Born to Be Wild (3 page)

Carlo grabbed the sunglasses and slipped them back over Mary Lisa's eyes. “Don't you watch
Born to Be Wild
? It's the best soap on TV, noon every day on Channel Five. Mary Lisa won the Emmy for Best Actress, the third year in a row. Never been done before.”

MacKenzie shrieked. “Oh my God, you're Sunday Cavendish! Oh my, I see—the bitch goddess! But you don't look like her, you look like a regular person, kind of ratty, actually, but that's okay. You don't look like a bitch, but someone sure tried to run you down. Maybe it's revenge, you know? Oh goodness, Honey Boy, no, no, sweetie, don't lick her mouth.”

Carlo's face faded from Mary Lisa's view, but he kept his surfboard above her to shade her from the sun. The pain in her hip started drumming big time now.

The tsunami had hit hard. She felt dizzy and light-headed, nauseated. She swallowed. No way was she going to vomit. She heard Honey Boy panting close to her ear. When she finally heard a paramedic shouting for people to move aside, she wanted to sing hallelujahs.

As they strapped an oxygen mask on her nose and loaded her gently onto a gurney to put her in the ambulance, she heard MacKenzie announce, “I helped save Sunday Cavendish's life. I'm a nurse by nature, Lena Cross, Angel of the Andes.”

Honey Boy barked.

And suddenly Puker was there, snapping photos over a paramedic's shoulder, grinning down at her like a maniac.

“I've got a restraining order on you, Puker. I'm going to put you in jail for this.” She didn't know if she'd said the words out loud because Puker didn't stop clicking until a paramedic shoved him out of the way.

“Nah, the restraining order expired last week,” Puker called out, and snapped more photos.

“Get out of the way, you moron,” a woman said. “Not you, dear. You hang in there. We'll have you to the hospital in under twelve minutes.” Mary Lisa felt a hand on her forearm. She felt it stroking her even as she floated away.

UCLA Medical Clinic in Santa Monica

Mary Lisa sat on the edge of the stainless steel gurney, her sneakered feet dangling. She felt wonderfully loopy. She wiggled her hip. No pain, not a single zing. Drugs were magic. She started singing Lennon and McCartney's “Yesterday.” It didn't alarm her that she seemed to be watching herself from about three feet away, marveling at how silly she looked and how sweet her voice sounded, even though she wasn't in the shower. She lifted the hideous open-backed blue paper sackcloth and gingerly eased down her panties to look at the continent of bruises spreading on her hip. A little bit like Australia, she decided. Perhaps by evening, at the rate it was growing, she'd be a billboard for India. She knew, objectively, that the bruise was going to make her whimper once the drugs wore off, but for now, she fancied the fast-spreading green splotches were mountains. Maybe there would be a yellow blob right in the middle for Ayers Rock.

At least she hadn't needed stitches anywhere. But she could see the directors' eyes rolling back in their heads when they saw the scrapes and bruises on her arms and neck. Because of the grinding schedule, there were four directors now on
Born to Be Wild
, each responsible for one or more hour of airtime a week. Mavis in wardrobe, who loved to turn Sunday out with lots of skin showing, wouldn't be happy either. She studied the half dozen Band-Aids dotted here and there, and thought them very nicely designed.

Strange that they'd left her alone all of a sudden. They were probably waiting for the pain meds to kick in so they wouldn't have to hear her whine. She hadn't really whined much, she'd been pretty stoic, truth be told, only whimpered a bit.

She eased her panties back up and pulled the crinkly paper gown over her as best she could, not that she really cared. She threw back her head to finish giving her all to “Yesterday.” When she was four years old, she hadn't understood it very well, but she'd had a great little memory.

A man stuck his head through the curtain, not a doctor, but a lovely slender man in a light sports coat and tan slacks. He was in his early thirties, black haired, with soft brown eyes that nonetheless looked quite shrewd. At the moment he also looked amused as he stood there politely, evidently waiting for her to finish the song. She grinned at him, cocked her head, and asked, “And you would be…?”

He stuck out his hand, gently took hers. “Hello, Ms. Beverly. I'm Detective Vasquez of the Lost Hills Station in Calabasas. We handle any problems in Malibu. Let me say that I like how you sing that song, as do most of the people in the waiting room. In fact there was a bit of a singalong happening. Sounds like you're a happy camper.”

“Ain't drugs great? And they're legal so you can't arrest me. Do you know what? I really like police officers.” She realized she was still holding his hand. She didn't want to let go because his hand was big and warm. When he finally managed to get his hand back, he lightly patted her on the shoulder. “Hey, Deputy Lindstrom said you played kissyface with a car.”

