Hollywood Boulevard (43 page)

I 
heard the following from the backseat of the squad car: “Detective Collins, this is Officer Roy Roger of Malibu/Lost Hills. . . . Yeah, that's right, Roger . . . Agoura Road Precinct. Ah, we picked up an Ardennes Thrush walking along the Pacific Coast Highway. She says you been handling some stalking case. . . . No, a couple bruises, a little unsteady, but . . . yeah, she should be looked at. So, ah, what do you want us to do? . . . You mean here? In the car? No, it's not hot, but we gotta call it in. . . . Yeah, okay."

    Officer Roger grunted. "He says to wait here. Seems she's been missing a few days. I don't like it. We should bring her in."

    Officer Brown was waiting for a report. He was on his laptop playing a game while he waited.

    "What the hell, Ralph. Take the cuffs off her." "Why?"

    "Quit pissing around."

    The computer boinged. Officer Brown read a short report. He shook his head, frowned. "I got nothing. Wait, looks like a missing- persons from Hollywood . . . Hang on; she's some kind of big deal actress. I never heard of her. You?"

    
She
was me, sitting in the back. "Is he coming?" I asked.

    Officer Roger's phone rang. "Yes, Detective . . . no . . . yeah." He got out of the car and opened the back door. "Detective Collins wants to talk to you." He handed me his phone.

    I smiled as I took the phone with both hands, the cuffs clanking as I did. "Hi . . . no, I'm okay." Detective Collins said he was in his car, on his way. He wanted to know if I was hurt; he was going to get me to the hospital. "I'm a little wobbly. . . . I'll explain everything. I just need to catch my breath. Did you tell Andre?" He said not yet. He was driving hard to Malibu, the siren on, cars moving out of his way.

    "Get here fast, okay? Both hands on the wheel."

B
illy was all business. He outranked them, but that didn't mean Officers Roger and Brown had to like their— what was I, not a suspect— pulled out of their hands. Billy wore a taupe suit and white button- down shirt open at the collar. Was he studying me the way I was him? Everything else moved to fade. It was just the two of us on the highway, a gorgeous day in Malibu. Sounds of the surf fade up to music . . . Are you sure you don't want to be a movie star, Billy? The burning in my arm, growing intense in waves, broke up my impossible fantasy—

    No, Billy was not studying me, and Officer Roger was saying something. Billy didn't look too receptive. Officer Brown said they'd need to file a report; was he going to take responsibility? Detective Collins responded that he'd sign any damn report they filed, only now he needed to get me to the hospital. "And get those cuffs off her!"

    He tossed my bags into his car; we were set to speed off. " Thank you, Officers," I said to Brown and Roger. "You've been very kind."

    Officer Brown said, "You're removing evidence, Detective— just so you know."

    "Evidence of what, Officer?" Billy said in a fl at voice that said everything and nothing while opening the passenger door for me. He gently closed the door behind me. He was done talking to the uniforms.

    We didn't say much in the car. I drank what was left of Sylvia's water. "They were only doing their jobs," I said, embarrassed.

    "Right. Those cops are dicks."

    "Billy, couldn't we just go to a diner for breakfast?" I leaned into him, dirty underwear, bloody bruises and all.

    He shook his head. "We need to make certain you're okay. Then you take your time and we'll sort this out. I know where she kept you, the closet, right—"

    I sat back, faced front. "I won't press charges."

    "No, of course not." He looked me over. I was afraid he'd touch me and afraid he wouldn't. I'd be a puddle if he did.

    "Listen, Billy, I'm trying . . . I need to keep clear what matters— what I need to do. It's been a bizarre couple of days, but I'm all right."

    The Detective, in full cop mode, glanced at the blood on my t- shirt, the not- quite- coagulated chin gash, the bruised cheek and wrists, the ruined left sleeve of my jacket. " Uh- huh."

    It was a longish drive to Santa Monica– UCLA Medical Center. He'd already called in we were on our way and hit the lights and siren at the hospital's emergency entrance. We were met by a nurse and a young doctor who looked like he couldn't have been much older than twelve. They made me ride a gurney in, though I was perfectly capable of walking. We made quite a dramatic entrance.

    The doctor seemed shy about feeling me all over. I told him things looked worse than they were, that I'd always bruised easily. He had no comment. A nurse drew blood while he asked a slew of questions. The doc was first interested in Mucho's bite, giving me a tetanus shot when I couldn't remember the last time I'd had one. He cleaned the chin cut and put one of those butterfl y stitches on to hold it closed. When he got to the arm he changed course. He removed my makeshift bandage and didn't like what he saw, cleaning the wound extra carefully with warm water and saline. I told him I'd put cold seawater on it. "Bet that hurt," he said briefl y meeting my eyes. "It was a smart move," he added. I looked at the wound; it was mean, like a thick worm had gouged a bloody red canal into my fl esh. He gave me another injection, antibiotic this time. As he was pushing the needle in my ears went funny. I shook my head and reached up to tap it.

    "Ms. Thrush?" I couldn't hear him clearly. "Ms. Thrush?" Billy materialized, looking at me with gigantic concern on his handsome face. Odd, he doesn't know how good looking he is; very un- Hollywood. I could wrap my legs around that . . . can't imagine what his wife saw in the other guy— I tried to tap my head with the heel of my hand, but those bees needed to quit pulling cotton through my ears—

M
s. Thrush?” The doctor was shining a piercing light into my eyes. I shut them. "Can you hear me?"

