Hollywood Boulevard (13 page)

    "This is about desire, your wanting to act. Probably not even free choice. Salinger writes it like it's a finger of karma or something, Zooey telling his sister she can't drop out, she
has
to act: No choice in the matter. You walk away from this and you're killing more than just performing. You see where I'm going?"

    "Fits, hold on. . . ."

    "No, listen, if you were a hack, Ardennes Thrush, a canned bit of hot looks with a smear of talent, I'd say, go ahead and quit; sell real estate, buy jewelry. But that's not you, never was, never will be. And you
are
stuck."

    I took a gulp of martini; a lame attempt to feel tough.

    He closed the book and began to recite from it. I'd read the book years ago, and the passage made me want to weep. I lowered my head as I listened.

    "That was quite a performance, Fits," I said after a pause.

    "That's what you have to say? A performance?"

    I was already on my extras pitcher; Fits had hardly touched his drink. I remember him cleaning out the substances about the time we met; I guess he'd stuck to it. Why bother to order the drink? I was feeling fidgety and uncomfortable; how come the martini hadn't deadened my nerves? I hadn't expected this from Fits. Not the performance or what I guessed he was trying to say with it— or do. He'd blindsided me.

    "I found the book in the house. I think it's Missy's. Take it. Read it."

    "Did you memorize that passage, Fits?"

    He looked around the room. A couple of quiet drunks were leaning along the bar in the early part of their daily tie- ons. There was a woman, too old for her tight dress and the man she was with, and the hairdo, and the whole moment began to look done and sad and what was the point anyway? I saw what Fits saw, and here was this book by J. D. Salinger, whom Joe had once called a writer incapable of a false note. It belonged to Fits's daughter, and what was I supposed to do with it?

    "I'm an actor," Fits said. "That's what I do: I work other people's words. I bring them to life if I can; you did that once, remember— very well, as I recall." His tone was almost ugly, his gaze on me as hard as he could muster, which thankfully was not very. "So,
yeah
, I memorized the passage."

    "You did that for me?"

    "It was a slow night."

    "Whaddaya have to go and be all mean about?"

    He took maybe the second sip of his drink.

    "I'll read the book, Fits."

    He stood up, threw a wad of bills on the table and said he had to go. It was pretty clear he loathed me at that moment. Had I broken a lifeline with him too? I looked up. "A person has a right to stop doing something that's slowly killing them."

    "Something's slowly killing us all. What's'a matter, burden'a life got you down? If you were at least— what
are
you doing now?"

    I faced the tablecloth. I felt like a shattered pile of nothing. "Thanks for the drink," I said, not looking at him.

    "Yeah, that's what I thought."

    "I suppose you think it's easy," I said, eyes glued on the pepper shaker. I was afraid of any daggers shooting out of his eyes if I looked up.

    "How long's it been since you worked?"

    I shrugged again. "Two years, I guess." I couldn't get my voice above a hollow whisper.

    "Read the book," he said. "And quit blubbering." When I looked up again, he was gone.

    I was tempted to sit there and order another vodka martini, to drown my sorrows in a nice clear brew with a salty olive to match the salty tears I refused to shed, nurse myself out of thinking I was the heel Fits had all but said I was. Only this was Hollywood and I had once been a player and I was married to Andre Lucerne, so being found alone at a booth in Musso's with a second knockout martini in my hand— and on top of the Harry mess— just wouldn't do. Luckily for me the waiter came over, the old- time type with radar that reads every short story unfolding at his tables. "Can you bring the check, please?" I asked him. Fits left enough cash for four drinks and I left all of it for the waiter, whose discretion I could maybe count on. And maybe not.

    I was back up at the Muse earlier than I'd planned, leaving me with extra, unaccounted- for time that was unaccounted for anyway. I lay down and read the Salinger up to the part where Franny tells her shallow, full- of- himself boyfriend she's quit acting and is having some sort of anorexic episode, a spiritual crisis. She's come to see acting as all about egomania, and she's ashamed. I closed the book, and threw it into the bed- table drawer. There was nothing wrong with
my
appetite. I went out to the sitting room and turned on the TV. Maybe television would dumb my brain down to the mush the martini hadn't.

