Hollywood Boulevard (15 page)

    "Sounds fake."

    "Probably is. Did you know there was a fire at the Hotel Muse— in the early '50s— and that an actress died?"

    "Right, and Janis Joplin offed herself at the Highland Gardens. There's myths all over this town."

    "The actress was
possibly
murdered."

    "And?"

    "Well."

    "You're thinking the burlesque queen did the actress in? You becoming a private dick now?"

    I saw how silly everything I'd just said sounded. So what if Sylvia was a contemporary of the deceased and lived in the apartment where she'd been killed (
if
she'd been killed)? "What if she did it?"

    "The stripper? What if she did? What do you have for motive, Marlowe? Mind if I call you Marlowe?"

    I laughed. "Nothing, I guess." The wind was out of my sails. I felt foolish.

    "You said the '50s; that's a long time ago. You need to use that imagination in front of a camera, Ardennes."

    "I sound nuts, right?"

    "You sound like you have too much loose time. But I
do
have an actual appointment."

    "I'll see you soon, I hope, Fits." He said sure, and we hung up.

    As I opened my door to go out, I thought I heard Sylvia's door quietly snap shut. "Sylvia?" I called out softly. I pressed up against her door but heard nothing from inside. Maybe I am nuts, or on my way.

    Feeling foolish didn't stop me from picking at the mystery of Lucille Trevor. What I'd learned is that she was a bottom- tier, B- movie actress who maybe slept around to supplement rent money, as plenty did— and still do. What was rare for those days was the studio bosses letting her keep her real name. She was pretty with a soft voice, too soft for an actor. She ended up playing background, classy sorts of tarts. The Lucille Trevors of the world make up the working underbelly of Hollywood, actresses whose names are as forgettable as the train tickets that bring them west. She was replaceable the day she died by ten good- looking girls, fresh and eager and newly arrived with hopes and dreams to take over where Garbo left off. It looked as if nobody cared a hang about Lucille Trevor and her sad ending. Wow, Fits was right; I was starting to sound like a dopey private eye.

    It was just what Sylvia said that day with the pineapple upside- down cake, about my not having enough ego. Or was it that smirk when she said it? I could see it was the flimsiest of clues, but what is communication if not the unintended little revelations? All right, that was the actor in me picking up the potential false note. I never said I quit
being
an actor; I just quit
doing
it. Why would Sylvia ask if I had enough ego? She was a stripper; what's it take to bare it all for a pack of leering, slobbering men in a bar?

    That was what I was chewing over as I walked out the gate and down the hill to the avenue. The sun was warm; it felt good. Not hot like that freak heat the day Harry died (maybe
that's
what killed him, together with the lousy air). There wasn't much to look at once I was past the crest and under the trees. I turned left on the avenue, toward the intersection with a stoplight— vehicular deaths to pedestrians are no joking matter in Los Angeles, and the avenue the Muse sat on zoomed with speeding cars heading to or from the nearby

101 ramp. Across the street was a corner park with a few benches and some shade trees, a miserable location for a miserable little park. When I arrived someone was living there in a pup tent, but that has since been corrected, no doubt by concerned citizens and God- fearing cops.

    I glanced into the park and froze, then veered sharply left into other end of the Muse driveway. A long row of poplars hides the driveway from the street, and I quickly dropped out of sight. My breath caught in my throat and my heart started to race. I was pretty sure I'd seen Eddie Tompkins standing in the park. I couldn't step out to make certain because if he saw me . . . he'd be coming over now. Quick into the lobby! No one was at the desk, meaning someone was nearby and would appear if I so much as breathed. I continued on to the pool area and sat down at one of the tables that couldn't be seen from the lobby's back entrance, under the shade of a wide umbrella.

    Within a minute Sharif stepped outside. "Ms. Thrush, good

morning." He held up two white envelopes. "We just sorted the mail— is everything all right?"

    "Oh, Sharif, I think I may have twisted my ankle just now walking down the hill."

    He was immediately all doting concern. "Do you need a doctor?"

    "No, no. It's just I was going to run an errand, and now I'm not sure I can walk. I mean, I
can
walk, but it's a little uncomfortable."

    "What you want is Epsom salts to soak the ankle."

    "Do you think someone could drive me up to my room?"

    "Of course. I'll have one of the staff take you, and we can send to Long's Pharmacy for salts. Rest here a minute."

    "Oh, thank you, Sharif. How good you are. But weren't you busy? Didn't I see someone in the lobby just now?"

    Sharif poked his head around the corner. "No, no one there. Just one minute till I round up a driver."

    The black hotel SUV was usually parked out front, just before the guests' garage entrance, down from the lobby steps. I'd have to go back out front, but there was no other way. A few minutes later Arturo appeared in his blue maintenance uniform. Sharif insisted on helping me walk. He placed a thick palm around my waist and I had no choice but to lean into his short frame and turn in a star performance of a person limping in pain. Actress that I was, the ankle actually began to ache. Atta girl, I told myself. There were two ways to the hill from the lobby, I asked Arturo to turn right onto the avenue at the light, then right again, up the hill. This was not the obvious or fastest route, but it would take me past the corner park. Arturo gave me a funny look but shrugged and did as I asked. I smiled and rubbed my ankle. I saw absolutely not a soul in the park unless someone was hidden behind a tree.

    Sharif instructed Arturo to help me up the stairs to the room, but I said I'd hang on to the railing and be fine. Arturo was a quiet Mexican who seemed generally distrustful, but it's possible he spoke less English than he understood. I gave him a five- dollar tip to keep him happy and quiet. He waited, and I limped carefully up the stairs and waved that I was okay. I stalled in the room for half an hour before going out again, and then got into my car. I was more certain than ever Eddie Tompkins had been standing across the street from the hotel. Why would he do that?

