L.A. Mental (8 page)

Sixteen

W
hen we got to the security gate, Kelso said he hoped I wouldn't think he was being rude, but he needed to stay there and take care of some work. We wrapped up our meeting with cordial good-byes. He'd never mentioned the lease; maybe he figured that his job was to impress me, and he'd leave the business dealings to Paul. That was fine with me—I wanted time to digest all this.

I walked on alone to the Lodge. When it came into sight, I got a pleasant little jolt—Lisa was sitting on the porch steps, reading a bound sheaf of papers that I assumed was a script. Her bright yellow dress stood out like the sun.

But as I got close I could tell that she seemed subdued, without her earlier sparkle. Her shoulders were hunched, her overall posture tense; she didn't glance up until I was right in front of her, and when she did, her smile looked forced.

I wondered if she'd gotten into it again with Dustin Sperry. I'd half expected him to still be hanging around her, but I didn't see him.

“What happened to your admirer?” I said.

“I convinced him he'd have more fun with the water nymphs than with me.”

“It didn't take him long to get over you.”

“Oh, he'll be back. He's one of those guys who can't stand dealing with a woman until he's fucked her.”

It seemed clear that she'd already told him to go fuck him
self
, maybe not in quite those words but still in ways that would make most men's testicles shrivel.

“Why do you put up with it?” I said.

She held up the script and gave it a fierce shake. “This. I've got a lot riding on it. Like my career and the rest of my life.”

“It's that important?”

“Where I'm at in the game, yeah.”

I finally caught the drift of what she was getting at.

“Are you saying he could fire you?” I said.

“Not straight-out fire. But he's a good director, and he's got a lot of clout. He could put on pressure to get me replaced—tell people I was hard to work with, I wasn't turning out right for the part, all that.” She tucked the script into her purse. “I'm feeling kind of bitchy, in case you haven't noticed.”

“Maybe just worn down?”

“Maybe. Are we ready?”

“Anytime,” I said.

She slung the purse over her shoulder and came down the steps. I walked with her to her car, a surprisingly modest bronze Lexus with smoked windows—she probably figured she was highly visible enough without driving something flashier—and opened the door for her, rewarded by a warm glance and a glimpse of tawny thigh.

Then, as I turned toward the Cruiser, I was hit by a ripple of euphoria so intense it made my scalp tingle. It came on suddenly out of nowhere, lasted ten or fifteen seconds, and then receded.

But came from where? I hadn't touched a drop of liquor since my usual couple of after-work drinks last evening; when I was younger I'd sampled some recreational drugs, but never much and not for years; and this wasn't like any of that, anyway. It didn't disturb my mental clarity in the slightest and left no other effects. True, it was pleasant to meet a woman who was both beautiful and interesting, and to spend even a few minutes in her company. But this was much more than pleasant and much more an actual sensation—a rush of pure pleasure.

The only explanation that occurred was that it was a sort of reverse-stress reaction—I'd gotten worn down, running on minimal sleep with the strain of Nick's situation and my new worries about Paul, and my system was compensating in this odd way instead of a more typical slippage. I didn't know if that made sense, but considering the result, who cared?

I got into the Cruiser, lit it up, and started away with Lisa following. Nobody seemed to be paying any attention to us.

Except, I realized abruptly, for Paul's girlfriend—Cynthia Trask.

I hadn't noticed her until now. She was sitting in the property's gazebo, built around the same time as the Lodge and sited on a small rise that gave a good view all around. Paul wasn't with her, and no one else was anywhere nearby. There was no doubt that she saw Lisa and me leaving together; she was looking right at us.

But what struck me most was her posture—leaning back, relaxed, with her legs crossed and her forearms resting on the chair arms, like a queen on her throne. As we passed, she smiled and raised one hand, a gesture that didn't seem so much a wave as a benediction, acknowledging her subjects and allowing them to go on their way.

I recalled that I'd had a similar feeling about Kelso when I'd first seen him as I came in. It was something else going on in my subconscious, I decided; I was feeling defensive about the property, unhappy with myself about the way I'd handled this arrangement, and I was childishly casting around for someone else to blame.