    The house phone rang. I was beginning to hate that thing enough to want to smash it to bits, fling it over the balcony and then run my rented car over it, back and forth a couple of times until the plastic housing was beaten to smithereens. I shouldn't have picked up. It was a guy from the
Hollywood Reporter
. They were planning on doing a piece on Andre Lucerne's new movie, and—

    I cut him off. "You'll have to speak to Mr. Lucerne's management to arrange that." They knew that, but they'd just learned his wife— me— was in town, and with my background and all, the paper thought—

    You mean you found out I was in town from the lie that maniac Lundy planted in
Variety
, I said to myself. "I'm sorry, I don't give interviews. I'm here with my husband, that's the whole story." He said he'd find an angle. I kept the turndown as polite as I could until he finally let it go. I was not about to agree to a- whatever- happened- to- Ardennes- Thrush feature.

    Christ, what a day! I hoped Andre would be in early. I'd suggest Thai takeout, or I could throw some pasta together. Where was he anyhow; he hadn't called all afternoon. He hadn't even returned my call. Okay, he was busy with the film. Sure, he was busy. I was pacing. I stopped at the big window. The sun was nearly gone all the way into night. I hadn't partially closed the glass curtains as I usually do, ahead of the heavy, room- darkening damask drapes I closed each night before bed. I thought I saw White Shirt standing in his yard, facing me. I was staring hard until I remembered if I could see him, he could see me. I nearly jumped a mile when that stinking house phone rang again. Suppose I ripped the damn line right out of the wall? Trouble is there are two extensions, one here, one in the bedroom; I couldn't very well tell the hotel people I'd tripped twice.

    I growled a hello as rough as I could; if it was that reporter again—

    "Good evening, Ms. Thrush. It's Sharif, at the front desk."

    "Oh, Sharif, I'm glad." That sounded insane; why would I be glad it was Sharif ?

    "Oh . . . well, there is a gentleman down at the desk who says it's urgent he speak with you. Shall I put him on the phone?"

    "
No!
No. Listen, Sharif, find out if he's a reporter. Please tell him I'm not talking to the press."

    "I understand. Can you give me a moment?" I said yes, and he hung up.

    I turned down the lights and closed the glass curtains all the way. I went into the bedroom and did the same, leaving a light on by the bed. The house phone rang again two minutes later. I picked up at the bed. "Ms. Thrush? Sharif again. The gentleman is not a reporter. He said you spoke the other day. His name is Eddie Tompkins."

    Eddie Tompkins? Who was Eddie Tompkins? "Did he say what this was about? Never mind, Sharif. Ask him to wait; I'll drive down to the lobby."

    I still had on the form- fitting dress I'd worn to meet Fits. I'd wanted to look good for him, for old time's sake, I suppose. I found a baggy, neutral brown cardigan, tossed a wide scarf over that, grabbed the door pass and car keys, and walked outside. The cool evening air hit me like a slap. I needed a slap just then. The road down to the main hotel is high, narrow, and steep. On the right, past the buildings, is an immediate hill with a sprinkler system watering what might be pindo palms and some kind of dusty- looking, maybe Aleppo pines. Creeping purple flowers fill in the hill that drops off sharply to the left. I drove a little too fast on the dark road and had to brake hard for the slow- moving automatic security gate opening out.

    I parked in the ten- minute zone and walked quickly into the lobby, still with no idea who Eddie Tompkins might be. I was glad for the small lobby. I would be in sight of Sharif or the other desk personnel. A man stood up, tall, built, and black. It took me a minute or two to recognize the shoe clerk from the discount place on Sunset. I had no idea what to think to explain his presence. Did I drop my wallet at the store? Nothing was missing that I knew of.

    "Ms. Thrush, thank you for seeing me on such short notice."

    Short or long, what did he want? "What's this about, Mr.—"

    "Tompkins." He held out his hand, I didn't take it. "I'm sorry to be so forward; I figured you'd understand, being an actor too. . . ."

    I scrunched up my face, genuinely lost.

    "Did you give my card to Mr. Lucerne?"

    "Your card?"

    "Yes, I gave you my card the other day."

    "In the shoe store, would that be right? You gave me it in the shoe store where you work, is that correct?"

