Since I was up anyway, I made a pot of strong coffee and hit the shower, doing a blow-dry and mousse thing afterward. As a concession to the pint of B &J’s I had single-handedly consumed the night before, I pulled on a comfortable pair of navy blue gaucho pants, paired with a tank top, navy shrug and knee-high brown calfskin boots. Overall, a pretty decent look for a breezy October day. Breezy translating to seventy-five and sunny, instead of the summer’s eighty-five and sunny forecast. We don’t believe in weather in L.A. any more than we believe in public transportation.

After a couple swipes of mascara and a touch of Raspberry Perfection on my lips, I was out the door.

Fernando’s salon was located on the ultra chic corner of Brighton and Beverly Boulevard, one block north of Rodeo, smack in the middle of the Beverly Hills Golden Triangle. When Faux Dad had arrived on the west coast from Minnesota, he was just plain Ralph, a slightly paunchy, pale, middle-aged hairdresser. Knowing no one in L.A. would get their hair done at a salon called Ralph’s, he reinvented himself with a fictitious Spanish ancestry, spray-on tans twice a week, a salon in a prime Beverly Hills location and voila-Fernando was born, stylist to the very rich and semi-famous.

In addition to his cut and color talents, Faux Dad also had a passion for interior decorating. (Mom swears he’s not gay, though I still have my doubts.) Currently Faux Dad was going through a Tuscan phase, painting the walls with a rusty orange glaze and hanging bunches of plastic red grapes and leafy vines from the rafters. Gilt frames surrounding oil paintings of vineyards adorned the walls, and soft classical music mixed with the sounds of blow-dryers, sprayers, and juicy Beverly gossip. All in all, it was an atmosphere that screamed for a glass of pricey merlot.

“Maddie!” Marco, the receptionist, skipped out from behind his slick-looking computer as I entered the salon, attacking me with air kisses. Marco was slim enough, pretty enough, and wore enough eye makeup to compete on America’s Next Top Model, and probably win. “How are you, dahling?” he asked in an accent that was pure San Francisco.

“Suffering from a Ben & Jerry’s hangover.”

Marco clucked his tongue. “Aw, poor baby.”

“Are Mom and Ralph in yet?”

“Fernando,” Marco emphasized, chastising me with his heavily lined eyes, “is doing a body wave for Mrs. Simpson.” He leaned in, gesturing to the back of the salon. “Jessica’s Mom.”

“Ah.” I looked past the “crumbling” palazzo walls of the reception area and spotted Ralph talking to a blonde under a beehive dryer. “What about Mom?”

“Your mother’s in the back, doing a waxing for that psychic lady.”

That “psychic lady” was Mom’s best friend, Mrs. Rosenblatt. Mrs. Rosenblatt was a three-hundred-pound, five-time divorcee who favored muumuus in neon colors and talked to the dead through her spirit guide, Albert. Eccentric didn’t even begin to describe Mrs. Rosenblatt.

She and my mother met years ago when Mom went to Mrs. Rosenblatt for a psychic reading and claimed Mrs. R’s predictions came true the very next day. Okay, so the dark, handsome stranger she was supposed to meet turned out to be Barney, a chocolate Lab, but that was close enough for Mom. They’ve been firm friends ever since and Mom never goes more than five days without an aura cleanse from Mrs. R.

I thanked Marco and made my way through the humming dryers and chemical smells of the salon to the back room, reserved for fat wraps and facial waxing. At least, I hoped to god she was doing a facial. I’d only had one cup of coffee and witnessing Mrs. Rosenblatt get a bikini wax called for at least two cups. With a couple shots of whiskey.

I gave a tentative knock on the door.

“Uh, Mom? Got a sec?” I asked, slipping into the room painted with a fresco of the Italian hillside along the walls.

I was relieved to find Mom hovering over Mrs. Rosenblatt’s mustache, though I cringed just a little at her outfit. I love my mother. I really do. I just wish she didn’t insist on getting dressed in the dark. She was wearing electric blue stretch pants, pink leg warmers and a pink sweatshirt with the neck hole cut out, along with a pair of black high-top L.A. Gear sneakers, the likes of which I hadn’t seen since 1986. I think she was going for Jane Fonda chic but fell somewhere closer to Sweatin’ to the Oldies.

“Hi, hon,” she greeted me, waving a wax strip in my direction. “What brings you here?”

“You need a waxing?” Mrs. Rosenblatt asked, squinting at my upper lip. “Your mom’s a whiz with the wax.”

“Uh, no, I’m fine. Thanks.”

“You sure?” Mrs. R squinted again. “’Cause I could swear I see a little dust up there.”

I self-consciously felt my upper lip.

“’Course, you know Albert says there are some cultures that prize hairy women,” she continued.