“More like kissy-hip,” Mary Lisa said and touched her fingertips to her side. “I'm growing a bruise the size of a continent, Australia, most likely. It's got mountains and valleys. Do you think it'd be okay if purple represented rivers?”

“Why not?” He stared at her, his eyes crinkling in amusement again, but his voice was quite serious. “The doctors say you were very lucky, that you're not really hurt.” He smiled, showing white teeth and kindness. “You're an actress, right?”

She nodded. “Much of the time, yeah.”

“There's a photographer out there, a skinny guy with sharp eyes who made me as a cop. I got rid of him, but he's probably a lurker. You know him?”

“His name's Puker Hodges and you described him perfectly. He's good at what he does. He can disappear behind a dead bush when he wants to. I saw him in Malibu today before that car hit me. The jerk snapped pictures of me when they were loading me into the ambulance. He must have followed the ambulance here. I wonder how long it will be before one of them shows up on the cover of the
National Enquirer
.”

“If you're recognizable, not long at all, I would imagine. Puker?”

“That's what I call him. I think his real name is Poker. That's weird too, isn't it?”

Detective Vasquez pulled out a small notebook and a pen. “I hear you're a soap star.”

She nodded. “I play Sunday Cavendish on
Born to Be Wild
.”

He stared at her a moment, then grinned real big and shook her hand again. “A real pleasure, ma'am. I thought you looked familiar.
Born to Be Wild
is the soap of choice at the sheriff 's department. We all get a kick out of the ‘jugular' dialogue. You get amazing reactions. You're everyone's favorite.”

She sat there, sneakered feet dangling, and preened, but only for a moment. Then she gave a deep sigh. “That's nice, thanks for telling me. Now, I don't suppose you caught the jerk who hit me?”

“Not yet, and that's why I'm here.”

He'd dropped his voice a half octave and he sounded dead serious again.

“Oh dear. You stopped smiling and my hip started throbbing at the same time. Bummer.”

Nurse Blenkens whisked back the flimsy curtain at the edge of the alcove and stopped short when she saw the man. “You must be the police officer, right?”

“Detective Vasquez, ma'am.”

Nurse Blenkens said, “You'll have to leave for a moment. You can speak to her once I've helped her get dressed.” She pointed unceremoniously toward the hallway and started untying Mary Lisa's gown.

“Sure thing. I'll be outside in the waiting room, Ms. Beverly.” Bless her cop, he pulled the curtain closed on his way out.

When Mary Lisa was back in her clothes, Nurse Blenkens said, “I really like that T-shirt. There's just a little smudge on it. You're hurting again, aren't you? It's all right, I only gave you enough of the doctor's order to take the edge off, to see how you'd react to it. Since you're not driving, I can give you another shot before you leave, if you like.”

She was soon rubbing Mary Lisa's arm where she'd pulled out the needle. “Now, here are the pain meds I promised you. You can take one every four hours. They should keep you singing—there was an old guy with a broken leg in the waiting room singing along with you. Nice. Now remember you promised to check with your doctor on Monday. Come back if you feel ill or the pain gets worse. There's going to be a big bruise on your hip, nothing for it except maybe some ice. The doctors all say it's superficial. You'll have to wait for it to fade, I'm afraid, actress or not. I'm sure all your makeup people can cover the smaller bruises on your face and shoulders. Oh, yes, would you give me your autograph? It's for my nephew, Tommy. He's a grotty little thirteen-year-old, but an excellent snow-boarder. Makes his parents hopeful.”

Mary Lisa signed the back of a prescription form and slowly eased off the gurney. She was beginning to feel quite fine again. She touched her fingertips to the bruise on her hip. “Thanks for everything. Do you know, about my bruise, I'm now thinking India—lots of fine and varied topography,” She shook Nurse Blenken's hand. “Have I told you how much I love drugs?”

“And they love you too. Just stay away from that stuff you shoot between your toes.”

“The only thing I put near my toes is nail polish. Usually a nice coral.”

Nurse Blenkens nodded, but without a hint of a smile. Mary Lisa wasn't sure she'd believed her. “No, really, it's usually coral, but I'm leaning toward French now, same as my fingernails. What do you think?” She thrust her dirty hand toward the nurse and wiggled her fingers.

Nurse Blenkens studied her nails. “You're going to need some repair. Now, Ms. Beverly, you go home and take to your bed until tomorrow morning, all right? Since you've been so nice, maybe you could sign an autograph to Dr. Murray's wife, Marge. He was too embarrassed to ask. He said she hates Sunday and tapes all your shows.”

