Portent (16 page)

    Rivers ran around to the other side of the car and dragged the woman off the bonnet. Although she did not resist, her body was rigid with tension and he was forced to handle her roughly. Yanking the passenger door open, he pushed the bloodied woman inside. Rather than risk going back to the driver's side, he went in through the rear passenger door, then reached over the front seat to the woman, shoving her down and covering her head and shoulders with his own body. Missiles rained down, some of them heavy enough to dent the roof over their heads.

    The woman's screams reached a new pitch when something smashed into the side of the car, almost tipping it over.

    Rivers fell into the well between the front and rear seats and for a short while everything became dark and mercifully quiet…

    

    

    Tina Ziggy, real name Barbra Zeigerfield, was in a hurry. Unfortunately, the traffic she was in wasn't. The sight of cars, trucks, and even trailers, backed up on the Hollywood Freeway ramp ahead caused her pretty, Califomia-sun face to grimace. 'Shit-shit-shit. Move, you mothers, move!' The traffic took no notice.

    The old Chevy pick-up next to her played country. Loud country. The executive on the other side silently bawled out one of his minions on his earphone, the windows of his Mercedes shut tight against the heat and fumes. He caught Ziggy watching and gave her a wink, certainly not angry at her. Now a little wave, phone still glued to his ear, as his car inched onwards. A smug smile, too. The pick-up in the other lane was moving off now. Bye-bye, K. D. land (still the cream after all these years).

    'Fuck you,' muttered Tina.

    Feel like shit, she told herself. The Xanax and the Norpramin worked okay, they kept her off the coke, but she was gaining weight rapidly, and was for ever constipated, and she was tired all the time. Tired, but at least she slept most nights. And the craving was going. As were most of her friends. But who needed them? Actors were lunkheads, more interested in their own shadows than other humans. Scratch an actor, hear them squeal. Cokeheads most of them, her set anyway. And worse. Her breed, the next-generation brat-pack, were known by the Inner Circle as the smack-pack. Drugs, fuckin' and rock without the roll (new era low-rock). Peacocks and cockpleasers (and that went for both sexes). The hell with them all. No more screw-ups with body or head. Brody was outa the picture-her picture, anyway. Let him fuck up someone else's life. The new River Phoenix? Hah! Somebody oughta let Brody know there was nothing wrong with the old one. No more punch bag for his disappointments. And no more dumb actor boyfriends for her. Be yourself, Zig, old bean. From now on be-what was the word?-discernin'. Yeah, that was the one. Use it today. Discernin'. Yes, Mr. Leiberwitz, oh Mighty Producer, god of all you pervert, I'm looking for more discernin' parts, parts that I can breathe in. Good. 'Fuckin' good.'

    Movin'. Traffic's movin'. Her open-topped Bug hopped forward. Shit, calm down, girl. You still got time to be early. Take a Valium or two. Or three. Everything's gonna be fine. Today's the day of the big break. She could feel it in her crotch.

    Music blasted her ear again as she drew level with the pick-up. The driver, a square-jawed hunk sporting a straw stetson leered down at her, giving her the tongue. She gave him the finger and he turned to his good buddy next to him and said something. The other creep leaned over to look. He panted like a dog, tongue touching his unshaved chin. Tina concentrated on the road ahead.

    Thankfully her lane was shifting and she was able to draw away from the two goons and their noise. Hell of a day already. And a miserable bitchin' day it was, too. Lookit the sky. Dark, the California sun under wraps for once. Creepy dark. Not nice. Least it wasn't cold. Fuckin' weird, though.

    Tina pulled the sides of her A-shape skirt-split in the front almost to the pubes (the arrow points the way, Mr. Leiberwitz) -over her tightless thighs, today not willing to give even a peek away for free. Nothing was for free any more. Lessons had been learnt. Free spirit didn't have to mean free fuckin'. No more, did it. From now on she was gonna be discernin'.

