Carmen heads home to sort her dirty laundry

Carmen drove slowly, trying to get up enough nerve to go back home, not knowing what -- or who -- she’d find there. What happened to the blond thug who’d tried to kill her? Was he cruising the streets looking for her? Or had he returned to her apartment to ransack the place? Wherever he was, she knew he had to be furious, and she knew she never wanted to look into those deranged eyes again.

She let out a long sigh. Throughout her life she’d been impulsive, made bad decisions. Dropping out of college and hitching to L.A. was one of the biggies. And it had gone downhill from there. There’d been a string of menial jobs and loser boyfriends, one of whom introduced her to Jumbo’s Clown Room. Hell, he said, she had the bod, she had the moves: easy money. Easy money, my tattooed behind, she thought.

Dancing was hard work, and pretending to enjoy the groping, clammy hands as drunks stuffed bills into her G-string was even harder. Forcing come-hither smiles and bedroom eyes challenged the best actresses. Not that anyone looked at her eyes -- except one man, that is.

The man she’d known only as Tony -- rich and generous, though somewhat needy. Someone who reached out to her with more than sex in mind, who really seemed to care. A “boyfriend” she’d bragged about to friends.

A man who’d gotten her into more trouble than all the petty-thieving, drug-addled men in her life combined.

And now, for him, she was on the verge of another bad, really bad decision.

Carmen knew she had to get back to her apartment, had to dig through the dirty laundry in her hamper. Because there, beneath the tools of her trade -- the gold lamé bikini, the spangled bras and wispy camisoles -- beneath her comfy wear-at-home sweats and raggedy towels, lay the package Tony had given her two weeks ago.

It was an ordinary, padded business-sized envelope. He’d passed it to her with trembling hands, refused to divulge its contents, made her promise never to open it.

“Hide it somewhere,” he’d said.

“Where?”

“Anywhere out of sight. Don’t tell me where.”

“And then what am I supposed to do?”

Tony’s already pale face turned white. “Nothing -- unless you don’t hear from me for a few days. Then all you need to do is mail it.”

“But . . . “

“Ssshh,” he’d said, placing a finger on her lips. “Just mail it.” He’d stared into her eyes, then looked away. “Better yet, deliver it yourself.”

A blaring horn jerked Carmen out of her reverie. She whipped the car back into her lane, giving the horn-beeper a one-fingered salute, then gassed it toward home.

Although she’d spoken to Tony less than an hour ago, with all that had happened it felt like a few days -- a long few days. And despite everything, she harbored a soft spot for the puppy dog-eyed schmuck. She didn’t want him hurt; she couldn’t sit back and do nothing.

She turned onto Reseda Boulevard, again thinking back to Tony handing her the envelope. She remembered the fright in his eyes, saw his trembling fingers as he’d pointed to the address, heard the certainty in his voice as he’d said, “He’ll know what to do.”

Carmen could see the bold letters as clearly as if they’d been imprinted on her windshield: Steve Lopez, Los Angeles Times.

In a former life, Renee Holland Davidson writes, she co-owned an irrigation supply company. Now she volunteers at Children’s Hospital of Orange County, clips coupons and struggles with an obstinate muse. She insists she “didn’t start writing Chapter 19 with the intention of including Steve Lopez. That’s just where the story led. Honest.”