All Eyes On Her

Jonathan was the only man I knew who could be smarmy and endearing at the same time. Kind of like your horny kid brother offering to rub sunblock on your girlfriend’s back at the beach.

“Oh, right. Back to you, ladies.” He stepped away defensively. “I forgot, it’s all about you ladies. Jeez, don’t you get sick of talking about yourselves all the time?”

It may be useful to point out here that I know for a fact Jonathan actually spends more on skin care than I do. He was the perfect example of that weird hybrid of raging insecurity and blinding self-entitlement unique to a Beverly Hills upbringing. The only son of a wealthy Persian family who fled Iran in the 1970s, he had earned his bachelor’s and JD degrees at UCLA, had never lived more than five miles away from his parents, and categorically refused to date any woman who wasn’t blond and at least five inches taller than himself. The latter fact, as he had explained to me over a working lunch shortly after we both joined the firm, was because all the fun was sure to be over once he decided to grow up and settle down with a nice Persian virgin.

Meanwhile, the fact that he weighed roughly 100 pounds with his pockets full of lead, in a town full of men who looked like walking G.I. Joe’s, probably had nothing to do with his need to have the latest cell phone, the newest Maybach, and the pimpin-est table at any club he ever set foot in. But Jonathan was good at what he did, we looked out for each other when the workload got too steep, and the demonstrated depth of his family values had long since mitigated some of my revulsion at the double standards by which he lived. Also, he was a good ally to have within the firm because something about his playful smarminess seemed to make our two-timing clients feel at home. Jonathan, clearly, would make partner.

“Anyway, that doesn’t mean I’m with you on this home-remedy stuff, Cassie,” he elaborated. “I could’ve done without my grandmother spitting into her hand and rubbing it onto my cheek all the time.”

“Are you wearing a pink shirt with that suit?” I squinted at him.

“Daniela said it brings out the color of my eyes,” he defended himself.

“Since when does pink bring out brown?”

“I know, I know,” he admitted, shaking his head. “I have to break up with her.”

“Hmm, I’ll get some bottled water for your office anyway,” Cassie reassured in the most serious of voices. “So you’ll have it handy in case you find yourself starting to dry up, that is.”

“Oh, gross.” Jonathan winced. “Is this a woman thing?”

“No, it’s not a woman thing, you troglodyte. It’s a superstition thing.” I shook my head, averting my eyes with a grin. “Anyway, Cassie was on her way out, so you and I should get to work.”

The problem with acknowledging another woman’s envy is that it implies you actually believe you are somehow superior. And I never saw any reason for Stefanie to envy me. She was attractive, intelligent and a formidable future litigator in my opinion. And when we had first arrived at the firm I had imagined we would be friends. Or at least convivial colleagues. Boy, did I have a lot to learn back then.

Cassie noticed my smirk. “What did you do at that meeting?”

“Nothing. I brought everyone up to speed on Cameron and Lydia’s case.” I saw her perk up like a puppy that had caught a whiff of kibble. “And I don’t plan on telling you anything about it, so scoot.”

She whimpered, which would have been annoying coming from anyone else. But since she had started working with us a year before, Cassie had become the little sister I never had. The one with the heart of gold. And the poor taste in men. And the sick fixation on every detail of the personal lives of celebrities. Naturally, it made the opportunity to work at Steel both completely irresistible and supremely frustrating for her.

“Need-to-know basis, babe.” I continued, “And you don’t need to know the specifics of their relationship. We’re lucky we can even tell you who the clients are.”

“Fine. But sometimes this attorney-client privilege stuff goes too far.” She air-parenthesied the words in protest. “Besides, I’m practically family.”

“Don’t let Niles catch you saying that.”

“That I’m family?” She looked hurt.

“That we ought to share privileged information with family,” I corrected. “Because believe me, Sheila never hears word one.”

“Sheila’s only your cousin, Monica. I’m the one who knows all your dirty little secrets,” she teased on her way out the door, oblivious to Jonathan’s eyes sparkling. “And that makes me closer than family.”

Once she was gone, Jonathan swiped my marked-up copy of the Camydia division-of-assets proposal off of my desk. He made himself comfortable on my couch, propped his feet up on the coffee table and started scanning through the notes I had made in the margins.

I seized on the chance to check my e-mail once again. Still no messages from Raj.

“Don’t worry so much, Monica.” Jonathan peered over his memo. “Whatever these dirty little secrets are, I’m sure we can have them taken care of. I know a guy.”

“I don’t have dirty little secrets, Jonathan,” I said, scowling. “I have a…problem. And I don’t think it’s anything Bruno can help me out with.”

