Chore Whore by Heather H. Howard

courtyard full of small shops that have sister shops in Nice and Cannes, I pass through the outside dining area of a small restaurant frequented by an odd assortment of actors, mini-mafiosos and the Secret Service.
    I push open the glass door to a small, dimly lit shop and approach the man behind the counter. He has never given me his name, although I have given him mine as well as all my pertinent information. We have a dance we regularly participate in when I come here. He acts surly and suspicious and I, appreciative and thankful.
    â€œGood morning. I’d like to—”
    â€œI know what you want,” he interrupts. “You’re the one who lives on welfare, right?”
    â€œI beg your pardon?”
    He checks his computer and I look at myself in the mirror. Can he tell I’ve just lost two clients and am heading toward poverty? I feel my shoulders tensing.
    â€œYes, I have it right here, Corki Brown on Wilshire Boulevard!”
    â€œOh, yes, my mailing address is on Wilshire.” God, I’m becoming paranoid. Welfare, Wilshire, whatever. I clear my throat. “I need a full box today.”
    â€œAll right, wait right here.”
    He surreptitiously leaves the shop through the front door, looking both ways before he exits and locks it behind him. I wait at the counter looking at the security cameras watching me. He has a smart system here—we’re both committing crimes and we can implicate each other—me by buying, him by selling.
    He returns with a box wrapped in brown paper. I hand him $1,250 in cash, he counts it, and I leave with a small nod. Always nice doing business in the underworld, where I can’t ask for a receipt and don’t expect one. Thank God Veronique doesn’t ask questions, but trusts me implicitly.
    Walking down Rodeo Drive to Tiffany’s with over a thousand dollars’ worth of Cuban contraband bouncing against my hip, I laugh at the thought. Welfare. I’d scrub toilets again before going on government assistance.
    I scurry up a cobblestone walkway that resembles the streets of Paris and pop into Tiffany’s, excited by my idea for Demi and Woody. My mood immediately deflates when I see Arnold Schwarzenegger and Maria Shriver walk into the same room. I can’t compete with them and it will take me forever to get a salesperson’s attention if I have to wait lurking in the governor’s shadow. I hate to act like this, but I have a schedule to keep and other celebrities can’t get in my way.
    â€œArnold!” I say with so much enthusiasm that I even surprise myself.
    He spins around and looks at me, his brain working overtime to figure out who I am.
    â€œFröhliche Weihnachten!” I say.
    â€œMerry Christmas to you!” Arnold replies.
    â€œYou don’t remember me? I’m Jock Straupman’s assistant!”
    â€œOf course!” he says.
    I cozy in next to them, make small talk about Jock’s well-being and wave to the saleswoman. I put in my order for twelve crystal champagne flutes, pay for them and leave, once more wishing Arnold and Maria a merry Christmas in German.
    Mission accomplished.
    Julia Roberts has the same fondness for angels that I have for antique saint figurines. I drive to West Hollywood, where my favorite antique mall is filled with both, sweep in past the guard, and within five minutes have located a sweet, small, eighteenth-century Italian angel, bare-bummed and blowing a horn. I pay the $675 and take note to tell Veronique that I had to go over the $500 limit.
    One last stop at Almor Liquor for two bottles of champagne and a bottle of cognac for Bob Weinstein and it will complete the shopping portion of my Veronique “project.”
    â€œMary! Merry, merry!” I say, rushing in the front door of Almor.
    â€œHi, Corki,” I hear from behind a pile of wrapping paper, boxes and ribbon. She peeks her blond head out. “You look nice today, what’s the