Hollywood Boulevard (44 page)

    Billy was talking to Andre when I pulled back the curtain. I signaled no, I did not want to talk to him. "They're still having a look," he said into the phone. "It seems your wife may have been shot. . . . That's right. No, grazed it looks like . . . Yeah, I'll bring her back ASAP." I looked daggers at him for telling Andre I'd been shot.

    "He wanted to drive over to the hospital. I discouraged that, but I had to let him know you'd be returning to the hotel."

    "I know. It's okay. Come on, Billy, I need food." I said.

    We took a long, winding set of corridors to the cafeteria. I wanted to loop my right arm through Billy's as we walked, but that probably wouldn't have been sensible. We weren't on a date. I was glad when he took hold of my arm. I was still a little weak- kneed. After several minutes' walk through the hospital's shoe- squeaky hush we came to a brightly lit cafeteria with windows facing a small courtyard garden. I picked up a tray and insisted the Detective take one too. He said okay to coffee, but I stuck a plate of peach pie on his tray as well.

    I like cafeterias; they're so reassuringly direct. I like the little windows with sandwiches and diced fruit bowls, puddings and Jell- Os lined in neat, colorful rows, and the hot tables with people in hairnets ready to heap servings of turkey or chicken, meatloaf or fish, with dead- looking sides of once green now gray vegetables and gravy with a thick, greasy skim on top. Only it was still breakfast, so I got a bowl of oatmeal, French toast, fresh fruit, tea, and a banana. I dumped a pile of little rectangular napkins on my tray. You needed ten to do the job of one, which made no sense if saving money or trees was the point. Despite my arm hurting like razor blades, I was in a good mood.

    Billy carried my tray, and we took a table by the window in the nearly empty cafeteria. I dove into my oatmeal as he went back for his tray. The oatmeal was pretty bad— the spoon stood up in it— but milk and two packets of fructose, meant to pass for maple syrup, helped. Billy sat down opposite me.

    "Do you know there's no such thing as French toast in France?" I asked him. "It's called
pain perdu
— or lost bread— stale bread that would be thrown out, but waste not want not, the peasants dipped it in milk and egg,
et voilà
, a new dish was born."

    Billy nodded. "Interesting."

    "No, it's not. But this is our second meal together." I smiled. He didn't.

    He sipped his coffee, shoved pie around with a fork. "You didn't eat in four days?"

    "I ate, and I ate well. There just wasn't time for breakfast today."

    "What did she want?"

    I thought about that. "She didn't really say. Or she did, but it wouldn't make sense."

    "Tell me anyway."

    I waggled my finger.

    "Your line is you went off of your own free will?"

    "I didn't say that."

    "No one shot at you? No one was hurt?" He pointed to the jacket I'd put back on. One button left and an irreparable tear in the sleeve: burned black from the bullet, edged in white from the salty sea.

" Maybe she's some sort of wacky prophet."

    "Sylvia Vernon? More like criminally insane. She took a shot at you; what was that? Sport?"

    "You shot at someone." His reaction was slight, a barely noticeable fl icker in his eyes. "Cops aren't licensed to kill," I said. This time he didn't react at all. Detective Collins disarmed an unarmed bad guy, and he paid a big price for it. With him it had to be black and white: Sylvia crossed the line, had committed some very serious crimes, and should pay. If Billy wasn't a cop I'd break down and tell him everything, but I didn't have that luxury. And I had no desire to punish Sylvia Vernon.

    "Some people went to some trouble for you," he said. I was quiet. "Not that anybody minded, but you act like you think this is some sort of game."

    "Billy, listen, please, I had a chance to think. I had all the chances in the world to think before— before the last few days— but I didn't. You could say my hand was forced; you could say my hand
needed
to be forced, and scaring me was the method. You could say a thousand things, but you can't say I was really harmed; shaken, scared, and, yes, hurt a little, but . . ." I waited, but he didn't respond. "Couldn't we stop the world, just for a few minutes, you and me?" What did I want, a motel room off the highway for a quickie? To rest a minute in Billy's arms? It would be so simple. And so temporary.

    We looked at each other until I picked up my fork and took a bite of
pain perdu
. Billy pushed his phone toward me across the table. "You better call your husband." I pushed the phone back. I wasn't ready to call my husband. He put his phone away. "You think there's any chance he was involved?"

    "Andre?" I blinked. "The Swiss are very law- abiding," I said. I reached over to my big wound; the arm was screaming pain at me. Maybe I should have taken the painkillers the doctor offered. But I'd had enough doping for a while.

    Billy watched my face. "If there were others, they're still out there," he said. "You can live with that?"

    I think he said that to see how I'd react. I didn't. I finished my breakfast, and there was no getting around that it was time to head back to the Muse.

A 
security guard hurriedly approached Billy as we walked back toward the emergency room exit. The guard said they'd shooed off a couple of reporters, but they were still hovering outside.

    "Sorry," Billy said to me. "The squad car call must have been intercepted."

    I made a face, shrugged. "Even parasites have rent to pay." He smiled briefl y, barely cracking his lips. "Listen, it'll hit the Hollywood blog universe within five minutes that you've been hurt or arrested—"

    " Maybe that's the idea: Get me some fast ink." " Whose idea?" I shook my head. He looked at me, but I didn't have any more to say. "Okay. You have a hat or scarf or anything in that bag?" I did. He told me to drape the scarf over my head of notoriously unruly hair— only he didn't say the unruly part. "And take that beat up jacket off." Done for the moment with me, he asked the guard, "Any chance of an orderly and a wheelchair?"

