Unplugged Read Free Page B

is bigger than his balls,” I finished for her. It was a direct quote from my brother Pete. I’ve always been afraid he meant it as an insult.
    Elaine only managed a weak smile.
    “Listen, Laney.” I sighed. Twelve years at Holy Name Catholic School had taught me a lot of things. Mostly how to sneak boys into the rectory for a little uninterrupted heavy breathing. But I hadn’t known until that moment that I’d learned to be a martyr. “I’m going to find Solberg for you.”
    She shook her head, but I hurried on.
    “Because I know . . . I’m positive he’s just been delayed.”
    “Mac, I appreciate your faith in my appeal. Really.” She squeezed my hand. “But not every man thinks I’m God’s answer—”
    “Don’t say it,” I warned, and backed away. “I don’t want to hear any self-effacing crap coming out of your mouth.”
    “I’m not—”
    “Quit it,” I warned again. “If you say one negative thing about yourself, I’m going to blame it on Solberg. And then . . .” I dipped into my office and grabbed my purse from beneath the table by the Ansel Adams print. “When I find him, I’m going to kick his skinny little ass into the next solar system.”
    “Mac, you can’t blame him just because he doesn’t find me attractive.”
    “You shut your dirty little mouth.”
    “He dumped me.”
    I turned toward her with a snap. “He did not dump you!”
    “What are you talking about?”
    “Listen!” I pulled open the front door. “He might be a stunted little wart, but there’s no reason to think he’s gone totally insane. Well . . .” I corrected, “there’s not conclusive evidence that he’s gone totally insane.”
    “Chrissy—”
    “I’m going to go find him,” I said.
    And when I did, I was either going to whack him upside the head . . . or give him a nice Irish wake.

 
    2

If money don’t buy happiness, what the hell does?
—Glen McMullen,
father, husband, and homespun philosopher

    S OLBERG LIVED IN La Canada in a sterile, New Age kind of mansion that overlooked San Gabriel’s grandeur to the north and Pasadena’s flashy wealth to the south. I knew, because I had driven him home not three months earlier. He’d been drunk and gropey. I’d dumped him on his bed, kicked him in the shins, and borrowed his Porsche to get myself home. Well, maybe “borrowed” isn’t quite the right term, but my point is, I knew how to get to his place. I can’t cook worth refried beans, but I have a kick-ass sense of direction.
    According to the digital clock on my dashboard, I arrived at his house at 10:17. I was working on the maxim that there’s no time like the present. Maybe there isn’t, but the present was damned dark and kind of stormy. If I was one of those girls who had watched horror flicks as a kid, I would have been spooked. Unfortunately, I was. I’d seen A Nightmare on Elm Street three times and ralphed four.
    But I was all grown up now, with a Ph.D. and enough panting credit cards to prove it, so I parked in front of Solberg’s three-car garage and got out. My little Saturn ding ed at my exit. It’s kind of paranoid about having its keys left in its ignition, but I figured it wasn’t in much danger of being jacked in a neighborhood where residents pay more for their cars than I had for my education. Besides, the LAPD likes to hide out in that part of town. There was probably a cop in every donut shop between Montrose and Glendale.
    Still, I felt a little breathless as I strode up the inclined concrete and glanced to my right. The sprinklers were sprinkling, sweeping an arc across the smooth expanse of Solberg’s immaculate lawn. Illumined by his security lights, it looked to me like it had been mowed recently, but I suspected that was no clue to its owner’s present whereabouts. He probably had a posse of twelve come every Wednesday and Friday to prevent crabgrass from making a move on his pedigreed turf. Over in Sunland, where I call home, I would have welcomed