“Sure,” Mary Lisa said and signed the back of another prescription form. “I'm always telling the writers not to redeem Sunday too often, my alter ego and I are having too much fun.”

Ten minutes later Detective Vasquez helped Mary Lisa into his brown Crown Victoria.

“Hey, I've never been in a slick before. This is very cool.”

He grinned at her. “You know the idiom. I don't know where that name came from. My old boss always called the detectives' cars ‘plain wrapped,' since they're always one solid color, usually boring. Okay, I don't see Puker Hodges.”

As he maneuvered out of the parking lot, he said, “I'm a little surprised that you weren't surrounded by people from the studio by now, your friends, your agent, people like that, insisting on taking you home.”

“Actually you saved me from all that, and I'm really glad to be getting out of there without any press showing up. I wouldn't call the studio people unless I was on life support. As for my agent, thankfully, he's in Istanbul, taking a long-overdue vacation. I'll call my friends when my brain is less squirrelly.”

“What's his name?”

“Marvin Leftwich, with Trident Media, in L.A.”

He nodded and turned right onto the highway. He looked into his rearview mirror, frowned.

“What's wrong? Do you see something?”

“A dark four-door sedan. No, don't look back.” He smiled. “It's okay, he turned off on Topanga Beach.” He gave her a reassuring smile. “Stop worrying, let me do that. Okay, when I checked in with the station, they wanted you to know they have a weekly betting pool going about what Sunday Cavendish is going to do next. Detective Farber asked me to get the inside scoop.”

“You can tell her I honestly don't know myself, but she should remember I'm bad to the bone.”

Mary Lisa leaned her head back and closed her eyes. “And she knows they like to push the envelope with Sunday.”

“And yet she remains sympathetic.”

“Amazing, isn't it?”

“You feeling all right, Ms. Beverly?”

She said without opening her eyes, “Compared to lying on the sidewalk with a toy poodle named Honey Boy licking my mouth, yeah, I'll take it.” Mary Lisa roused herself enough to call Lou Lou. When Detective Vasquez pulled up beside the Colony kiosk, she called out, “Chad, it's me. I was hit by a car, but I'm okay. This is Detective Vasquez. He'll probably be coming around again, so please let him in.”

Chad came around to the passenger side of the car, poked his head in, examined her face. “I heard about some asshole hitting you, not two blocks from here. You sure you're okay?”

“Yeah, I promise, only temporary agony.”

Chad frowned over that. “I also heard it was on purpose. Carlo saw it all.”

Mary Lisa said to Detective Vasquez, “Carlo Spinelli is one of my neighbors. He used to own a computer company up in Silicon Valley, sold out ten years ago and moved down here. He's a great surfer, even gives some lessons. He came right after I was lying on the road.”

“I know Carlo,” Detective Vasquez said.

Chad backed away and waved them in. He called after them, “Cool slick you're driving, Detective!”

Detective Vasquez grinned and patted the dashboard of the Crown Vic.

The Colony, originally known as the Malibu Motion Picture Colony when it was established back in the 1920s, was now simply known as the Colony. Bing Crosby, Ronald Coleman, Gary Cooper, and Gloria Swanson were only a few of the early arrivals who built cottages on the beautiful, pristine stretch of beach. They came to play in privacy. There were two long rows of houses, all set close together, half of them on the ocean side, the others across a narrow street. The houses ranged from palatial to an occasional small cottage. The Colony extended all the way down to Malibu Lagoon State Beach, separated from the public land by a high rusted fence. Even though it was private, with only residents and their guests allowed in, anyone could duck under that fence and walk in. But no cars could get in, not unless the folk at the kiosk weren't paying attention, which rarely happened.

She directed Detective Vasquez about two-thirds down Malibu Colony Road to her small ocean-side beach house. “Another twenty houses and we'd be in the Malibu Lagoon State Beach. Always lots of action there, big-time surfing. It's Carlo's favorite place. Actually, there's lots of action all over the beach.”

“Nothing would surprise me in this town.” Detective Vasquez paused a moment. “But you know, Malibu isn't a real town, which sounds strange, but I've always thought that.”

She grinned. “Come on now, we have a mayor, we have a high school, we have chiropractors. But I know what you mean. Truth is I think of it as a special place, my own special place.” She directed him into her driveway.

“Hey, nice house.”

Mary Lisa beamed at him. She was still excited about her two-story cottage, all glass and redwood, built back in the early '80s, and all hers, her very first home, bought and paid for. “I purchased it from an older actress, a friend of Elizabeth Fargas—she's also a friend of mine—who gave me a good price. She wanted to move back to Nebraska. Go figure that. I step off my back porch and get sand fleas between my toes in under five minutes. And then I dive in the waves and the fleas drown.”

