dancing queen (beck oliver)

9. indigo ophelia's day off (pt 2)

they sped off towards los angeles. indie threw her hat to the breeze, whooping. she was left in a white yves st. laurent t-shirt tucked into rippled mom jeans with a white birkin bag and strappy white louboutin heels. she ignored tori's pleas to slow down as they neared los angeles.

back at hollywood arts, abby was connecting donations in a little tin can labelled "save indie".

"oliver home on line one," grace said in sikowitz's office. "and watch your mouth this time."

sikowitz gave her a dirty look and picked up the phone, but after the full thirty seconds of ringing with no answer it went to voicemail.

"we can't come to the phone right now," said beck's voice, shaking like he'd been crying. "there's been a...death in the family!"

"grace, indie dubois is behind this, there is no doubt in my mind," said sikowitz. "and now she's got beck oliver involved in this."

"his grandmother, too," said grace.

"you pinhead," muttered sikowitz.

"if you need to reach us, we'll be at the following number," the voicemail continued, with a few sobs at the end.

grace dialed the number from the other rooom. 

"i did not achieve this position in life by having some bleach blonde supermodel leave my cheese out in the wind," grumbled sikowitz as he picked up the phone, but that call went to voicemail too.

"you have reached the coughlin brother's mortuary," said a woman's voice, though it sounded like she'd been smoking for sixty years. it was, in fact, tori, doing an old smoker's voice. "we are deeply sorry we are unable to come to the phone right now, but if you leave your name and number, we'll get back to you as soon as humanly possible."

sikowitz hung up angrily. "something's going on, goddammit. and i'll find out what it is. i'll catch this kid, and put one hell of a dent in her future. 15 years from now, when she looks back on the ruin her life's become, she'll remember erwin sikowitz."

back in the city, indie had just pulled into a parking garage and stopped to wait for an attendant. 

"wrong," said tori.

"what?" asked indie.

"not here," said tori. "we're not leaving the car here."

"c'mon, why not?" asked beck.

"it could get wrecked. stolen. scratched. breathed on wrong. a pigeon could shit on it. who knows?"

"listen, will ya calm down?" said indie. "gonna give this guy a fiver to watch it."

"what guy?" said beck.

indie inclined her head to a french man in coveralls and fake gold chain. "salut, comment ça va?" [hey, how are ya?]

"bien, et vous?" he responded, sauntering over to them. [well, and you?]

"d'accord, écoute," she said. "je veux que vous preniez un soin particulier à cette voiture, d'accord?" [okay, listen. i want you to take extra special care of this car, you understand?]

they shook hands, and she slipped him the bill. 

"d'accord, pas de problème," said the man. "croyez-moi." [okay, no problem. trust me.]

he turned to tori, who was still sitting in the car. "ma'am," he said, switching to english.

"come on," said indie. "come."

tori got out reluctantly, side-eyeing the greasy looking man.

"relax," the man said to her, getting in the car. "you fellows have nothing to worry about. i'm a professional."