Hollywood Boulevard (23 page)

    I'd been talking about buying a small house upstate, maybe in the Catskills. I've got plenty of money lying around, and I spend very little of it. Andre didn't want me to kick in on the loft payments. He had no mortgage and maintenance was low for New York. He'd bought the place from an artist at a time when it was still possible to get a good deal downtown, before Soho turned into one giant designer mall. Andre wasn't interested in a country place. He wasn't against the idea either. We'd had good visits to friends' places up north, taking walks, spending casual afternoons on long days that didn't translate into his wanting a commitment. "Were you thinking of working on your book? Because you could rent a house for that," he said the last time the topic came up, before he left to start his movie. Renting would be a sensible way to see what I liked. But what did sensible mean to me? What about my existence pointed with any certainty to making straight- ahead, logical sense?

    As for my imaginary book, to Andre's expectant look I said, "I suppose the country would be a good place to write." I was fibbing, though not entirely; I hadn't said a country house for
me
to write in. He nodded and busied himself with something else. Discussion closed.

    My dad caught me smoking once. The other kids at school were experimenting and I went along. I'd gone into the vacant maid's room, beyond the kitchen, not counting on the smoke being noticeable through the closed door. I was apparently too dumb to open a window. It was a Saturday, about a year or so before my dad died. He showed up after I'd already nearly choked to death inhaling and flushed the butt down the toilet. He came into my room and asked me if I'd been smoking. I said no. It must have been so obvious. He said okay, that I shouldn't take up the habit, but to tell him if I was considering the idea. A little while later I confessed. He'd been so damn nice about it; I'd almost wished he'd accused me so I could have acted out, belligerent and tough. But that wasn't his style, and I couldn't let the lie stand between us. It wasn't Andre's style to accuse either, but with him I didn't have so much trouble letting a lie stand.

    I can't say why I thought I wanted a house in the country. I can't even arrange flowers in a vase, so the idea of gardening meant hiring someone, not me getting out a hoe, goatskin gloves and knee pads. I wasn't about to take up a hobby, and I certainly wasn't going to write a damn book. I'd just see that tree outside the loft window and wonder if life wouldn't be better surrounded by green. Even in winter it seemed special to have a tree alive and breathing tree breath, connected with deep roots meandering under cement and macadam, poking and pushing through whatever stood in its way, branches reaching up to a cluttered sky, eating the light and drinking the rain. It made me happy knowing the tree stuck with it. Did that translate into a bucolic life in the country? If I had a house in the mountains, I might be there now instead of showering in the middle of a Los Angeles afternoon after having randomly slept with one of L.A.'s finest.

    I'd run for the shower as soon as the Detective dropped me off. Tossed my clothes onto the floor and headed for the hot water. I couldn't get out of the car fast enough. He took my arm and said he'd be in touch. I said, "Okay, Billy," and he let go. As I scrubbed I tried not to picture us together, though I could not deny the pleasure, the hunger I'd— or we'd— sated on Grant's floor. I wasn't trying to wash him away so much as do the polite thing by Andre and at least rinse away the odor of sex. There wasn't going to be a second time, of that I'd make certain. I was conveniently forgetting that the Detective was in my life now, on the case for what was beginning to look to me like not much more than creepiness. He'd said himself no laws had been broken so far, and no one had threatened me in any direct way. Creeping a person out with dead flowers is, by itself, not a crime. All I could conclude was that somebody wanted to get my attention.

    Wrapped in a towel, I sat down at the computer to look into flights back to New York. Running away would solve plenty. Assuming my creep was L.A. based, I'd be free of him, and that would take me away from the Detective too, of us entangling ourselves further. And I wouldn't have to face Andre knowing what I knew about what I'd done— which wasn't much. I could also go to Jamaica; that was something to consider.

    I never deceived Joe. We didn't need anyone else to satisfy us. We were chaste that way, wanting only each other. We crashed in flames and burned our love to death. You don't get that kind of purity twice.

    My hands dropped into my lap. "Joe," I whispered. I still had the occasional sex dream starring Joe.

    I sat like that for several minutes. I wondered if he'd seen Harry's obit in the papers, if he knew he was dead. If somehow my name had come up in anything he'd read or heard. If he cared anymore one way or the other what befell me, who I slept with or where I went.

    "Why not?" I'd said to his long- ago objection to my signing with Harry. "Do you know how big Machin Talent is? Huge, that's how big. Harry takes on very few clients. He
invests
in his actors. I'll get work, Joe, real work."

    "Sure, you will," Joe said. "But what does that mean?"

    "What do you mean, what does it mean? I'm going to have a

crack at some plum parts. I'll make us some decent money for a change— well, there's no guarantee of that, but it's certain I've reached as far as I can on the route I'm on now. Oh, Joe, if I can bring in better money, you won't have to do electric work ever again! You'll be free to write full- time."

    "I don't mind doing electrical when I have to, and I can write like I do now."

    I didn't understand. It was a conversation we'd had a hundred different ways a thousand different times and were not able to cross a bridge to understand what to do. Joe didn't say what he really wanted me to do, and I only saw what I thought was the road to where I was supposed to go, where I
wanted
to go. If he'd said to me, don't do this, don't sign with Harry, don't be an actress in movies, what would I have done? But he couldn't because he didn't believe in telling me what to do — not directly. I was free to make mistakes, which he must have thought I was doing most of the time. I didn't want him to say it outright either because then I'd have to choose— which I did anyway, didn't I? So we danced around the question until events took over and the question no longer mattered and the dance stopped. So why do I feel like I'm still stuck on the same dance floor? And what in hell did I just do with Detective Collins?

    I dipped my forehead into my left hand. Oh, what have I done?