    "Yes . . ."

    "Mr. Tompkins, people give each other business cards all the time. Perhaps that's why they are so — I was going to say cheap, but inexpensive will do. Usually nothing comes of the gesture, but I think the understanding is along the lines of don't call us, we'll call you." He really was a nice- looking guy and bigger in the little hotel lobby than I remembered from the sprawling, life- swallowing shoe store. I was actually seeing his face for the first time. He looked all right, pleasant enough. Christ, could I blame him; he wanted a job. Still, coming to my hotel, and at night?

    "Is everything all right, Ms. Thrush?" That was good old Sharif behind me at the desk.

    "Yes, Sharif, Mr. Tompkins was just leaving."

    "Please, call me Eddie."

    "No, Mr. Tompkins. And I don't know what became of your card. My husband usually throws them out. You can imagine the demands people make . . . so I'm sorry not to be able to help out. If you'll excuse me . . ."

    "I'm the one to apologize, Ms. Thrush. . . ."

    He looked as if he had more to say, but I turned and walked to Sharif. "Good night," I said over my shoulder. I was opposite the front desk in a matter of steps. "I don't think I've checked on the mail lately, Sharif." My voice was too loud and cheerful, I fought down a stammer.

    Sharif, ever at the ready, smiled wide. "I have your mail right here for you." He looked past me as he handed me a row of white envelopes. The automatic entrance doors facing the front drive whooshed open and then closed. "He's gone, Ms. Thrush."

    " Thank you, Sharif."

    "Of course. A woman in your position can't be too careful. Would you like a cup of tea, Ms. Thrush?"

    I thought a minute. Eddie could still be hanging around the driveway. "You know, I would."

    Sharif, about to go off duty, gave me the all clear, and forty minutes later I was in the car on my way back up to the rooms. I'd forgotten my cell phone when I'd gone down to the desk, and it felt like a limb was missing. I drove fast up to the restaurant entrance. The valet stepped out of her booth. I waved when she recognized me and veered left to the computerized gate into the upper hotel grounds. I glanced in the rearview mirror to be certain no one was following and punched in the code numbers; the gate opened, and I drove in. My slot was way at the other end from the hotel units. I saw Andre's car parked below ours as I passed. I glanced at the clock; he was early. I parked and walked toward the stairs, the mail clutched in my left hand. Looking up, I saw the lights go out in our suite. Was Andre leaving again? Dammit, I didn't have my phone. I raced up the stairs and there he was, in the hallway. I thought I heard Sylvia Vernon's voice and then her door close.

    "Andre?"

    He looked up and nodded. "Come," he said, waving me in.

    He closed and locked our door once we were inside, turning on the kitchen light. "Is everything all right?" I pointed to the wall in common between our two units. We both turned when a sudden breeze blew the balcony door open. I'd locked that door and closed the glass curtains, which were now partially open. I always locked the balcony door before going out. Okay. Maybe Andre had stepped out for a minute. Maybe I couldn't be dead certain I'd locked the balcony door, but I was sure I'd seen the lights go out.

    Andre strode over and closed the door. I turned on some lights in the sitting room. Knowing without having to ask, he poured me a glass of red wine from an open bottle on the kitchen counter. He poured vodka for himself out of the bottle in the freezer. "Andre?" I said, taking the glass.

    He lifted his. "Cheers."

    I took a sip, obeying the custom after a toast. "Were you next door?"

    "Hmm? Ah, the old crone heard me come in just now and said hello."

    "Sylvia Vernon?"

    "Is that her name?" His phone vibrated in his pocket. He moved to the dining table and glanced at the caller ID.

    "Were you going out again?"

    "What? No." He said hello into his phone. To me he said, "Come here. You look lovely." He studied my dress under the sweater and nodded approval. He said into the phone, "No, Carola, my dear, I was talking to my wife." I went to him and he reached for my neck and hair, pulling me gently to him as he continued talking into the phone. I lingered a moment, taking in the scent of deodorant, someone's cigarette smoke, and the faint hint of his body odor underneath. Over his shoulder I saw my cell phone blinking on the couch. I walked over and picked it up; one call: ID BLOCKED. No messages. I turned the phone off.