asked.
“Just south of here. In Baldwin,” I lied.
“And Solberg told you to stop by?”
“Well, no. Not exactly. I mean, I haven’t spoken to him in weeks. I think he had . . . didn’t he have a big convention in Reno or something?”
“I wouldn’t know. Listen . . .” She suddenly paced toward the front door, her short strides determined. “I just remembered a previous engagement. I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to leave.”
“Now?” I asked.
“Immediately.”
I blinked at her. “But what about the kittens?” And Solberg. Where the hell was Solberg? And why was she so eager to get me out of her house? A minute ago, she’d been quoting cat lineage back to King Tut.
“These cats are my family, Ms. Harmony. I don’t let any of ’em go without references.”
“References?” I echoed.
“And a cashier’s check.”
“You don’t take cash?”
Her face froze. “I think you’d better leave,” she said, and whipping open the front door, all but tossed me onto the sidewalk.
I gathered the shreds of my dignity around me and strolled off to my Saturn. Once there, I drove around Hilary’s block, parked down the street, and watched her house for half an hour. No one came or left.
My mind spun in ever-widening circles. Why was she suddenly in such a rush to get rid of me? Had she and Solberg been an item at one time? Was she the jealous ex?
Or was she his current fling? Maybe that’s why he hadn’t called Elaine. Maybe he had a thing for freaky cat ladies with faces like hot cross buns. I had to admit it was possible. There are, after all, boy bands and sea anemones to remind us that weird shit happens.
But maybe I was on the wrong track entirely. Maybe she had Solberg bound and gagged in her cat room.
I scowled. It was almost dark, so I drove around the block again, slowly, casing the neighborhood. As is the L.A. way, the houses were packed together like copulating pickles on the dusty hill. I parked on Dayside Avenue and waited another fifteen minutes. The sun sank with lethargic slowness. I exited the car, took a deep breath, and cut across the first lawn like a golfer surveying the eighteenth hole.
Nobody’s dog ran out to chew off my leg. No one zapped me with a stun gun.
All was well. Still, by the time I had reached Pershing’s house I was experiencing chest pains and blurred vision.
In the end, though, neither my medical problems nor my brave expedition did me a bit of good. Unlike her kitchen and living room, the window to her cat room was completely shuttered, except for a narrow track well above my head.
I drove home with a thousand errant thoughts floating like confetti in my mind, but the prevailing one was that I was either mentally ill—or a really kick-ass best friend.
5
A friend is someone who’ll bike to the ice cream shop with you, even when you don’t look so great.
—Brainy Laney Butterfield,
shortly after getting her orthodontic headgear
B Y SUNDAY NIGHT I felt like my brain had been squeezed through a ringer washer.
My phone was on the fritz. I’d gained one and a half pounds, and my bathroom was beginning to smell like it was organizing a rebellion. So I called the phone company, ate a carrot stick, and prayed, since there was no way I could afford a new septic system.
Frustrated and nervous, I graduated to eating Doritos by the handful and considered everything I knew about Solberg: He was short, he was irritating, and he laughed like a jackass.
I slowed down on the Doritos and dug a little deeper; oh, all right, he was smart, he was rich, and he was obsessed with computers. That seemed to be a recurring theme. So where was he getting his techno fix if not at his own domicile? Maybe he was hiding out at a friend’s house, lying low until whatever troubles were blowing blew over. But, according to everyone who knew him, that friend had better have a computer powerful enough to blast Solberg into the next millennium, or the Geek God would never
“Just south of here. In Baldwin,” I lied.
“And Solberg told you to stop by?”
“Well, no. Not exactly. I mean, I haven’t spoken to him in weeks. I think he had . . . didn’t he have a big convention in Reno or something?”
“I wouldn’t know. Listen . . .” She suddenly paced toward the front door, her short strides determined. “I just remembered a previous engagement. I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to leave.”
“Now?” I asked.
“Immediately.”
I blinked at her. “But what about the kittens?” And Solberg. Where the hell was Solberg? And why was she so eager to get me out of her house? A minute ago, she’d been quoting cat lineage back to King Tut.
“These cats are my family, Ms. Harmony. I don’t let any of ’em go without references.”
“References?” I echoed.
“And a cashier’s check.”
“You don’t take cash?”
Her face froze. “I think you’d better leave,” she said, and whipping open the front door, all but tossed me onto the sidewalk.
I gathered the shreds of my dignity around me and strolled off to my Saturn. Once there, I drove around Hilary’s block, parked down the street, and watched her house for half an hour. No one came or left.
My mind spun in ever-widening circles. Why was she suddenly in such a rush to get rid of me? Had she and Solberg been an item at one time? Was she the jealous ex?
Or was she his current fling? Maybe that’s why he hadn’t called Elaine. Maybe he had a thing for freaky cat ladies with faces like hot cross buns. I had to admit it was possible. There are, after all, boy bands and sea anemones to remind us that weird shit happens.
But maybe I was on the wrong track entirely. Maybe she had Solberg bound and gagged in her cat room.
I scowled. It was almost dark, so I drove around the block again, slowly, casing the neighborhood. As is the L.A. way, the houses were packed together like copulating pickles on the dusty hill. I parked on Dayside Avenue and waited another fifteen minutes. The sun sank with lethargic slowness. I exited the car, took a deep breath, and cut across the first lawn like a golfer surveying the eighteenth hole.
Nobody’s dog ran out to chew off my leg. No one zapped me with a stun gun.
All was well. Still, by the time I had reached Pershing’s house I was experiencing chest pains and blurred vision.
In the end, though, neither my medical problems nor my brave expedition did me a bit of good. Unlike her kitchen and living room, the window to her cat room was completely shuttered, except for a narrow track well above my head.
I drove home with a thousand errant thoughts floating like confetti in my mind, but the prevailing one was that I was either mentally ill—or a really kick-ass best friend.
5
A friend is someone who’ll bike to the ice cream shop with you, even when you don’t look so great.
—Brainy Laney Butterfield,
shortly after getting her orthodontic headgear
B Y SUNDAY NIGHT I felt like my brain had been squeezed through a ringer washer.
My phone was on the fritz. I’d gained one and a half pounds, and my bathroom was beginning to smell like it was organizing a rebellion. So I called the phone company, ate a carrot stick, and prayed, since there was no way I could afford a new septic system.
Frustrated and nervous, I graduated to eating Doritos by the handful and considered everything I knew about Solberg: He was short, he was irritating, and he laughed like a jackass.
I slowed down on the Doritos and dug a little deeper; oh, all right, he was smart, he was rich, and he was obsessed with computers. That seemed to be a recurring theme. So where was he getting his techno fix if not at his own domicile? Maybe he was hiding out at a friend’s house, lying low until whatever troubles were blowing blew over. But, according to everyone who knew him, that friend had better have a computer powerful enough to blast Solberg into the next millennium, or the Geek God would never
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