Damage Control Makes the Perfect Gift : Stepping outside, we noticed a neon sign above another store. “Love For Sale,” it said. “Wow,” I said, “that Heidi Fleiss sure moves fast.”
“Aaaaiiieee!”
The scream soared above the holiday crowd at Kay-Bee Toys.
“She bit me! She bit me!” the little girl yelped.
Shoppers stopped and stared. Mom lifted the weeping tyke into her arms. “Who bit you, Tiffany darling?”
The girl pointed to a blonde, blue-eyed doll--a tiny mannequin wearing a gray suit and carrying a briefcase. The doll’s eyes met mine.
“Barbie bit me!”
Mom carried the child into the mall. Shoppers went about their business. Mom, clearly, had seen Tiffany act up before.
I looked again toward my old friend, Deputy Mayor Barbie. Her expression said one thing.
“Get me out of here!”
*
“What was I supposed to do?” Deputy Mayor Barbie said. “The little brat was trying to undress me!”
We were at Mrs. Fields. I ordered oatmeal raisin. Barbie nibbled on the crumbs.
It had been a while since we talked, but I understood. Deputy Mayor Barbie, Mayor Riordan’s plastic quid pro quo from the Mattel Corp., has a tough job. Usually the mayor stations her in his breast pocket so she can whisper advice. It was odd to run into her at the Sherman Oaks Galleria.
“I know these places aren’t safe for me,” she acknowledged. “But I’m at my wit’s end. What kind of Christmas present do you get for a man who has everything?”
Now I understood. What kind of gift do you buy Dick Riordan? Here is a guy who’s worth about $100 million. A guy who became L. A.’s mayor in his first run for office. A mayor who is remarkably popular--at least so far.
Even when he’s screwed up, he’s been quick to make amends. Barbie’s job is damage prevention and damage control. Remember how petty and parochial Riordan looked when, as Malibu went up in flames, he boasted on national TV that not a single home had been damaged within L. A. city limits? Barbie wasn’t with him that morning. She was too busy saving her Malibu Dream House. The next day he apologized, no doubt at Barbie’s suggestion.
It’s not that Mayor Riordan doesn’t have needs. He wants money to hire a few thousand more cops to keep his campaign promises--or at least enough money to prevent “the blue flu.” He’d love to find a saintly business wizard to take over Rebuild L. A. But you can’t find this stuff in the Sharper Image catalogue.
So we brainstormed. Riordan likes books, I pointed out.
“He owns 40,000,” Barbie muttered. “How would I know he doesn’t already have it?”
Well, I suggested, what Irishman wouldn’t like a fine bottle of whiskey?
“Very funny,” Barbie barked. “His last DUI was in ’75 and you media creeps won’t leave it alone!”
Sheesh. Barbie may be my friend, but she can be a real you-know-what sometimes.
As my mood darkened, another idea took form. Riordan’s a devout Catholic, right? Pals around with Cardinal Mahoney. Helped buy the archdiocese a helicopter. . . .
“What is it?” Barbie demanded.
I was thinking about how, when the pontiff visited L. A. a few years back, street vendors were selling Pope-Soap-on-a-Rope.
“Oh, nothing,” I said. “Nothing at all.”
“Maybe I should just get him another red tie,” Barbie sighed. “Or some Old Spice.”
We trudged on, hoping to stumble across that perfect gift. A store called Games People Play had possibilities. There was Acquire, described as “a game of high finance,” but Barbie figured her boss had already played and won in real life. She studied a few other games--Empire Builder, Feudal and Road to the White House. None seemed quite right.
Stepping outside, we noticed a neon sign above another store. “Love For Sale,” it said. “Wow,” I said, “that Heidi Fleiss sure moves fast.”
Imagine my embarrassment when we stepped inside to find puppies and kittens and cockatoos. It was a pet store. You could almost see the light bulb go off over the deputy mayor’s blonde head.
“Albertine!” she cried.
Barbie beamed. Albertine is Mayor Riordan’s favorite pet Yorkie. She and two other Yorkshire terriers, Minnie and Tessie, have the run of his Brentwood mansion. And they aren’t exactly house trained.
“Smells like a kennel,” Barbie said.
She passed on the pooper-scooper and decided instead on a jar of Nature’s Miracle, a stain and odor remover.
Barbie was so pleased with herself that I kept my mouth shut. But she could tell that this wasn’t my idea of a spiffy Christmas gift.
“Damage control,” the deputy mayor explained. “Hey, I might even be able to expense it.”