Albert would know. In his earthly existence, Mrs. R claimed her spirit guide had been a New York Times fact checker.

“But then again, here in La-La-land hairy just means you ain’t been to the salon in a while. If I wanna get a date with that fox on the senior bowling league, I gotta lose the mustache.” Mrs. R winked at me. “The fox is Italian. They got them big hands and big noses and big…”

“Okay, hold still now.”

I’ll say this for my mother: She has excellent timing.

Mom pressed a strip onto Mrs. R’s upper lip, thankfully ceasing the flow of too-much-information before she could describe the fox’s other attributes.

“So, what does bring you down here today?” Mom asked, smoothing hot wax down in all directions.

“Well, I, I, uh…” I paused, not sure how best to drop the bombshell that my paternal half had not only contacted me, but might be dead in a ditch somewhere. “See I got this phone call, and…”

Mom looked up, waiting for me to finish, a small frown settling between her thickly penciled eyebrows. “What is it, Mads?”

I decided the least cruel way to do it was quick and painless, like ripping off a Band-Aid. Or a waxy bit of upper lip hair.

“Larry called me.”

Mom froze, her face going a shade of pale Nicole Kidman would be jealous of. Her mouth did an empty open and shut thing like a goldfish, then clamped into a thin tight line. “I see.”

She grabbed a corner of the wax strip and yanked with a force that made me cringe.

Mrs. Rosenblatt howled like a coyote.

So much for painless.

“Mom, are you okay?” I asked as she attacked the left side of Mrs. R’s face.

“Fine.” Mom’s lips were starting to turn white from being clamped together so tightly.

I rushed on, afraid she might attack my dust next. “Look, I didn’t mean to upset you, but he called last night and left a message on my machine. Only he didn’t say where he was calling from or leave a number or anything. He said he saw my name in the papers and…he needed my help.”

Mom’s lips remained clamped as she ripped the second strip. Tears welled in Mrs. Rosenblatt’s eyes.

“Oy, I hope that fox is worth this,” Mrs. R wailed, rubbing her lip.

Mom took a deep breath, closing her eyes in a little mini meditation. “What kind of help?” she finally asked.

“I don’t know. He…the machine cut him off before he could say.” No sense in mentioning the gunshot until I knew for sure that it was one. Besides, Mom was proving to be dangerous with a wax kit in her hands, and despite the reasonable person in me, I was beginning to fear her.

“I see,” she said, clamping her lips together again.

I cleared my throat, wishing I didn’t have to do this. “Look, I know you two…” I trailed off, her eyes boring into me beneath her 1984 powder-blue eye shadow. “I know he ditched us for a showgirl, which makes him maybe not your favorite person.”

Mom made a sound like a snort.

“But despite all that, he is still my dad. And, well, I need to know. Do you know where he might be-”

But Mom cut me off, advancing on me with a fresh wax strip. “Madison Louise Springer, I refuse to discuss the man.”

I took one giant step back. When she used my full name, I knew she was serious. Generally my very Irish, very Catholic grandmother was the only person who called me Madison. Mom had only used my full name twice that I can remember. Once was in seventh grade, when I’d been caught under the bleachers with a high school sophomore, prompting Mom to explain in exhausting detail about the birds, the bees, and why I should wait until I was thirty to have any contact with the opposite sex again. And the second time was when I’d accidentally maxed out her credit card in a bout of post-breakup shopping when I was eighteen. That had earned me an entire summer working at Hot Dog on a Stick to pay her back. (I still have nightmares about those hats.)

“He left,” Mom said. “End of story.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but was stopped by Mrs. Rosenblatt laying a thick palm on my forehead.

“Hold on, bubbee, I’m getting a vision.” Mrs. Rosenblatt rolled her eyes back in her head until she looked like an extra from Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” video. “I see feathers and lipstick. Lots of red lipstick.” She paused. “Did your father ever work in cosmetics testing?”

Mom and I did a simultaneous eye roll and Mom threw her hands up in the air in surrender. “Maddie, I honestly don’t know where he is,” she said.

I watched her for a second, trying to decide if I believed her. “But even if you did, you wouldn’t tell me, would you?”

She set her mouth in that thin line again and shook her head.

Part of me understood her anger. I mean, the man had left her alone with a young child to raise on her own. And I could only imagine the sting of being left for a five foot gazillion inch showgirl. That had to hurt. I tried to picture how I’d feel if I found out Ramirez had been shacked up with some topless dancer. Not too happy. And we were only dating! (Sort of. If you called one half naked encounter six weeks ago dating. Which, for lack of any other action, I did.) But I honestly couldn’t imagine what he might have done that was so bad she didn’t want me to even meet him. Just once.