Lisa and I drove on, reaching the stretch of road that ran close to the pool where the swimming party had headed. A dozen or more of them were sunbathing on the granite rocks or frolicking in the water, and like she'd said, there was plenty of skin on display. It did look like not entirely innocent fun, and I had to admit there'd been a time when I'd have hankered to join in. But that sort of thing didn't interest me anymore. Much, anyway.

Then I spotted Dustin Sperry, which was easy because he was still wearing that hat, about the only article of clothing in the mix. He was sprawled on the bank, flanked by a pair of lounging beauties.

The strife between him and Lisa was none of my damn business, but I sure didn't like what she'd told me, and this irritated me further; it somehow seemed to underline the contemptuous way he was treating her and the general arrogance I'd sensed in him.

Then, quick as an explosion, my annoyance flared up into violent anger. It was so intense, so focused on him, that I lost track of driving and the Cruiser started to swerve off the road. I had to hit the brakes hard, and so did Lisa; mercifully, we weren't going fast and she was following at a safe distance.

I sat there shaking my head hard, trying to clear it. The surge washed away as suddenly as it came, but it still left me with a strange feeling like a lingering, unpleasant mental aftertaste.

My glance caught my side rearview mirror, and I saw that Lisa was leaning out of her window, looking at me warily.

Well,
that
was a classy way to impress a lady.

I let out my breath and made the best I could of it, waving back at her, then circling my thumb and forefinger for
all okay
. She nodded cautiously.

Physician, heal thyself, I thought as we drove on. With the sudden onslaught of all the bullshit, I hadn't been paying attention to my own head, and it was playing tricks on me in a way that was brand-new. I must have been considerably more stressed-out than I'd realized. I'd have to put my internal watchdog on alert, although that was easier said than done.

Seventeen

L
isa stayed behind me for a while after we got on the highways, but before long we were separated by traffic; the closer to L.A. we were, the more it increased, like a rain-swollen stream turning into a raging river. When I realized she was gone, I felt a stab of loss. Every time I'd glanced in my rearview mirror and seen her there, I'd gotten a sweet little kick. I liked her—she seemed smart, witty, tough but good-humored, and her brassy way of calling things the way she saw them was delightful.

I assumed she was in with Parallax, but she obviously had an independent streak and didn't feel constrained by group pressure; she'd shot down Chris Breen without batting an eye, besides driving up there by herself and leaving when she damn well pleased.

But the only way I was ever likely to see her again was on-screen. It had crossed my mind to ask for her phone number—she wasn't wearing a ring, she didn't give the sense of being seriously involved with anyone, and I even imagined that she'd felt a little spark herself. Then again, our worlds were far apart, and no doubt mine would quickly bore her. I already had plenty on my mind without chasing a pipe dream, anyway.

That downer brought back the grinding reality of Nick's situation. Despite my intentions to shine it on for the rest of today, it wasn't going to leave me alone. I was on I-405 now, not all that far from UCLA. I decided to stop in at the hospital and see how he was doing.

The upper-level ICU was a secured area, and getting in required clearance via intercom. When I checked in at the nurses' station, they assured me that Nick was maintaining well—and gave me a note, a message from the clinical lab, asking me to call Dr. Ivy Shin. I hadn't met her, and there was no other information, but it was probably related to Nick's toxicology. That brought back my worry about the dope I'd hidden from the cops—that the lab might have found out something about it that they'd be legally required to pass on.

I called Dr. Shin's extension on a hospital phone but got her voice mail. For the time being, I let it go. I was listed as Nick's primary contact, the ER and ICU had my phone numbers, and if it was really urgent, they'd have called me. I walked on down the hall to Nick's room.

