Jackie's Week (11 page)

"Sorry about that."

"It’s nothing new," Scotia said. "There are a
lot of neurotic, wealthy women here in Hollywood. You’d be
surprised how many movie stars come here to get put back together
after they fall apart for a year or so."

"It’s that common?"

"It’s very common. Do you think Lindsay Lohan
shaved her legs when she went on her most recent bender? I think
not."

"Scotia, I thought you had the optimism of
the young. Instead it appears you have already begun to look
forward to the day when your own life begins to turn into a
nightmare of disease, loneliness, helplessness and poverty."

"Not me. I plan to take care of myself. You
know what I think? I think you should try just being an ordinary
person for awhile. You’ve probably been working too hard at being
the perfect victim after your attack. You can stop living up to the
event. Try letting go of it entirely. It’s okay to have weakness.
Everybody is weak. And enjoy being your age. Try and divorce
yourself from the L.A. youth-worship culture. Think Lauren
Hutton."

Scotia’s words exploded in Jackie’s head like
a bomb. Especially her speech on being the perfect victim. She felt
the truth of it cutting into her shell.

"Everybody is a shrink lately," Jackie said.
"But you’re probably right. I think I turned into a bag lady
because I did not want any man to target me."

"You’ll feel better after your haircut. And
you might be surprised by what life has in store for you. Maybe
you’ve finally come to the place where your life is beginning to
really take off. Don’t give up before the miracle happens."

"I used to hear that phrase in AA."

"You were in the Program?"

"For 90 days when I was younger," Jackie
said. "I was one of those crazy kids who went in on a DWI program.
I sat there in the back with a frown on my face the whole time. But
I did learn a few things."

"I’m a 12-stepper," Scotia said. "Except my
whole world was crystal meth. But everybody is in a different place
in life. You’re at the place where you need a good cut."

"Is that all it takes? Is that what the
entire universe boils down to? A good cut?"

"Sometimes. I think Einstein was working on
that theory. That’s why his hair was the way it was. Your hair is
more than a piece of material covering your scalp. Your hair says
everything about you. It tells the world who you are. It represents
the battle we all must face to live in this world. You’re not here
only to get it cut. You’re here to give your soul a new breath of
life. The great haircut is the frosting on the cake."

Scotia’s fingers located an inflamed nerve
and began to work it.

"Oh, the pain that refreshes," Jackie
said.

"So where’s your favorite place?" Scotia
said.

"Right where your fingers are now."

"No. I mean your favorite place in the
world."

Jackie sighed. "I used to have a favorite
place, but not anymore. It was my house in Van Nuys. It’s a
two-story cape cod with a pool. My favorite place was poolside
under the arbor. It’s got a really great old guava tree covering
it, and in the summer I could sit there in the shade. And there
were mockingbirds singing all night long. Of course, after the
attack, I’ve been afraid to return. So I guess you could say at the
moment, I have no favorite place. This guy I am interested in has
one, though. But it’s a dog ranch in Dos Palos."

"You need to find a new favorite place.
Everybody needs one."

"I bought a new car last night. I love the
interior. Maybe that will become my favorite place."

"Sometimes, when we can’t have a place on the
outside, we have to find a place on the inside. Even if it is the
inside of a car."

"Oh my, Scotia," she breathed. "Scotia.
Lower. Oh my God!"

Chapter 18

"You’ve lost a lot of hair," Vito said. "It
tells me your body has been through enormous trauma in the last six
months. I’m also quite sure you haven’t been eating normally. You
need to start eating a healthy diet rich in vitamins and minerals,
with lots of vegetables and fruit."

"Are you my hairdresser or my mother?" Jackie
said. She was in a small, back bedroom in the middle of the
hardwood floor, sitting, draped, wearing her new shorts and a
T-shirt from Neiman’s, on a low, cushioned stool.

"I’m neither. Just think of me as a
friend."

"So how come I’m in here all by myself
instead of being out with all the other ladies?"

"We do nails and facials in the living room.
Which you also need to have done before you leave today. At least
get the nails cut and painted. But I must have complete privacy
when cutting. I cannot be disturbed by ringing phones or other
factors which could break my concentration." He extended a silver
dish with assorted bon-bons. "Take one—it’s a reward for making it
this far. It’s no small thing you’ve arrived in my cutting room. It
means your life is about to change."