    I glanced to the right and saw Grant's dirtied towel lying discarded on the floor just inside the bathroom. "Christ!"

    I looked back at the computer screen: Find a flight to New York tonight or sooner, I told myself. I could be packed in five minutes. But that wasn't what I did because when I hit my bookmarks I saw Lucille's name in capital letters and hit that instead. Presto, I was back at the newspaper piece about the car wreck and Lucille's blown ballet dreams. That toggled in my mind with Sylvia saying,
I coached the gals how to dance in pasties and boas. She was the lead dancer
but only a bit part in the movie.

    What? That couldn't be right; no one would cast a girl who'd had two broken legs
as a dancer
, certainly not half naked in a Vegas lineup. Sylvia made that up. She lied. Why? What was Sylvia up to when I went into the kitchen? What was Mucho so interested in at the bedroom door? He practically scratched his way under the carpet. Could he smell the dead flowers? I had that sinking- universe feeling again. . . .

    My cell phone pealed out. I found it on the third round of its jingle, fallen off Andre's side of the bed.

    I flung myself over and across, commando style, nearly landing head first on the floor. The screen read, ID BLOCKED.

    "Hello?"

    CLICK.

    I felt cold.

    I hung over the side of the bed for a minute, naked, feeling the blood rush to my brain. What was that, hang- up number four?

    I sat up. The towel I'd wrapped around me was on the floor by the desk. I hung it up in the bathroom, got some underwear and jeans on and a lightweight cashmere sweater. It was three o'clock. I took Grant's towel and balled it up in a corner on the floor by the tub so Zaneda or Alma would take it in the morning. I took an unused towel from my rack and folded it under my arm. I found Grant's passkey next to mine on the table and walked out to the hall and over to his room. I knocked and called out, "Grant?" and waited, called again and unlocked the door. I quickly hung the clean towel in his bathroom and came back out, careful not to look at the place on the floor where I'd lain with the Detective, lain as Bathsheba had with David while Uriah the Hittite was out fighting the war.

    I opened the door and Mucho burst into the room. "Mucho! No!"

    "Mucho! Come!" Sylvia said almost in unison.

    The little rat ran right over and sniffed the place on the floor, then ran back out to Sylvia, who scooped him up just outside Grant's door. The dog looked pleased.

    "Frisky little bastard, isn't he?" I said, instantly regretting my anger. "I'm sorry, Sylvia; he frightened me."

    Sylvia eyed me, her head back, a wise- to- me look on her pointed face. "I wouldn't wonder," she said. I reached out to pet the dog's head, but he growled, pulling his lips back wide, showing razor- sharp little teeth. I yanked my hand back. "Muchie, don't be a little terror," Sylvia said, offering me a faint smile that looked more like an accusation. I tried to smile back. "That was some fella with you earlier," she added, stroking Mucho's miniature head.

    Earlier where? The first problem was what to do with my face. The second was the platoon of lies that were lining up in my head like soldiers on a parade field, arms tight at their sides, prepared to salute the general making his rounds. Maybe that's all an actor ever does: lies. First it's memorizing someone else's words, then it's becoming the character— physically and emotionally: total immersion, consumption, transformation; speaking, moving, inhaling and exhaling that character. And what happens to the real- life actor, the person inside? Swallowed up, dissolved; sits in a corner on hold, an abandoned self watching from the sidelines as the fictional character takes over. An actor can personally be as stupid as a doornail, impossible to converse with, yet speak Shakespeare with eloquence and truth. Good, bad, evil, comic . . . no matter the part as long as the actor is a true vessel bringing the character to life. Is that not the profoundest form of lying, right up there with the sociopaths?

    If I were Andre, I'd condescend to Sylvia with Eurosophisticated bemusement. I'd even manage to turn the tables on her. But my lies were stepping up on the field: Lie number one, sir! (A starched salute.) Go on, soldier. He was my cousin, sir! Soldier number two? Sir, my lawyer. Number three? My long- lost brother, sir. Number four? What man, sir? Five? Number six, seven, eight, and nine, et cetera: the plumber; special delivery; the phone guy; my personal trainer; accountant; sir, my physician; sir, a case of mistaken identity . . . you nosy old cow, sir!

    The general frowned: At ease, men; company dismissed! Ten- hut, two, three, four . . . The general had not lied his way to the top, and he had yet to find anything that frightened him into silence, so he whispered bravely in my ear, and I repeated to Sylvia: "You never met Lucille Trevor in any dance review."

    Mucho growled at me. "Shut up!" I said, firm, not loud. I surprised myself giving the miserable runt what for. The beast seemed to settle down in his mistress's arms, as if that was all he needed to hear. Sylvia, on the other hand, did not settle down. She looked to be thinking things over, and the things she was thinking looked to be dark clouds forming across the leathery horizon of her brow.

    That was when my phone rang, for once a blessing. I yanked it out of my pants pocket, answered without checking the caller ID, the most innocent of smiles passing over my countenance for Sylvia Vernon's benefit, even a wash of goodwill for petite Mucho. I was off the hook— for now. Clicking Grant's door shut behind me, shrugging as I brushed past her— what could I do, my shrug suggested, I had to take the call— I headed for my room, tossing the casualest of waves over my shoulder toward Sylvia. Ta ta.

T
he Detective was the second- to- the- last person in the world I wanted to speak to at that moment, Andre being the first. There was a pause between us on the line when I didn't respond to his identifying himself.

He broke it: " There a problem?"
"No." I closed my door.
"Okay . . . a couple of items: That Corona Del Mar address checks
out fake, as expected. We got a little lucky on the PO, though. The
Hollywood Postal Store is underutilized; in fact they might close the
place, so —"