I could see him before I got there; the ICU rooms had a lot of glass so the nurses could keep steady watch, and the beds were right in the middle—with surgical booms mounted ominously above them so the docs could get right to work if a serious problem arose. Nick was still obviously damaged goods—hooked to an IV and monitors, with breathing tubes in his nostrils, elbow in a cast, calves encased in knee-high blood-pressure socks, and his exposed flesh dark with bruising—but he looked like a human being again instead of a helpless, battered shape. As I walked to his bedside, his head rolled toward me, eyes vague from the morphine drip,

“How you feeling, brother?” I said, as cheerfully as I could.

He didn't answer, although he was obviously able to talk by now; he'd told the doctors enough for them to suspect retrograde amnesia. Maybe it was because of the sedative, maybe because of me. I hadn't expected an in-depth coherent talk, but I'd hoped I might get a few hints of information. That would have to go on the back burner, too.

“Anything I can get you?” I said.

“How about a shot of Demerol?” His speech was labored, the words mumbled.

“The morphine's not taking care of the pain?”

“No. I hurt all over.”

“Well, I'll ask if they'll strengthen the drip, but I don't think they're going to give you Demerol on top of that.”

“Why not? Long as I'm stuck here, I might as well enjoy it.”

I had to bite off my annoyance—keep from pointing out that the only person who'd gotten him stuck here was him, and the single major thing he needed was to get off drugs, not use this as an opportunity to grasp for more.

But his quick focus on it told me he wasn't as out of it as he seemed—or wanted to seem.

“Do you know what happened to you, Nick?” I said.

“Some.” He reached for a plastic cup of water and took a slurp.

“What's the last thing you remember?”

“I don't know. Just hanging around my place, I guess. It's all mixed up.”

“How about something specific you did? When, where, who you were with?”

This time he paused briefly before he answered. “Why does that matter?”

“It'll help the doctors gauge your progress.”

“Fuck the doctors,” he muttered.

I bristled again, more sharply. I'd been trying to maintain sympathy for him—he
was
badly beat up and looking at a long, no-fun recovery—but his attitude was wearing thin fast.

“They saved your life, Nick,” I said.

His shoulders rose in a slight shrug. “They'll get their money.”

No thanks to you, I thought. “Okay, rest up—I'll be around.” I started toward the door—then decided to try a quick reality check.

“Everybody's thinking about you and wishing you well,” I said, pausing. “Oh, yeah—Erica told me you called her. I was glad to hear it.”

His head rolled toward me again—this time more quickly, with a hint of wariness cutting through the glaze in his eyes.

“I did?” he said. “When?”

“A couple of weeks ago. You don't remember?”

“No. Why would I call her?”

“She didn't really say. I assumed just to break the ice. I mean, you guys hadn't talked in quite awhile, right?”

He made a scornful little
phhh
sound. “Break the ice? With her? No way.”

“You're saying you
didn't
call her?”

“What I'm saying is, you can't trust her.” Then he kept talking, his voice more animated and with a familiar cajoling tone—very different from his flat, few-word statements of a moment ago. “She always pulled weird shit and acted like she didn't know it. She's a nympho, for Christ's sake. The way she used to parade around bare-ass.”

I could almost hear the click in my head. Of all the things to pick out of the blue, Nick had come up with a sexual reference.

“It was weird, yeah,” I said. “But how does that figure into whether you talked to her?”

“Just that I could see her pulling something sleazy and trying to blame it on me. Probably figures I'm too fucked-up to call her on it.”

Now he seemed guarded, so I backed off. This was already a lot to think about.

“No, I'm sure it's nothing like that,” I said. “She was yakking, being spacey, and I must have misunderstood her. Forget it.”

Nick closed his eyes and turned his face away. My visit was over.

I walked out into the hospital corridor, its bright sanitized look a glaring contrast to my bleak mood.

Nick might have some genuine memory loss, but he wasn't only exaggerating it—he was flat-out lying. Worse—far worse—was the reason. He did know about that sex video of Erica, and he was trying to cover it up. He'd immediately branded her an untrustworthy slut, although I hadn't said anything remotely along those lines. I hadn't suggested anything accusing, either, but he'd jumped to deflect blame from himself and toward her.

All of which left me right where I'd been before. Nowhere.