Read Online Death of a Trophy Wife by Laura Levine - Free Book Online
Authors: Laura Levine
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convinced.
The good news is the Triple A guy showed up in no time. Which meant my Alone Time with Vladimir was kept to a minimum.
But that’s where the good news ended.
The Triple A guy, a very sweet fellow named Xavier, tried to jump-start the car, but the rustmobile’s battery was beyond resuscitation. As was the alternator. And, according to Xavier, just about every part under the hood.
The entire time Xavier was working, Vladimir was giving him the evil eye, convinced he was my secret paramour.
“This thing isn’t even worth towing,” Xavier said, putting his jumper cables away.
“You tow!” Vladimir commanded, arms clamped across his chest à la Aunt Minna. I bet he didn’t even know what the word tow meant, but because the Triple A guy said he didn’t want to do it, Vladimir wanted it done.
“Okay,” Xavier said, “but first you gotta sign this release form.”
Vladimir signed the form with a flourish.
And that’s when things got really painful.
Shaking his head skeptically, Xavier tried to hoist the car to his tow truck. But the minute he did, the front fender gave way and the car came crashing to the ground, scattering car parts everywhere. I groaned in dismay as the side view mirror clattered to my feet.
“See, Jaine?” Vladimir gloated. “He’s not so smart. Don’t worry. Boris and I come back tomorrow and fix.”
Oh, please. Anyone with half a brain could see that Old Rusty had gone to that great Junk Yard in the Sky. Which left us stranded in the middle of nowhere. How the heck were we supposed to get home?
“Do you think you could give us a ride?” I asked Xavier.
“I’m sorry,” he said, with an apologetic shrug. “I’d like to help, but I’ve got an emergency call out in Pasadena.” Off my stricken look, he added, “Maybe you can take a bus.”
A bus? At that hour of the night? For those of you unfamiliar with our local transit system, after-hours buses in L.A. run approximately every other Tuesday.
With sinking heart, I watched Xavier get into his tow truck and drive off.
Oh, well. There was no way out of it. I was going to have to spring for a cab.
And that’s when lady luck really gave me the finger.
When I took out my cell phone, I discovered that—much like the rustmobile—it was dead as a doornail.
Fortunately, though, it was a mere twenty-seven blocks from my duplex, so with nary a bus in sight, we trudged the rest of the way home on foot, Vladimir regaling me with a fascinating tale of the time Svetlana ate his neighbor’s wristwatch and the whole town stopped by to hear her stomach tick.
Quite a raconteur, that Vladimir. The minutes flew by like weeks.
At last we staggered up the front path to my apartment. By now it was almost midnight. After informing Vladimir that there would be no huggy kissy of any kind, I used my landline to phone for a cab to take him home.
“I don’t suppose you have any money to pay the fare?” I asked when the cab showed up.
“Of course! Vladimir has plenty money!”
He whipped out a wad of cash as big as my fist. Unfortunately, it turned out to be Uzbek currency, worth in total about six bucks. This would never cover the cost of his trip.
Racking up yet another charge to this fun-filled night, I forked over my credit card and paid for his ride home in advance.
With a jaunty wave, Vladimir climbed into the cab and disappeared into the night.
And if I had anything to say about it, out of my life forever.
YOU’VE GOT MAIL!
To: Jausten
From: Shoptillyoudrop
Subject: Chef Hank
Hi, darling—
Well, I thought for sure Daddy would have lost interest in that darn Turbomaster by now. How wrong I was. He’s plastered to the kitchen like wallpaper, morning, noon and night, tinkering with that infernal machine.
Somehow he’s convinced himself he’s a world-class chef. You’re not going to believe this, but he actually went to the cooking supply store and bought himself a professional chef’s jacket.
The good news is the Triple A guy showed up in no time. Which meant my Alone Time with Vladimir was kept to a minimum.
But that’s where the good news ended.
The Triple A guy, a very sweet fellow named Xavier, tried to jump-start the car, but the rustmobile’s battery was beyond resuscitation. As was the alternator. And, according to Xavier, just about every part under the hood.
The entire time Xavier was working, Vladimir was giving him the evil eye, convinced he was my secret paramour.
“This thing isn’t even worth towing,” Xavier said, putting his jumper cables away.
“You tow!” Vladimir commanded, arms clamped across his chest à la Aunt Minna. I bet he didn’t even know what the word tow meant, but because the Triple A guy said he didn’t want to do it, Vladimir wanted it done.
“Okay,” Xavier said, “but first you gotta sign this release form.”
Vladimir signed the form with a flourish.
And that’s when things got really painful.
Shaking his head skeptically, Xavier tried to hoist the car to his tow truck. But the minute he did, the front fender gave way and the car came crashing to the ground, scattering car parts everywhere. I groaned in dismay as the side view mirror clattered to my feet.
“See, Jaine?” Vladimir gloated. “He’s not so smart. Don’t worry. Boris and I come back tomorrow and fix.”
Oh, please. Anyone with half a brain could see that Old Rusty had gone to that great Junk Yard in the Sky. Which left us stranded in the middle of nowhere. How the heck were we supposed to get home?
“Do you think you could give us a ride?” I asked Xavier.
“I’m sorry,” he said, with an apologetic shrug. “I’d like to help, but I’ve got an emergency call out in Pasadena.” Off my stricken look, he added, “Maybe you can take a bus.”
A bus? At that hour of the night? For those of you unfamiliar with our local transit system, after-hours buses in L.A. run approximately every other Tuesday.
With sinking heart, I watched Xavier get into his tow truck and drive off.
Oh, well. There was no way out of it. I was going to have to spring for a cab.
And that’s when lady luck really gave me the finger.
When I took out my cell phone, I discovered that—much like the rustmobile—it was dead as a doornail.
Fortunately, though, it was a mere twenty-seven blocks from my duplex, so with nary a bus in sight, we trudged the rest of the way home on foot, Vladimir regaling me with a fascinating tale of the time Svetlana ate his neighbor’s wristwatch and the whole town stopped by to hear her stomach tick.
Quite a raconteur, that Vladimir. The minutes flew by like weeks.
At last we staggered up the front path to my apartment. By now it was almost midnight. After informing Vladimir that there would be no huggy kissy of any kind, I used my landline to phone for a cab to take him home.
“I don’t suppose you have any money to pay the fare?” I asked when the cab showed up.
“Of course! Vladimir has plenty money!”
He whipped out a wad of cash as big as my fist. Unfortunately, it turned out to be Uzbek currency, worth in total about six bucks. This would never cover the cost of his trip.
Racking up yet another charge to this fun-filled night, I forked over my credit card and paid for his ride home in advance.
With a jaunty wave, Vladimir climbed into the cab and disappeared into the night.
And if I had anything to say about it, out of my life forever.
YOU’VE GOT MAIL!
To: Jausten
From: Shoptillyoudrop
Subject: Chef Hank
Hi, darling—
Well, I thought for sure Daddy would have lost interest in that darn Turbomaster by now. How wrong I was. He’s plastered to the kitchen like wallpaper, morning, noon and night, tinkering with that infernal machine.
Somehow he’s convinced himself he’s a world-class chef. You’re not going to believe this, but he actually went to the cooking supply store and bought himself a professional chef’s jacket.
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