    Before I went out I fished around for his card on the table under Andre's mess of papers. We try to keep the papers to one side of the round table so we can set our plates out to eat, but the mess drifts. I found it under the expense bills Andre would hand in to his producer. The card had a tiny photo of Eddie: height, weight, and a scanty set of utterly unimpressive credits, and even that little bit looked padded. Poor guy, he wanted in, just as Lucille Trevor once had, and maybe he was willing to stalk me to get a shot at it. And I hadn't said a word to Andre about him. Really, there was no point; he wouldn't give Eddie the time of day.

    No one was around when I walked to my car. Passing the little corner park again, I looked, but it was empty. I parked the car and took the back way into the Kodak Mall, through the loading lot for the Hollywood tour buses. I hurried through a few clothing stores on Hollywood, assaulted by music so loud and inane I had to fight not to scream. I wondered the salespeople didn't go deaf or mad hearing that racket all day long week after week. I found a scarf and four sweaters that I hoped fit— I didn't even try mine on— paid, and headed back to the car. Shopping makes me anxious; too many choices, I think. Sure, I appreciate nice things, but— There he is again! Doesn't he have a job?

    Eddie Tompkins was standing at the top of the stairs to the mall, near where I'd planned to shortcut back to my car, parked on a side street whose name I didn't know. The parking meter would be just about up. I turned left toward Highland— the long way— off Hollywood, moving fast, not sure which I feared more: a parking ticket or that Eddie had shown up for the second time— or the third— and looked to be clearly following me.

    How did he know where I was? There were no other pedestrians on Highland, there never are, and the little street I was parked on would be even more deserted. What if he knew where I was parked? Should I leave the car and walk back up to the hotel? Would they tow me if I did? Should I call 911? And report what? As a born New Yorker, the idea of having my car towed was almost as bad as contemplating cancer; a ticket was bad enough. I decided to keep going. There are so few people on the streets in L.A. Suddenly there were hardly any cars either. I forced myself not to break into a run.

    I pulled out my cell phone and speed- dialed Andre— the old pretend- you' re- not- alone trick. He picked up. "Andre! How is the shoot going?"

    He was clearly surprised by my sudden interest. "Not bad— well, very bad . . . the actress . . ."

    "Are you okay to talk?"

    "I have a minute."

    "I bought you a sweater; two, actually." I sounded way too excited. There was a long pause on his end. "Andre?"

    "Okay. Good."

    He was ready to hang up. Andre cannot abide small talk and

I'm clearly lousy at it too, so we were already out of idle things to say. "Do you think you'll replace her?"

    "Who? Oh, not at this moment," he said. Meaning he couldn't talk; his lead must have approached. "I'll give you a call later," he said.

    "Don't hang up!" Too late. Okay, but no one knew he'd hung up. Just keep talking, I told myself: good, smile, good. I spoke loudly into the dead phone: "Ha, ha, that's very funny. Yes, I'm getting into the car right now; no, I'm five minutes away. What . . . ?" There's the car, here are my keys, hit the boop boop: locks open, no one near the car, all clear. There he is! On the sidewalk! But he's facing the other way. What do I do now? Oh, a woman walking her dog! Thank God. A huge dog; bigger than she is:
good
dog. Okay, over to the car. He sees me, but the woman is between us. Quick, into the car.

    "Miss Thrush! Ardennes! Please, a minute . . . I only want to talk. I'm a good actor—"

    I locked the car doors. The woman with the dog looked up when he called out; so did her dog. He was coming toward the car. I had a witness. He used my first name! Ignition, back up — careful— out of the parking space, left blinker on . . .
drive.

    I sped up the hill. I thanked the security gate that shut me in. I parked and ran to the rooms. I was thirsty like the walls of the Grand Canyon. There was a plastic Long's Pharmacy sack hung over the doorknob, with a carton of Epsom salts inside. Good old Sharif. They must have knocked and then seen my car was gone. I'd say I'd had to go to the bank if it came up. It wouldn't come up.

    Inside, I dropped the Epsom salts on the kitchen counter, tossed the shopping bag of new clothes onto the couch, and called the desk on the house phone. Sharif was at lunch, but Christy— I think she said— told me the Epsom salts were on the house. "Did anyone ask for me at the desk, a young bla— a nice- looking guy named Black, I mean Eddie?" Now what, unconscious racism? Uh!

    "Ah . . ." There was a pause while she looked. "Not that I know of, and there's no note to the effect of a visitor. Is everything all right, Ms. Thrush?"

    "Oh, yes, perfect, perfectly all right." I thanked her, adding to please thank Sharif for the salts, and hung up. I was supposed to have a bad ankle. Perfectly all right, huh?

    I went to the sink and filled a large glass of water, sucking on it as if I'd just crossed Death Valley. Rumors crept around the back of my mind about how it's not so safe to drink the L.A. water, but I drank anyway. I was calmer now. I was in my hotel with security in place. But he knew my car; he knew my movements. How? I picked my purse up off the side table and looked for Detective Collins's card in my wallet. It wasn't there. Hell! I ran to the closet to find the jacket I'd worn to the Beverly Hills precinct. I found the card in the pocket and ran back to my cell phone, where I'd left it on the table. I tapped the card and flicked the edge, thinking whether I should call or not. Was I overreacting? The phone rang in my hand. I said hello, but whoever it was hung up, the number undisclosed: ID BLOCKED. That was the second blocked- ID call. Reading off the card, I pecked out Detective Collins's number into my keypad. I don't know why I thought of Alice tumbling down the Wonderland rabbit hole, waiting to hit bottom. He didn't pick up.