Jackie popped a tart orange candy into her
mouth and felt her saliva glands explode from the tang. "Oh man,
that’s good. I could eat a dozen. By the way, why are there no
mirrors in this room?"

"When I am creating a new style, I need
complete control of the artistic process. The creative process is a
right brain activity. I tap into an altered state when I work. I
took the mirrors out of the room because I don’t want your existing
insecurities to spill over into my head. I don't want to be drawn
into your reality. If you watched me in a mirror, it might cause me
to fog over when I pick up your rigid fears and
preconceptions."

"You’re a smooth customer, Vito, but you can
save that ying-yang crap for your Beverly Hills brats. I’m just a
Valley girl. The only preconception I have right now is I’d like
another bon-bon."

"Nerves."

"Can you blame me? I mean, it seems like all
of a sudden the entire universe is focused on my impending
haircut."

"Jackie, I’m going to suggest we go
short."

"Short? How short?"

"Very short."

"Oh man. We can’t do that. I’m too old to
pull off a Sigourney Weaver. And my scar will show."

"Actually, you look a bit like Sigourney. And
even she was able to get a date, even though it was with a
fang-dripping alien. There’s a lot of those in this town. I used to
do her hair, until we had a violent disagreement about that little
flip job she wears now. Don’t worry about your scar. It gives you
character. I find it exciting. It’s modern. People are into
highlighting their flaws now. Look at the huge glasses everybody is
wearing. Like wearing a huge sign that says, ‘I Am Blind’."

"I bet you find a lot of things
exciting."

"One amuses oneself the best one can. It’s
past time you made this move. You need to show the world you’ve got
a new attitude. And by going short, we eliminate the need for any
chemicals, which will avoid your head being designated an EPA
Superfund emergency site."

"But what about my gray?"

"You haven’t cared about your gray up to now.
Look, gray hair isn’t for everyone, but you’ve got the face and
skin color to pull it off. You’re about 50 percent gray now, so
you’ll have a nice salt-and-pepper look. But the choice isn’t about
going gray, or going short—it’s about whether or not you’re ready
to start being yourself for the first time in your life, instead of
trying to be whatever it is you think they want you to be."

"Well okay. I already bought a red car when I
was blacked-out drunk last night. I might as well cut off all my
hair today."

"Beautiful. I’ll sculpt you down all the way
past the damage and the frizz and then do a tight, geometric cut.
It’s going to be outstanding." The scissors in Vito’s skilled hands
began to snip away and the hair fell like dirty snow around
Jackie’s draped form.

Chapter 19

"It’s not as easy as it looks maintaining a
dog this size," Johnson said. "Finding a good restaurant can be a
challenge, even in L.A. But, with a little ingenuity, any dog can
have his day in the City of Angels. Of course, we can’t go shopping
at Neiman Marcus anymore, not since somebody’s poodle bit the
forefinger off one of their shoppers."

Johnson, accompanied by Heinz, had shown up
in his white van at the Spring Oak Drive residence about 7:30. At
Bienenfeld’s insistence, they all piled into Jackie’s Lexus and
hightailed it to Chillers at the Third Street Promenade in Santa
Monica. It was a perfect night to sit outside. The evening ocean
air was well-oxygenated, smogless, warm and soft, halo-like under
the combined fusions of mercury vapor lamps and fritzy neon sign
displays.

Heinz, coat freshly groomed, in harness and
tied to the other side of the patio railing, watched with
intelligent interest the ambient crowd of evening mall traffickers,
most of whom moved well away from the large canine.

Jackie felt like a new creature. She had to
admit to herself that her hair looked fantastic. Radical, but full
of life.

"Dogs are actually good for restaurants,"
Johnson said. "A lot of people don’t know this, but many of the
finest hot dog stands in L.A. provide dog-friendly accommodations
to give their food stand a competitive edge."

"Because the owner always buys a dog for his
dog," Jackie said.

