Free Unzipped by Lois Greiman Page A

thus far.
    Truth was, I was in deep shit. Rivera was heading up a lynch mob and I had no intention of being at the end of the rope when it swung. The more information I had, the better off I’d be, and if that meant I had to take a Porsche home for a visit . . . well, so be it.

5
    Men are like beer. Some are bold and some are smooth. But every damn one of ’em has a big-ass head full of air.
    —Lily Schultz,
owner of the Warthog, after her husband’s third arrest for indecent exposure
    M ONDAY WAS A BITCH. Although I’d mostly agreed with David’s advice to take the day off, I managed to force myself into a relatively dignified ensemble and drop the Saturn off at the dealership for a six-month-late tune-up. I took a cab home; then, after a few seconds of intense soul-searching, I fired up Solberg’s Porsche and cruised to the office.
    Elaine was there, fielding phone calls and rescheduling appointments, but she was wide-eyed and craning her neck at the parking lot when I walked in.
    “Wow!” she mouthed, though she never quit her sympathetic
um-hum
ing into the receiver. Elaine is the kind of person who can write a dissertation while simultaneously finding the antiderivative of a polynomial expression. Unfortunately for the cerebral community, she has boobs big enough to ski on and eyes that scream bedroom in five different languages. She has a sultry voice, a nonexistent waist, and an ass that would make J.Lo cry. It was that lethal combination that had convinced her to head to fame and fortune in La La Land. I had no burning excuse to accompany her, except that I had received my Ph.D. while concurrently discovering my latest beau flagrante delicto with my ex-roommate. And seeing as how Schaumburg, Illinois, didn’t seem particularly appreciative of my stellar qualities anyway, I’d packed my bags and headed to Hollywood, where everyone needs a shrink.
    “Holy fuck!” she said, punctuating the words with the click of the receiver into the cradle. I stared at her. Elaine’s father was a Methodist minister which had, heretofore, prompted her to confine her expletives to things like “ah, shucks” and “that’s a darn shame.” I could only assume she was practicing for one of the many roles she would never get. Elaine couldn’t act worth a damn. “What the hell is that?”
    “Oh.” I’m pretty sure I had the good grace to look sheepish. “I’m just borrowing it.”
    She gave me a look as she hustled around the end of her desk. “Someone lent you his rocket ship?”
    I may have grinned just a little, but I’m sure I was deeply ashamed of myself. “It’s a Porsche.”
    “No shit! Was it the Bomb’s?”
    “What? No! Why would I be driving a client’s car?”
    “I thought maybe the rumors were true and you really were doing him.”
    “If your father heard you he’d turn over in his grave,” I told her.
    “He’s not dead.”
    “Well, this would kill him. What kind of role are you up for?”
    “One that pays,” she said and turned toward me with a lusty sigh. When she did that around men, they slobbered like Pavlov’s dog. “I need to get a decent . . .” she began, but just then the phone chimed up.
    She answered it on the second ring. “L.A. Counseling.”
    I could hear the roar on the other end of the line quite clearly, and though the words were indistinct, the tone was self-explanatory. The caller seemed to be experiencing a high level of frustration. In other words, he was pissed as hell.
    But Laney didn’t even raise an eyebrow. “I’m sorry, sir,” she said, her voice perfectly modulated to soothe, “it’s extremely difficult to understand you when you scream at that decibel. What did you say your name was?”
    The voice lowered to a dull shriek.
    “Mr. Solberg, my apologies, but Ms. McMullen isn’t in today.” She lifted her electric green gaze to mine with absolute innocence. “Stole your Porsche. I’m certain you’re mistaken, Mr. Solberg.” Her tone was a perfect