“Security told me Dash Wallace from the Dodgers was in the building Monday,” he said. “I wonder what he wanted.”
I told him about the glove and the conversation after, leaving out the double entendre about endowments and the part where I blurted out how handsome he was. “So it’s this big deal because you can’t go around accusing kids of stealing, but we have to solve the issue if there is one. We’ve searched backpacks and lockers—”
“Third graders don’t have lockers.”
“But they have brothers and sisters and cousins, yada yada. It’s such a disaster. If one of our kids took it, it’s not in the building. So we’re contacting parents, and it’s going to be an ugly mess, I’m sure.”
“Did he say what was so special about it?”
“No. Just that it was important. I don’t have high hopes.”
The museum rose at the intersection of Fairfax and Wilshire. Gigantic wind-shaped comic-book swirls made of brushed metal covered the building, lit from behind in deep red. In one sense, the building was ridiculous and fake, out of proportion, overly ambitious, poorly yet grandly designed to look like a birthday cake or to represent the absurd cartoonishness of Los Angeles itself, a city so driven by cars that they had their own museum. In another sense, if the designers had wanted to go big or go home, their mission had been accomplished.
Jim pulled into the lot, the only entrance to the building (it was a car museum after all), where we were stopped by a valet. Flashes went off for everyone getting out of their limos and foreign sports cars, but he and I were able to walk up to the doors without a glance from anyone.
I caught a glimpse of Michael Greydon and Laine Cartwright with two of their children. Brad Sinclair was there. Monica Faulkner, the singer. I scanned for Dash. Every face. Every body. Would I see him first, or would he see me?
One guy. From the back. Brown hair and a perfect body next to a woman in a copper up-do. I gulped. Of course he wouldn’t be here alone. The man turned to kiss the woman.
Wasn’t him. But it was a reminder. Dash was a beautiful man. He was rich, talented, and sought after. He wasn’t coming alone.
“Wow, this is some raffle you won,” I said as I clung to Jim’s arm. I was glad I’d worn the gold dress. It was appropriate. Whoever Dash’s date was, I was about to give her a run for her money.
We got on the white-lit polymer steps to the second floor. Below us, the first floor was designed like a freeway clover, and inside each leaf was a car on a turntable. One from each of the major auto-producing nations: Japan, the US, Italy, India.
I scanned for him below. Nothing.
“Who are you looking for?” Jim asked.
“Dash Wallace said he was going to be here.”
“The roof is the VIPs,” he said as we crested the second floor. “He’s probably up there.”
I deflated and felt relief at the same time. I could stop looking for him because I wouldn’t see him unless he came looking for me, which was unlikely.
As soon as we stepped off the escalator, we were assaulted by a cacophony of bells, whistles, whirring, and tapping. The floor was crowded with people and games, machines, tables, and an announcer.
“Looks like all the fun stuff is here,” I said.
“Your specialty.”
“I’m fun? I’m not fun.”
He laughed. “Yes, you are.”
“What do you want to do first?” I straightened his satin blue tie and patted his lapel.
“Batman.” He pointed at the Batmobile. “Gotta do Batman.”
We headed to the exhibit that had inspired the party. The museum had acquired each incarnation of the Batmobile from the 1970s TV show to the most recent reboot. We grabbed drinks and got in line to sit where Michael Keaton had sat while the car shimmied in front of a screen depicting the chase scene with Superman.
Michelle appeared when we were at the front of the line. Her smooth ebony skin seemed to stretch for miles from her neck to her sternum. Her breasts were covered with two strips of shiny white fabric belted at the waist so precisely placed that not an inch of inappropriate nudity could be seen at any angle.
I saw her just as Jim and I were giggling about bat signal-worthy crises at school. Out of apples. Bat signal. Inappropriate language. Bat signal.
“Ex-girlfriend at two o’clock,” I said.
“Bat signal,” he murmured, looking behind me.
“Not your two o’clock, you dolt. My two o’clock.”
She tapped his shoulder so hard it must have hurt then triangulated between us. I guessed I didn’t have to worry about him stalking her. She had no problem being in the same room with him.
“Hi, Michelle.” His face lit up like the city at sunset. He loved her, the poor sod.
Her lips pressed together, and her eyes burned two dime-sized holes right in him.
I held out my hand. “I’m Vivian.”
She glanced at me as if deciding it was safe to shake my hand, then she did. I looked at her and tried to think non-threatening thoughts, averting my gaze after a point and looking over her shoulder. At which point I swallowed my own face.