Everybody chuckled, fueling the fire of
Jackie’s feel-good moment. It had been a long time since she’d had
a simple evening out with good friends and was free to joke around
and be herself. This was the other side of life she’d almost
refused to believe existed anymore, and yet here it was, laid out
before her for the taking. She was proud of Johnson. He looked
sharp in his suit, and he mixed easily with Donna and Bienenfeld.
She began to size him up for serious relationship potential, and he
sized up nicely. The thought of being with him suddenly began to
feel very right.

"I like your dog," Bienenfeld said. "One good
thing about bringing him here is that we don’t have to worry about
some homeless psycho sneaking up and grabbing our food out from
under us."

"You got that right."

The waiter arrived with a round of Old
Fashioneds.

"Take mine back," Jackie said. "And bring me
a Coke."

"You’re not drinking?" Donna said.

"I met a lady today who’s in AA," Jackie
said. "I’m trying it on for size. I’m admitting that I am powerless
over alcohol and my life is unmanageable. One day at a time, of
course."

"Oh please," Bienenfeld said. Don’t take the
drink back. Just set it right here. I’m practically ready for my
next one anyway." He drained his first tumbler and hoisted his
second in a toast. "To Jackie’s new car. Which, I may add, is
cramped and uncomfortable as hell in the back seat."

"Well we can’t all ride around in our
personal limo, Bienenfeld," she answered, raising her water glass.
"But thanks for the toast anyway. Here’s to you for being here for
me. And here’s to the untimely death by hanging in his cell of one
Viktor Bout."

An awkward silence ensued.

"What, we can’t talk about it?" Jackie said.
"We’re just supposed to sit here and make small talk?"

"Jackie," Johnson said, "I have a present for
you." He held out a small gift bag.

"Oh my gosh," Jackie exclaimed. "A Nintendo
portable!"

"Now you can play Avatar anytime," Johnson
said.

"Avatar?" Bienenfeld said. "That's already on
Nintendo?"

"Yup," Johnson replied.

"Thank you, Johnson," Jackie said.

"No offense," Bienenfeld said, "but after
dinner, we are going to leave you two alone to enjoy your Avatar.
I’m having the limo pick me and Donna up for the return trip."

"We're going home to play adult games," Donna
said.

"Jackie," Bienenfeld said, "you brought up
Bout, so I may as well ask Johnson, here, how he identified this
Bout insect."

"He got stopped for driving while text
messaging. They found Jackie’s license in his car."

"Text messaging?"

"Yup."

"And they searched his car for that? Will
that hold up when his attorney finds out?"

"Does it matter?" Johnson looked annoyed at
the questioning, the annoyance directed at Bienenfeld, which seemed
to reduce Bienenfeld to something less than substantial, as though
his third dimension had somehow ebbed away.

The waiter arrived with Jackie’s Coke and a
platter containing fried zucchini’s, and mushrooms stuffed with
warm goat cheese.

"I’m concerned for Jackie’s safety," Donna
said.

Johnson broke off a piece of pumpernickel and
lightly moistened it in the saucer of herbed olive oil. "Not to
worry. I’ve got a man keeping an eye out. And Bout’s a
"Three-Strike" candidate. When convicted, he’ll have to do a
mandatory 25 years. And if bail is set at more than fifteen grand,
he can’t be set free unless he wins in court—which he won’t."

"I think you should let him out of jail,"
Bienenfeld said.

"Excuse me?"

"Let him out."

"Why, so you can go vigilante on his
ass?"

"And that is wrong because?"

Jackie realized the truth. Bienenfeld had
probably killed someone, or at least sanctioned it. She could see
in his eyes an absolute certainty, as though he was staring across
time and space to the gates of hell where his victim was
languishing in the flames.

"He may get out," Johnson said. "His lawyer
is pushing, and we don’t have the lineup to bolster our
charge."

"Maybe you two jerks can stop playing God
long enough to order a lady a drink," Jackie said. "Besides, if
anybody’s going to get Bout, I think it should be me."

"Maybe you should wait until the steaks get
here," Donna said.

"What, to kill Bout?"

"I’m talking about you having a drink. I
thought you were going to lay off tonight. You just said you were
powerless."