He laughed. “An example of nature's balance.” He pulled in behind a bright red Mustang convertible. He opened her unlocked door and walked directly into a large, high-ceilinged living room. He helped her ease down on a bright red-and-white-striped sofa. It was one of three colorful sofas set about the big room with at least half a dozen chairs and love seats interspersed among them. Bright geometric rugs were scattered on the oak floor. Pale light poured in through all the windows. “You've got lots of places to sit.”

“I've got lots of friendly neighbors who are always dropping by. I started out with one sofa and chair and just kept adding.”

Yes, he thought, she'd have lots of friends. She seemed just plain nice, and funny, at least when she was drugged up. He watched her look thoughtful and open her mouth, but she seemed to forget what she was going to say.

He said, “Nice and bright in here. Makes you smile, I'll bet. You're looking a bit peaked, Ms. Beverly. Your friend coming over soon?”

Mary Lisa nodded. “Her name's Lou Lou Bollinger, one of the makeup artists for
Born to Be Wild
. She's a bit freaked out so I'm hoping she won't get a speeding ticket getting over here.”

“Interesting name.”

“Wait 'til you meet her. She's the best, excellent at her job. I'm going to have her fix me up before anyone else sees me.”

“There's more than one makeup person on the show?”

“There are at least twelve actors shooting any given day, so the four makeup people we have are kept busy, but Lou Lou always does me.”

“Can I get you anything? Tea, water? All right then, you sit back and relax and we can get started if it's okay with you.” At her nod, he took out his notebook again and sat down on the green patterned love seat facing her. “You told me you ducked into the army salvage store in the Country Mart to avoid Puker Hodges?”

“Yep. I bought this wonderful pea green T-shirt—”

He liked how that green T-shirt looked on her, noticed the dirt, and nodded for her to continue.

She went through it all slowly, he asked questions and she remembered more, then finally, “…I was lying flat on my back on a gurney, a paramedic placing an oxygen mask over my nose, and there was Puker, hovering over me, snapping photos. You know the rest.”

He looked thoughtful. “I don't recognize the description of the bag lady you gave one of your T-shirts to, but someone will since we don't have many homeless people in Malibu. I'll check her out.”

“She loved the T-shirt. I'll bet she's still wearing it.”

“We'll locate her. Now, about Carlo. Well, everyone knows Carlo. Did you go to his birthday party last month? A cookout on the beach thrown by Ben Affleck?”

“I couldn't make it. A friend on
OLTL
—
One Life to Live
—had a baby shower. I heard Carlo gave midnight surfing lessons to fifty drunk naked people.”

“Sounds about right. Carlo just turned seventy, can you believe that?”

Mary Lisa nodded. “He's taught a couple dozen stars how to surf over the years.”

“Okay, let's get back to it. Carlo swore to my deputy that this guy ran you down on purpose, no way it was a hit and run.”

“As best as I can remember how it happened, yes, it was on purpose. He wasn't weaving around like he was drunk. He came right at me.”

“Now, MacKenzie Corman, the wannabe actress with the white poodle. I've seen her around. I'll speak to her as well. You're sure the dark car that hit you was a Buick LeSabre?”

“Lou Lou owns a powder blue LeSabre, a 2000 model. It was identical to hers as far as I could tell, except for the color. It was black, possibly, or really dark blue.”

“Excellent. It was the front left fender that struck your side?”

Mary Lisa closed her eyes, pictured herself being knocked to the street in that frozen moment, and slowly nodded. “Yeah, it hit me pretty hard. You think maybe I left a dent in the fender?”

“Not likely, but who knows? We'll get a list of all dark four-door 2000 LeSabres registered in the area, see if you recognize any of the owners' names. You said you didn't see who was driving. No feeling if it was a man or a woman?”

She shook her head.

He paused a moment, then said matter-of-factly, “This might have been a hit and run, someone who was drunk, hit you and was afraid to stay. If I didn't know Carlo, how reliable he is, I'd be leaning toward an accidental hit. But the deputy told me Carlo swore the guy hit you on purpose. So until proved otherwise, we'll treat this as an intentional act. Now, do you know of anyone who might be dangerous, or have a problem with you—like an old boyfriend, a business associate, whatever?”

Lou Lou said from the living room doorway, “The moron who tried to run her down could have been Paulie Thomas. You know how weird he is, Mary Lisa. Half a dozen people at work believe he's going to poison Sunday Cavendish with a Danish.”