Considering Mom would have freaked if she caught my preteen self watching those kinds of movies, I had to admit I’d never seen Margo outside of her Nurse Nan scrubs. I looked at Jasmine, wondering exactly how old she was. “You’ve seen her films?”
Jasmine nodded emphatically, doing a U-turn and heading back toward the 2. “Love ’em. I used to get this guy logging into the Web site from Japan, BigWu22. Dude was totally into that stuff. Wanted me to put on the leg warmers and tease my hair and everything. I totally channeled early Margo.”
I looked up at the giant dyed-red mass of hair moussed within an inch of its life atop Jasmine’s head, wondering how on earth she could tease it any higher. Or balance on her chicken legs if she did.
Fifteen minutes later we were on Hollywood Boulevard, cruising past the Mann Chinese Theatre and the Walk of Fame. “This guy looks good, ” Jasmine said, pulling the Miata up to a curb where an Indian guy in a lawn chair sat next to Groucho Marx’s star, holding up a sign that read, STAR MAPS, $10. She jumped out and, after exchanging a few words and a few dollars with the guy, hopped back in the car.
“Bingo, ” she said, unfolding a photocopied map. Since we were sitting in a Miata, the smallest car they made outside of the circus, the unfolded map filled the entire interior. I scanned the road lines for little red stars indicating the houses of Hollywood’s most famous residents. I resisted the urge to suggest a detour when I saw Orlando Bloom lived only a few blocks away.
“Right there!” Jasmine shouted, pointing a red nail at a spot in Bel Air. Two inches north of Sunset were the printed words MARGO WALTON.
I loathed admitting it, but Jasmine had done good.
She put the car in gear and shot out into traffic, weaving in and out of the lanes as she took Sunset west to the 405. Unfortunately, the traffic gods were not with us today and, as soon as we hit the freeway, we were stuck in a virtual parking lot.
“Shit, ” Jasmine swore, and flipped on the radio, cruising through stations until she found one promising a traffic report. Apparently a high-speed chase had gone through earlier and police were still cleaning up the tack strips and mangled cop cars that had resulted.
I slunk down in my seat, watching the smog layer hover over the city as we inched forward. My stomach growled, reminding me that I hadn’t filled it since that cup of coffee this morning.
“Got anything to eat in here?” I asked, opening the glove box. “A Snickers bar, candy, anything?”
Jasmine gave me a look like I’d suggested she was smuggling dead bodies in the trunk. “Candy? You think I got this body harboring candy bars in my glove box?”
“Oh puh-lease. We both know you got that body from Dr. 90210.”
Jasmine gasped. “I did not!”
I gave her a “get real” look.
She bit the inside of her cheek. “Okay, fine. I’ve had a little work done.”
I snorted, but refrained from comment as my stomach did another unholy moan. “Look, this traffic isn’t letting up. Let’s pull off somewhere and wait it out. Preferably somewhere with a drive-through. I’m starving.”
Jasmine shoved her purse at me. “I think there’s a couple of Tic Tacs in there.”
I opened her red leather clutch and rummaged through a collection of lipstick, compacts, and concealer that rivaled even mine, until my fingers wrapped around a case of green Tic Tacs. I ate one. Then another. I popped a handful of them in my mouth and crunched loudly.
“I’m still hungry.”
Jasmine rolled her eyes. “Fine. I’ll pull off at the next exit.” I swore she shot my midsection a look that said I could do with a little work, too, but I ignored her, downing another handful of Tic Tacs instead.
Ten minutes later we inched our way onto the off-ramp. One thing that can’t be beat about L.A. living: you’re never more than two blocks away from a Big Mac and fries. My stomach did one more groan (this one I’m pretty sure was of glee) as Jasmine parked next to the Dumpster behind the Golden Arches. I led the way inside and ordered a Quarter Pounder with cheese and large fries from the pimply kid behind the counter. Oh, and a strawberry shake. And an apple pie.
Jasmine looked down her sculpted nose at me and ordered bottled water and a side salad-no dressing. Apparently she wasn’t scheduled for another lipo round for another six months.
We ate in silence, mostly because I was scarfing down my food with an appreciation that would have made Ronald McDonald proud. It took only ten minutes and we were back out in the parking lot, me rubbing my full belly with the kind of satisfaction that only an apple-pie chaser can provide. Personally, though, I still thought Jasmine looked a little hungry.
I was about to offer her the last Tic Tac when a loud pinging sound erupted from the Dumpster next to us.
I jumped, Jasmine and I both doing mirrored “what the…?” looks.
“What was that?” she asked, her red hair whipping around her face as she scanned the parking lot.
“I dunno.”
Then I heard it again, closer to me this time, and accompanied by a little spark as something whizzed off the metal side of the Dumpster.
A voice yelled from across the parking lot, “You bitch!”
I looked up.
And froze.
Oh. Shit.
Running toward me, long black hair flapping behind her like a cape, silver gun straight-armed in her right hand, was Isabel.
Chapter 16
“You stupid bitch!” she screamed. Another bullet ricocheted off the Dumpster. Jasmine and I instinctively ducked, trying to make ourselves as tiny as possible behind the Miata. Which, since it was designed for midgets, wasn’t nearly tiny enough.
“You are so mine now, ” Isabel screamed, her voice growing closer.
“Holy shit, ” Jasmine yelled. She scuttled around the car and dove behind the Dumpster.
Second good idea Jasmine had had that day.
I joined her, my knees scraping against the ketchup-stained asphalt as as another shot blasted off the metal side.
“You ruined everything, you dumb bitch! Snake won’t even talk to me because of you. I’m going to kill you!”
“Gee, you’re popular, ” Jasmine hissed, covering her head with both of her skinny arms.
“I’m not good with relationships. So sue me.”
Ping, ping. Two more bullets bounced off the Dumpster, adrenaline shooting through me with each one, as I heard Isabel pause to reload.
I ripped my purse off my shoulder, digging for my cell to call in the cavalry. But of course, with my hands shaking worse than the Northridge quake, that was easier said than done.
Ping, ping, ping.
“Jesus Christ, call nine-one-one, ” Jasmine shouted, rolling into a tight ball beside me. “This chick is crazy.”
No kidding. I dumped my purse upside down, spilling the contents onto the ground just as I heard the door of the McDonald’s open.
“Hey, what’s going on out here?” I heard the pimply kid ask, his voice cracking.
“None of your goddamned business, Pizza Face!”
Two more shots rang out, one of them followed by the sound of shattering glass and a car alarm wailing pitifully.
“My car!” Jasmine moaned beside me.
“Holly crap, call the cops!” the pimply kid screamed, ducking back into the restaurant.
I finally spied my cell phone. But considering the nearest cop car was probably a good twelve blocks away and Isabel was twelve feet away, I had a sinking feeling I knew which one would get here first. I’d already been held at gunpoint once by Isabel. Quite honestly, not an experience I was dying to repeat.
So, instead of reaching for my cell, I wrapped my fingers around the little silver canister sitting on the asphalt next to my tampons and lip gloss. Mrs. Rosenblatt’s special stash of pepper spray.