"That and the reporters," Marco said, shaking his head.
Faux Dad turned to me. "It's true. Did Marco tell you about the call from"—he paused, leaning in close and mock whispering—"the L.A. Informer?"
"The Informer?" I frowned. I knew the tabloid well. I'd had several run-ins with their staff over the years—some positive and others more what I'd call unsettlingly intrusive.
"I was just about to tell her," Marco said.
Faux Dad shook his head, his dyed black hair not moving an inch from its perfectly gelled position. "Some reporter from there called earlier. Tammy, Trina…?"
"Tina," Marco supplied with a scowl. "Tina Bender."
"Yes, Tina. That's it," Faux Dad said, pointing at Marco.
I knew that name as well. She was the gossip columnist for the paper and made a living spreading rumors—the juicier the better. Whether they were true or not was secondary.
"What did she want?" I asked.
Faux Dad licked his lips. "Well, she started asking about Dog."
"Just like TMZ did," Marco added.
"Yes, but then her questions veered off into more personal territory. About me. She wanted to know when I'd first moved to LA, where I got my start, where I was from…" He trailed off, giving me a pointed look. "Maddie, I think she knows."
"Knows?" I asked.
Faux Dad licked his lips. "About…you know. My background." His eyes darted to a pair of women toting Hermes bags who were getting mani-pedis nearby. They didn't seem to be paying us any attention, but Fernando looked nervous anyway. "My real background," he emphasized in hushed tones.
Marco nodded emphatically. "She even mentioned something about the weather this time of year in Iowa. Iowa, Maddie!"
That didn't sound good. "What did you say?" I asked.
"Well, I wasn't sure what to say!" Fernando did more hand wringing. "She was relentless. She said…" He turned to Marco. "How did she put it?"
"She said it was 'funny' no one 'has a record' of a Fernando before the salon opened." Marco narrowed his heavily lined eyes at the memory of the interrogation. "As if there was something untoward there!"
Untoward, no. Not totally Kosher…well, maybe.
As if reading my thoughts, Faux Dad said, "Maddie, I'm afraid she's planning to print something in her gossip column. Something to"—more leaning and mock whispering—"out me."
At one point in his relationship with my mother, I would have thought he meant as gay. Now I knew it was just as Midwestern. Which, in Hollywood, was possibly the bigger sin.
I was about to ask exactly what Fernando had told her when the little bell over the front doors rang, signaling a newcomer.
"Oh, Maddie, you beat me here," Mom said, bustling into the lobby in a pink polo shirt and a denim skort. Yes, skort. Apparently they still existed.
"Hi, Mom," I said, giving her a wave. I noticed Mrs. Rosenblatt enter the salon behind her, waddling in a way that made her hibiscus printed muumuu sway from side to side. "Hi, Mrs. Rosenblatt."
"Hi, bubbee," she answered. "Oy, it's gonna be a scorcher out there. I've got boob sweat already."
Ick. Now I had to try to get that image out of my head.
"Oh, darling, look at you!" Mom frowned at Faux Dad. "You look so pale." She rushed forward, putting her hand on Faux Dad's unnaturally tanned forehead.
"I'll be alright," Faux Dad said, giving her a smile.
"How's your blood pressure? Have you taken it lately? You know you're not supposed to get worked up. Dr. Holcomb said so."
"I-I'm sure it's fine," he reassured her.
"You look shiny. Are you sweating? Do you feel warm?"
"Your aura looks a little puce," Mrs. R said, squinting at him.
"Puce?" Faux Dad frowned. "Is that bad?"
"Well, it's no magenta, let me tell you," Mrs. R said with a knowing chuckle.
"It's the reporters," Marco jumped in. "They've been hounding him all morning."
"Reporters!" Mom said, turning a concerned glare his way. "How did reporters get in? Did you let them in?"
Marco put two hands up in a surrender motion. "Don't look at me! I told that guy from TMZ where he could shove his camera."
"Come on," Mom said, grabbing Faux Dad by the arm and steering him toward the back of the salon. "You need to sit down and rest."
"I've got some sage in my bag somewhere," Mrs. R said, reaching into her purse. "We could do some smudging."
I almost felt bad for Faux Dad as the two whisked him away, fussing over him. But honestly, from the sag of relief to his shoulders, I thought he could use the fussing.
"So," Marco said once they'd cleared the lobby, "what are we going to do?"
"Do?" I asked.
"About Tina Bender," Marco prodded. "We can't let her out Fernando. It would ruin him!"
I bit my lip. "I'm sure Tina has much bigger items on her desk right now."
"She mentioned Iowa, Maddie. You know Ralph was born just outside Dubuque!"
I actually hadn't. Fernando rarely talked about his life in America's heartland before his transformation into the European stylist to the stars.
"I don't know if there's anything we can do," I said.
"Don't you have a friend who works at the Informer?"
Friend was probably overstating the relationship a bit. Felix Dunn was the Informer's Editor in Chief, and we had a history that was complicated. It had started with him stalking me for a story and ended with a kiss in a castle in England. But that was a different story from a long time ago—before Married with Children Maddie. "I know the editor," I hedged.
"Well talk to him! Tell him to leave Fernando alone. Rein in that Tina person and kill the story before she outs him to the whole of Beverly Hills."
I pursed my lips. While asking Felix for a favor didn't feel quite comfortable, Marco did have a point. I knew Fernando had worked hard to earn his place among the West Coast's most fashionable, and they'd be less than forgiving if they knew they'd been had all this time. The only thing money hated worse than a bad perm was to be made a fool of.
"I guess I do have a little time before I need to get to work…"
"Fabulous!" Marco said, a smile hitting his lips. Painted ruby red today. "Just let me grab my bag and tell Fernando that I'm taking an extended lunch. I wouldn't dream of letting you go alone."
That much I'd already guessed.
* * *
The L.A. Informer offices were located on Hollywood Boulevard, hovering between the touristy part of town and the part of town it was best not to enter after dark. The building was done in the Spanish revival style that much of old Hollywood was, but this one had been neglected and left to fade in the sun, its once white stucco now a dingy beige that had seen one too many smoggy summers.
I parked my minivan in the half-filled lot, and Marco and I rode up in the elevators to the second floor where the tabloid's offices were located. As soon as the doors opened, the sounds of keyboards clacking, muffled telephone conversations, and raucous laughter from the back rooms greeted us. While I knew the paper was mainly digital these days, I could still smell the lingering notes of toner in the air from eras gone by when the ancient Xerox machine in the corner saw daily action.