Not So Model Home

CHAPTER 7


Girls Just Wanna Have Fun

Regina and I went out that very night. Ken had to pack, so he approved of us going out. Girls’ night, he called it.

At nine, I sidled over to Regina’s house just as she was emerging through the front door, locking it behind her.

“Get in,” she instructed.

I knew she was going to drive, and that meant that we would take her car. Going out for a hot night on the town in a powder-blue, 1996 Oldsmobile Ninety-Eight wasn’t exactly the kind of wheels you wanted to be seen in when trying to land hot guys, but Regina was Regina. What could you do but humor the situation?

I got in and slammed the door behind me. Good and solid. Like the door to a Spanish dungeon. Regina slid in, too, slammed the door, then had to slam it again since it wasn’t shutting tight since “I sideswiped an olive tree outside Tropicana after happy hour last week.”

For Regina, this meant one thing: She was a little too happy when she left the restaurant, er, bar. It wasn’t the first time. She once hit a tree, and the only reason the cops managed to trace her car to the scene of the crime was that they followed the trail of car parts to her house. I decided I would be the designated driver on our way home later tonight.

She jammed the key into the ignition and let the car beep incessantly, adjusted the rearview mirror to make a last-minute check of her makeup, turned the mirror back into a more useful position, started the car, and Lady Gaga’s “Bad Romance” exploded from the speakers, scaring the bejesus out of me in the process. Obviously, Regina was out last night and forgot to turn the volume down. I know. I heard her pull in at 2:30 last night.

She clapped her hands like a mad scientist.

“So what’s on the menu tonight?” she asked, throwing the car into reverse and steering the land leviathan down the driveway. I watched her mailbox pass a mere three inches from my window, but at least she missed it. “How about Aqua? The night has cooled down. I think a drink outside would be just perfect tonight.”

Because Palm Springs is surrounded by towering mountains and is, well, a desert, the nights in October can be quite pleasant. So, as a result, many of the bars in town are outside. Or most of them have an inside and an outside component. Aqua had a huge outdoor bar. In fact, almost all of Aqua was outside.

As Regina crossed Alejo Road and steered the Queen Mary down Palm Canyon Drive, I realized that although I’ve lived next to Regina for a few years, I’ve never been out on the town with her. I’ve gone to dinner, parties, fundraisers, the movies, and numerous gay bars. But never out looking for straight men.

Regina made a right into the parking lot next to Aqua, slowed to a crawl as she scanned the crowd outside at the bar, then drove on.

“No cute guys in there tonight. Plus, the crowd is a little thin,” she commented. She was the Zagat guide to dating in Palm Springs.

I was amazed. “Regina, you just saved me hours of time wasted sitting in a bar waiting to meet someone. I would have gone inside, sat there for several drinks, and left completely deflated an hour later. You just summed up the place in five seconds and moved on.”

“Amanda, honey, I’ve been going to bars a lot longer than you have. You have to know how to work them so you don’t waste time . . . and when you’re my age, you don’t have a lot of time to waste.”

We drove by several bars until we settled on Mercury. Safely inside, I felt the need to pry Regina’s barhopping secrets from her.

“First off, Amanda, check out the parking lot. An empty lot means a slow night. Certain bars are always good: Mercury, Tropicana, Chi-Chi’s, and Drink Here Now. But remember, certain nights are better than others. Sit at the bar, but avoid bars that you can’t walk around completely . . . you don’t want to get stuck in a cul-de-sac at the end of a bar. Most men will turn around, figuring the fishing’s no good at the end of the bay. Choose bars with good bartenders, and I don’t mean those who pour without a spout. You want to sit at the bar where the bartender will chat you up when things are slow. A good one will know that and keep you entertained if you don’t have a good prospect at that moment. Also, a good bartender will clue you in if a patron is horny or lonely. Enough about me. So how’s the show shaping up?”

“Okay, I guess.”

“What do you mean okay? Honey, you should be excited. Surrounded by gorgeous men.”

“Regina, they’re gay. I’m just the token fag hag.”

“That’s why you’re on the show? As a beard?”

“These guys don’t need beards, Regina. They’re so out, you could spot them from the Space Station.”

“So what’s the deal with the hesitation? Stage fright?”

“A little.”

“So spill it. What’s holding you back from having a good time on the show . . . and making some big money?”

“I wouldn’t be counting on big money. It’s good, though.”

“Spill.”

“I don’t know, Regina. It’s not the fact that I’m going to be on TV. It’s . . . it’s . . .”

“Yes . . . ?”

“I have a bad feeling about it—the show. Right here,” I said, pointing to my gut.

“I had that too. Turned out to be cramps.”

“Regina, there’s a lot of money at stake. Millions! And I get the feeling that these guys could be ruthless.”

“I would be ruthless for those sums. You expect foul play could raise its coiffed head?”

“I would plan on it.”

“So what are you thinking, Amanda? Sabotaged wardrobes? Preparation H substituted for facial creams?”

“No, murder.”

“Shit!” Regina exclaimed. “One contestant eliminating the other?”

“I know it sounds crazy, but yes.”

“But that would end the show and maybe the contest.”

“Regina, you haven’t met the producer. He wants ratings, and he’s the type to stop at nothing to get them.”

“You mean he might murder one of the contestants just to get viewers?”

“I never thought of it that way, Regina. I was just thinking of one contestant eliminating another.”

“There’s another possibility you haven’t considered, Amanda.”

“And what’s that?”

“Someone murdering Ian.”

“But that would be killing the goose that laid the golden egg. It makes no sense, Regina.”

“Yes, it does, Amanda. It does if someone wants to stop Ian from laying the egg in the first place.”

“Wait a minute. I’m confused with your avian analogy.”

“My what?”

“Your bird theory.”

“What?”

“Skip it. So what did you mean, Regina?”

“That someone would have every reason to bump Ian off before he gives away all that money to some dumb model. This person would want to keep the line of succession just the way it is now.”

“How many mystery novels have been based on that premise, Regina?”

“About a million. You better watch out, honey, or you might find yourself in the middle of one. Let’s have another drink.”

I had two drinks; Regina had a few more than that. She introduced me to a handful of people, but for the most part, this night was just like all the others when I went looking for a man. I met a few, chatted with a few, and went home empty-handed. Not that I was planning on bringing anyone home so soon. The point was, my life hadn’t really changed: No one really paid much attention to me.

We made it home safely that night with me behind the wheel, and after I bid Regina good night, I went promptly to bed. The next morning, I got up and prepared for the day, but I couldn’t get Regina’s thoughts out of my head—nothing you want running around in your head when you’re about to be on television for the first time. How far might someone go to secure a vast fortune? The answer that resounded in my head was simple . . . and frightening: pretty damn far.