Bruno was one of those wannabe Hugh Hefners littered across the California basin who made local news for depressing real estate prices, erecting neon signs and waving freedom of expression banners everywhere he went. His was the first case Jonathan and I worked on together, and when he came to us he was convinced that his eighteen-year-old stripper wife, Claudia’s refusal to keep dancing at his club meant that she was cheating on him. Yes, the strip-club owner was worried that the stripper was cheating on him. In much the same way as a dog owner worries that his dog might be licking itself while he’s away. I, for one, was shocked.

Before breaking the news of the impending divorce to his wife, Bruno came to us to find out how much it would cost him. Although he could have gotten the same advice for a cheaper price from any of our lesser-profiled competitors who catered to the rich, if not-so-famous, Bruno, like so many others who worshipped at the altar of celebrity, needed desperately to believe that his life mattered to the general public, and was therefore worthy of Steel-strength confidentiality.

At one point, after yet another grueling day of poring over his convoluted tax returns, Bruno invited us over to the club for some drinks. Rather than offending the client, I went along to The Cinnamon Lizard for just one drink, and then made my escape on the premise of an early appointment with my personal trainer. Honestly, I hadn’t seen that much purple neon lighting since the weekend I spent in Atlantic City. The next morning Jonathan informed me that our client’s real name was in fact Eugene Bronstein. A good Jewish kid from the tree-lined suburbs of Massachusetts, Eugene had moved to Los Angeles to reinvent himself after the collapse of his career as a stockbroker and the failure of his first marriage to his high-school sweetheart.

Emboldened by all those shots of Jim Beam, Bruno had decided to brag to Jonathan about the sophistication of his entrepreneurial operation. He gave him a personal tour of the two-story building that housed the most popular of his three strip clubs, located just off Sunset Boulevard. Below street level there were two additional floors, containing an X-rated bookstore, private lap-dance suites, bachelor party rooms, six-person showers surrounded by one-way mirrors, peep shows and even a carpentry shop where Bruno’s artisans built and repaired the peep show booths on site. None of these ancillary sources of income, it turns out, had been mentioned anywhere on Bruno’s tax returns.

According to Jonathan, their conversation had turned (as I’m sure that it so often does amidst flying G-strings, plentiful rhinestones and women whose breasts refused to shake when they did) toward religion. Being Jewish himself, and a devout temple-goer, Jonathan knew what he had to do. Somehow, before he arrived at work wearing the same suit and reeking of smoke and other people’s misery the next morning, Jonathan had managed to help a drunken and reluctant Eugene Bronstein see the ungodliness of trying to bilk Claudia out of her share of his empire.

Over the next few weeks, we worked out a private settlement that took good care of Claudia while sparing Bruno the ugliness of having to report anything new to the IRS. Yes, we were in the business of secrets, and the final one that I had to keep in the Bronstein case was the one belonging to Jonathan. It was his opinion that his big-man reputation simply couldn’t withstand the hit of his having convinced someone to do the right thing. And in a way I saw his logic. So I had taken the fall for Jonathan’s conscience, claiming to be the one who had forced Bruno to make an equitable arrangement. And I made a lifelong friend in Claudia Bronstein (the proud new owner of their house in Palm Springs, along with the third largest strip club in Hollywood) in the process.

“I still can’t believe that guy calls himself an entrepreneur,” Jonathan mused from the couch a half hour later.

“Meaning?” I looked up from my books on case law.

“Meaning—” he lowered his voice and glanced at the door to make sure that his pesky sense of morality would remain between the two of us “—in my opinion, a real entrepreneur is someone who makes something from nothing. Like my dad, who used all his savings to build an import business from scratch. He’s the perfect blend of an inventor and a salesman. But with Bruno, it doesn’t apply. He didn’t have to invent or sell anything. People are hardwired to want sex with ridiculously beautiful women, and to be fascinated with depravity, especially in this town. How much of an accomplishment is it when all you’re doing is essentially turning the lights on at the crack store to make it a little easier for the junkies, who were already looking to find it? Sure, he diversified into related businesses, but he never had to sell anything to anyone that they didn’t already want and kind of need.”

In order to keep some semblance of idealism alive within herself, a girl in L.A. has to search for signs of integrity in most men with the resolve of a drug-sniffing dog. Jonathan was one of the good ones, I had long since decided. And my resolution made it so much easier both to work with him and to recognize as a fact how influential in the upper echelons of the local legal community I had no doubt he would one day become.