    I wrapped the scarf as stylishly as I could. "Let's not fuss, Billy. I've been through the press before. I can just race past."

    Billy said no dice. He smiled. "Wouldn't do your image any good."

    "Thanks."

    The guard came back with another security guard and a wheelchair and the nurse from before, holding a pillow wrapped in a baby blanket. "Here you go, Ms. Thrush," she said, handing me my newborn pillow. I smiled and cradled the little darling in my arms. I sat in the chair and laid the folded jacket on my lap.

    "Good," Detective Collins said. "Here's the plan: I drive out. Give me, say, ten, fifteen minutes, then wheel Ms. Thrush out the main entrance." He turned to the first guard and told him to keep a lookout, not to exit until the car was under the entrance portico. "Got it?" The nurse was to handle the wheelchair.

    In the parking lot the Detective fielded questions from two bloggers and maybe one legitimate reporter: What was my condition? they wanted to know. Was it true Ardennes Thrush had been arrested? Billy asked how they were so sure I was at the hospital. A scruffy guy in cargo shorts shoved an oversized Nikon at him and asked for a quote.

    "Here's a quote," Billy said. "Beat it."

    The escape plan worked, and we were soon safely on our way back to Hollywood— no lights and sirens this time. Billy told me about the jerk entertainment reporters lying in wait and asked how I put up with that kind of crap. "You get paid way too much money for the inconvenience of giving up your privacy," I said. I looked out the window onto Santa Monica Boulevard. This time I could see the mini- malls, low- rise buildings, occasional sidewalk palms tucked under the L.A. morning light. Away from the water, the haze was building. It was going to be hot.

    We drove the slow route across the city while Billy filled me in on what had gone on since Sylvia had taken me (his words). All about Andre and Fits— how he'd had to test Fits, and Fits having been none too happy at being pulled out of the studio by a pair of cops— about Carola's bravery. I asked a million questions, interrupting often. Billy was clear and patient, as if he were giving testimony, recalling details and impressions. I laughed when he told me about Fits.

    "Fits is solid gold," I said. "He's made some real dog movies, but he's had a bunch of fun bucking producers and taking home big chunks of movie pay. Good old Fits."

    "The hotel staff thinks you're an angel."

    "Sure, I tip well. What about Eddie Tompkins; why was he arrested?"

    "Unrelated. His boss said he had his hand in the shoe store till. Tompkins says otherwise: It was the boss with sticky fingers."

    "He didn't seem like a thief. Poor guy, he really needed work." Billy shot me a that' s- no- excuse look. His recounting ended with the aborted early morning search through Sylvia's apartment.

    "You knew. You figured out the Indio clue?"

    Sitting next to the detective in the big, unmarked car, I felt like I was in high school and Billy had his driver's license and maybe we'd cut school, were going for Cokes— or malteds, like the other day. We'd drive to some secluded spot seniors knew about where we'd make out until our lips ached and he'd work out my bra clasp and maybe get a hand in my pants. Forbidden fruit of the teenage variety; my breath caught and I felt the reckless thrill of being with a boy nobody approved of and, too bad, I was free to make out if I wanted. Only I wasn't. And Billy wasn't older than me; I was older than him. I didn't care; I just wanted to drive up into the hills, climb into the backseat, and fuck the living daylights out of both of us.

    Billy was calmly answering my question— which I nearly forgotten I asked. He was, I noted, very literal: "I
didn't
know you were there. I just figured you had a reason for mentioning Indio. Lucerne supplied the story of the bird attack."

    "You're a good cop. You would have had me today."

    " Today could easily have been too late."

B
illy pulled into the upper Hotel Muse visitor's parking space, and who should come strolling toward us, just as cool as the morning dew, Mucho in tow, but Sylvia Vernon. She wore a wide- brimmed lavender hat atop her wig, a purple and white striped smock over yellow capris, and the usual slingbacks. She's going to break her neck one of these days in those shoes, was what I first thought. Seeing her had no other effect on me, not so much as a dart of hatred for my recent warden and possibly failed assassin. She scooped up Mucho and sidled next to the Detective's open window. Red lipstick filled the tributaries along her scored lips. Up in the hills it was hot and bright, Sylvia had to be warm in her getup.

    She leaned in. "Find what you were looking for, Lieutenant?" The Detective kept silent, only turned to face her, eyes obscured behind polarized sunglasses. She addressed me next, her own eyes invisible behind oversized, white- framed sunglasses. She didn't look at me as if she were seeing a ghost. "People were worried," she said. I didn't react either. Besides that Billy would be watching for the smallest sign to pounce on her, what was there for me to say to Sylvia Vernon? Thanks for the memories? Boy, it hurts to be shot? A breeze fl uttered Sylvia's hat brim and Mucho's big ears. I'll say this for old Sylvia; she might be crazy as corn, but she's the most unfl appable lady I've ever met: Tallulah Bankhead and Mae West bundled into a reduced package.

    Detective Collins said, facing front, "If it was up to me you'd be in lockup right now, Ms. Vernon, and that piece of fl uff that passes for a dog yapping himself silly in the pound."