”
Deirdre remembered seeing the bike in the driveway. “Really? Where?”
“Marina del Rey. There’s a dealership there that’s been in business forever, and . . .”
As Joelen went on about how great the dealership was and how well Jackie was doing there, Deirdre sat in stunned silence. There was only one Harley dealership in Marina del Rey, and Henry worked there. And yet Henry claimed he hadn’t heard word one about Joelen since high school?
“Sorry. I didn’t mean to go on like that,” Joelen said as she double-parked in front of City Hall. She put her hand on Deirdre’s arm in the same spot where Bunny’s squeeze had left her red. “Relax. You’ll see. No one is going to bat an eyelash at you. Look, there’s Sy.”
Deirdre spotted him, too, sitting beyond a news team that was broadcasting from the sidewalk at the base of broad steps that led to the main entrance. The center bell tower provided the perfect backdrop for the suited man talking animatedly at the camera.
“Go on,” Joelen said. “Get out. Brazen does it! Before I get a ticket for double-parking.” She reached across and opened the passenger door. Hot air flooded the car. “You’re in good hands. I ought to know.”
A car behind them beeped. Deirdre set her crutch on the macadam and got out. Before she reached the sidewalk Joelen had pulled away, and for a moment Deirdre felt completely exposed. The massive Spanish colonial building that housed city government as well as the police and fire departments towered before her. She adjusted her grip on her crutch and the ridiculous handbag and started past the film crew, stepping over wires that snaked back to the van. The Ralph’s shopping bag banged against her side with every lurching step.
She was so close to the film crew that she could hear the young TV news commentator, his smooth mannequin face barely moving as spoke: “Scenes from this year’s number-one action movie were filmed right here. But the project that started out as a vehicle for Sylvester Stallone . . .”
“Watch where you’re stepping!” said a guy she assumed was a production assistant, glaring at her, his words an angry hiss.
The commentator held the mike in front of a shaggy-haired man wearing a black T-shirt tucked into belted jeans, his silver-tinted aviator glasses reflecting the sun. He chuckled, then spoke in a raspy voice: “So Sly bails. Weeks before shooting is scheduled to begin last spring, he pulls out. And we’re talking about the project with Eddie. And he says, ‘Enough of this. Do you guys want to make the film or just talk about it?’ ”