The group that intercepted my escape from the remote hacienda where I'd been hidden away didn't seem to find it all that unusual to find someone dangling from the balcony. The three super-sized señoritas hauled me back inside -- with the help of some kind of a shah, judging by his seriously overdone, desert chic fashion statement.Having briefly worked as a naked maid in Bel-Aire, I'd seen my share of flowing robes meant to hide a massive gut and what could only be a disappointing protrusion lying in wait beneath it. A checkered headdress covered all but the big pervert's eyes as he sized me up for the ugly "seduction" scene that was sure to follow. That is if you've ever been to a matinee at the Silent Movie Theater on Fairfax. I guess sheik rape was way easier to stomach back before women had the vote and movies had sound.
In spite of the unoriginal theatrics, I had to admit there was something different about this deep-pocketed, foreign-born sex offender. His friendly, strangely familiar eyes seemed to be smiling at me -- if only covertly, when the yammering ladies turned their backs. When I opened my mouth, he put his fingers to his lips, warning me not to speak. "You'll have to gag me to shut me up," I challenged him, waving a full-on talk-to-the-hand. "You might be the master here, but I assure you I am nobody's slave."
One of the women drew the curtains to set the stage for my forthcoming sexual humiliation. She untied the pricey linens I'd used to improvise a rope, returning them to a neatly folded pile. "I'm sorry, alright?" I said. "Put it on my tab, I'm good for it. I seem to have misplaced my credit cards, but I have an excellent job with the Los Angeles Police Department. La policia?" I added, by way of a none too subtle threat. A round of giggles was shared with the self-appointed chieftan running the shit.
So this was post-millennial harem life. You hear about modern day white slavery, but mostly it's on some overwrought episode of 48 Hours during November sweeps. A second large lovely sat me down to brush my hair, while the third -- who I'd heard speak a bit of English -- presented a paltry little meal of an apricot, three grape tomatoes and a hard boiled egg. "Eat up," she said. "You will need your strength."
"No, I will not need my strength, you fat freaking bot!" I swatted them all away. "Take me to the embassy! I'm a U.S. citizen with rights under the Hague Convention!" No idea where any of that came from -- like I say I've seen my share of really bad, really old movies. "By the way, would you have something in a bacon cheeseburger? I almost starved to death in that desert of yours -- how is that going to look when I sell my story to Christiana Amanpour?"
Another smattering of giggles. El Jefe clapped his hands, shooing out the trio of hefty handmaidens.The second the door shut behind them, I picked up a ceramic lamp and smashed it against the wall, holding the remainders out in front of me. "Don't think I won't cut you with this just because it's hand-painted."
"What part of I like fat women do you not understand? he asked, untying his head scarf to reveal a face I'd once known so well. "Atti?" I said. "Oh thank God!"
I ran to my old reporter friend and threw my arms around him. "What are you doing here?" I asked, still trying to wrap my mind around any of it. My only real ally when the whole mess started inside Hollywood Division, the slick paparazzo had helped me squire away Rita's smuggled diamonds for safekeeping before scurrying off to parts unknown. Abandoning me once things got ugly hadn't taken more than a nasty roughing up by a bad cop -- who was also my ex-boyfriend. Had he really come to rescue me from my latest case of extreme poor judgment?
"What do you mean, what am I doing here?" He unlocked a mini-bar, grabbing a few cold beers to crack open. "I've been looking for you, Blondie. Man, you are hard one hard girl to catch up with."