    I could! "I died for a minute," I said. I was fl at on my back. "Your blood pressure dropped. Nurse, start a fl uids drip." He

told me he'd be back in a minute. Where'd Billy go? How long was I out? I closed my eyes, I must have slept. I don't remember the nurse sticking an IV needle in. Maybe fifteen minutes passed, maybe two hours. The hospital was Sylvia's closet all over again but with a doctor treating me who looked like his mom still packed his lunch. I had only one thought: I have to get out of here.

    A thin curtain separated me from the ER hyperactivity surrounding my bed. I felt the chaotic energy of the place like a current and wanted to yell,
Stop
. I called, "Detective?" The nurse showed up, telling me Detective Collins was making some calls. "Listen, I need to go home."

    "That wouldn't be wise."

    "Okay, how about if I have to go to the bathroom?" She helped me up. I was suddenly unsteady. She came with me, pulling the IV pole alongside us like a mechanical pet. The bathroom smelled of recent vomit and didn't look too clean. This time the spotting on my underwear was real. I told the nurse, and she gave me a couple of pads; the hospital didn't do tampons, she explained; toxic shock and all that. At least I didn't have that worry, about a pregnancy. Billy was standing guard when we returned to my cubicle. I smiled at him, but I'm not sure it came out that way. I felt as if I must look very pale. He was quiet.

    Finally Boy- Doc returned. He and Billy stood at the foot of the bed. The doc said nothing terrible had shown up in my blood, no toxins or illicit narcotics, but there was diazepam and zolpidem.

    " What- pidem?" I asked.

    "Like Ambien," he said. "A sleeping dose." He didn't ask how it had gotten there. "If there's been sexual abuse," he suggested, avoiding my eyes, "the nurse will bring in a rape kit."

    "No sex," I said, careful not to meet Billy's eyes.

    The doc signaled to Billy and they moved beyond the curtain for a huddle, only not far enough that I couldn't hear. Young Doctor said the arm wound was not consistent with the others. "That tissue damage is no scrape, more like a bullet grazing."

    "You're certain?"

    "Certain enough."

    "Can you prove it?"

    "I looked at her jacket; the fabric appears to be burned, but the seawater she applied compromised any residue." He shook his head. "I'm not a forensics doctor. I do see it all, working the ER, but I can't prove that's a gunshot. I'll write it up as suspicious; best I can do."

    They came back to me, sitting up on the bed, my feet hanging over the side. I was ready to go. Billy looked grim.

    "I'd keep her overnight for observation, Detective," Boy- Doc said.

    "Hello?" I said.

    Apparently I wasn't to be addressed directly. I was a specimen, an oddity, a victim, and that seemed to imply an object to be handled at a remove, in the third person, as if victimhood created a discomfiting setback from the norm, like maybe it was contagious or self- infl icted, and generally unhealthy. "I'm right here," I said. Boy- Doc's hands fell to his sides. Billy looked mostly at the curtain behind me. "I haven't been raped or beaten or starved or even verbally abused. I
am
hungry, however, so if you gentlemen will give me a moment's privacy I'll get dressed and, if the Detective is willing, some cafeteria food. My treat. You're welcome to join us, Doctor. After that I'm going home. Please take this needle out of my arm." It was a convincing act, if I do say so, because I felt like a piece of rotten meat.

    The Doc didn't like it but looked ready to move on. "I'll write a prescription for antibiotics and ointment. Keep the face cut clean and the arm
very
clean and lubricated; watch for infection. Have someone look at it in a day or two." He reconsidered, asked if I wanted a painkiller. I said no, thanks. He reached up and pulled the curtain closed around my bed; the beads made that metallic sound of mini– ball bearings as they scraped along the metal rod. He nodded and turned to go. He seemed to have aged since I came in.

    " Thank you, Doctor," I called after him, but he was gone, on to the next casualty of violence or pain or unforgiving illness.

    The nurse came in with my clothes and release papers for me to sign, in triplicate. She removed the IV needle and stuck gauze and a Band- Aid over the hole. I was a patchwork now of assorted boo- boos and applications, like a cartoon figure who'd fallen out of the sky. Nurse held on to the plastic bag of clothes a minute and asked if she hadn't seen me in a movie. Her eyes were fastened on the bruise on my face. I was a walking
Enquirer
piece, straight off the supermarket tabloid shelf. I smiled and thanked her for my clothes, and she drifted away.

    Billy went to the hospital pharmacy while I dressed. His badge got him quick service. He'd brought my bag in so I'd have clean clothes to put on. My arm ached badly now, but I was otherwise returning to the everyday, my ordeal in Sylvia's closet already retreating to some other realm of consciousness. The present asserts itself very efficiently that way, or the brain dismisses fast what it doesn't like, starts a glaze over events as quick as it can. I'd find a time to examine all that had gone on in the past few days, but not now; now I wanted to eat and not think. I didn't want to discuss my time with Sylvia with the Detective, in either a law and order context or a personal one. Open and shut . . .

    I heard his cell phone chime as I was hooking my bra closed. I'd found the last clean pair of panties but no clean bra; the one I put back on was grimy with sweat. What I needed was a bath. I hurried through the deodorant, hiked my jeans back on, pulled a white cotton V- neck gingerly over the bad arm, tossed a scarf around my neck, ran a brush through my unclean hair and found a barrette to hold it back and I was ready to face breakfast.