“Okay. But he’s pretty damn proud of himself. As proud as I’m sure wife number three will be…just as soon as she turns eighteen and decides to apply for a job at his club, that is.”

“That guy doesn’t have much to be proud of.” He half laughed, turning his attention back to his work. “Take it from a junkie.”

three

OKAY, SO IT’S NOT A DIRTY LITTLE SECRET IN THE“NO OFFICER,I have no idea how that horse managed to dress itself up in full bondage gear and climb into a vat of Jell-O” sense of the phrase. But still, my obsession for the horoscope section of the otherwise godawful celebrity rag, Pucker, always made me feel a little dirty.

So in the end it turns out that my father was right. Family is the truest testament to the concept of karma, since they always get so much farther under your skin than anybody else without even trying. And that much irritation can only have been built up over multiple lifetimes. Case in point…Even though I hadn’t spoken to her in a week or more, I was thoroughly resenting my mother’s potential satisfaction at the mere thought of my resorting to the horoscopes for advice before I had even checked my weekly copy of Pucker, which Cassie left for me in a very nondescript-looking envelope on her desk every Friday afternoon. She referred to the magazine as my dirty little secret because she knew that despite my vocally vehement protests to the contrary, no one at the firm would ever believe I wasn’t reading it for the celebrity gossip.

But when you live your life surrounded by celebrities, you quickly find that you have about as much interest in their love lives as you do in their opinions on your love life. Which is to say, none. Once you have seen them standing in line behind you at a Starbucks at 11:00 a.m. on a day when their stylists, hair and makeup people have presumably gone simultaneously AWOL, it’s hard to muster any real interest in who they might have woken up next to. Unless of course you’re the one that woke up next to them. I’m far more interested in who I’m sleeping with, I’d often told my cousin Sheila, who never believed me.

Either way, after work I headed for the parking garage, climbed into my car and locked the door behind me. As I flipped to the page containing my horoscope, a small slip of paper floated out onto my lap. Inside the slip of paper was a single peacock feather. Of all the weird promotions, I thought…before clicking on the light and noticing the words scribbled on the paper: It’s shaped like an eye, get it? It’s like an amulet. Shut up and put it in your wallet! Love ya, Cassie.

Laughing, I tossed the feather and note onto the passenger seat. Then I got back to scanning Hayley’s Horoscopes, praying for something that might relate to me and Raj. After weeding through the useless bits about how some planet is rising in some sector of my chart, and how many years it’s been since it did that, I finally got to the specifics. But aside from a warning about unintended consequences for any capricious actions I might be considering this month, it offered up little in the way of help. So I switched to Taurus—Raj’s sign. It read in part:

Watch out for an upcoming eclipse, dear Taurus, which will occur in the second week of the month, and most likely affect your home and romance sectors. The planets are intent on misbehaving this month, making it difficult for you to be sure of the intentions of those around you. Trust me when I tell you that this disruptive influence is not only positive, but also necessary for many of you. The frenzied social calendar which will preceed the eclipse will set the stage for a much-needed examination of your romantic priorities, and those of your partner. If you’re stuck in a romantic rut, cosmic AAA is already on the way! If your partner has been misbehaving, it might be time to trade them in once and for all. Keep reminding yourself that, while things may start out difficult, they will soon begin moving in the right direction, and you will find your love life in far better shape than ever before.

I couldn’t believe my eyes. If the universe and Hayley were conspiring to pull Raj and I apart, then they weren’t gonna get us without a fight. I dropped the magazine, shifted into Reverse and slammed on the gas…only to have to jam down the brakes a split second later when an angry woman in a fast-moving SUV honked me back into the moment before zooming by in my rearview mirror. Had I hesitated, I would definitely have slammed into her driver’s side. I held a hand to my chest and hung my head to try and regain equilibrium. After catching my breath, I opened my eyes to fixate on the peacock feather watching me from the leather seat beside mine. Feeling like a child who’d decided to run away from home to her tree house on the night of the biggest snowstorm of the year, I looked both ways, sighed and reached for the feather. Folding it into three pieces, I tucked the feather inside my wallet, fastened my seat belt, and then ever so timidly backed my car out of the space.

“That torso is not a toy!” someone yelled at me through the phone at roughly 8:00 a.m. the following morning.

Sliding my Sleepy Time terry cloth mask away from my eyes to let in his voice along with the ambient light I replied: “Excuse me?”

“Is this Monica from Steel Associates?” a person who sounded a lot like an English butler asked, and then spoke to someone else, “How did she get a hold of a mannequin inside the dressing room?”

“Maybe,” I replied, fearing the worst.