    Oops. Hollywood Freeway, Downtown/4th Street. Gotta get over to the exit ramp. Gotta get through this shit on the right first, though. She could see the Dorothy Chandler Pavilion in the distance, the place where they gave away the Oscars and her ultimate destination. Not today, though. But soon. Or eventually. She glanced up at the overhead freeway. At least the traffic on Hollywood was movin' faster. Not far to Universal once she was up there. She waved her arm over the side and flashed her indicator. Come on, gimme a break, lemme in, you bastards. She had to get to the studio early for make-up and wardrobe-this screen test was the real thing. And if Mr. Producer, 0 Lord of all he lusts after, wanted to 'spend time' with her, then so be it. Anythin' for art. Anythin'. But nothing for free. No more. She'd make that plain.

    Tina needed this part. So what if it was second fiddle to the second fiddle to the leadin' lady who was only token female interest anyway. It was a good movie. It had a real story. And she-if she got the part-got to die before it was over. That was always great. Memorable. Even though it was down at number seven on the serial killer's list.

    'Let me in, you motherfuckers!'

    The truck with the two cowboys swerved dangerously close, the goons grinning down at her, the driver's buddy almost on his lap now. Clint Black mocked her with his macho bullshit song.

    'Come on, guys, gimme a break,' she appealed. 'I gotta get somewhere.'

    Texas blew her a kiss. Returned the finger too. KZLA wished her a good day.

    Tina put her foot down to make up ground she'd lost trying to pull over, but a Pontiac hauled over in front of her, stealing her space. A Nissan closed up behind.

    She swerved towards the pick-up again, threatening to ram it, her face hot with rage. 'I don't need this, you…' She didn't bother to finish: they knew what they were.

    'Going somewhere special, hon?' The counterfeit cowboy nudged the hat brim off his forehead with a knuckle, eyes and face wide with mock concern.

    'Yeah, up your ass if you don't move outa the way.'

    'You mean thet, babe? Ooeee.' He dug an elbow into his smirking companion.

    She changed her tack. These dorks wouldn't be threatened. 'Please, boys. I'm in deep shit if I don't get off this freeway.'

    'Little girl, ma heart's bleedin'.'

    'Fuck you.'

    'Ooh, say it's true.'

    She banged her horn in frustration. The man in the Nissan took up her plight and banged his horn too. A mean look from Straw Hat quietened him.

    Tina looked ahead. A little more space there. She jerked forward, but the pick-up stayed with her, keeping her blocked in.

    Okay, okay, stay cool. She'd swallow the whole fuckin' bottle of Valium when she was through this. No, that was bad news. She'd do the screen test like a robot.

    'Ahhh…' she wailed, eyes beginning to swell with dampness.

    The cowboy leaned further out of his cab, left hand flat against the door panel. He opened his leering mouth to say something, when his buddy tugged at his checkered shirt and pointed through the windscreen.

    'Lookit,' Tina heard the man shout over the music. 'Lookit over theyar.'

    Straw Hat squinted like a true Plainsman as he followed the direction of his companion's pointing finger. 'The fuck is it?' he said slowly.

    Despite her anger, Tina looked too. Her pencilled eyebrows rose in surprise.

    A small light was dancing across the car rooftops.

    'St. Elmo's fire,' she heard the cowboy say from some way off.

    'Naw,' argued the other one. 'Ball o' lightnin'. Lookit the sky.'

    She also looked up.

    The sky was darker. Swollen.

    'Purty thang-'

    She looked at the light again. It was, it was truly pretty. And because her eyes were still damp with frustration, it seemed to have a corona of mystical colours. An acid flashback? she asked herself. No, couldn't be-the two dorks were seeing it as well. And the other drivers. Some were poking their heads out of side windows, craning their necks to watch the skittish light, while others in open convertibles like hers just sat and wondered.

    The light skimmed over the metal roofs, sometimes dipping to touch the hoods. From one to another, sometimes bouncing, reminding Tina of one of those round balls that used to skip along the words of a song at the kids' movie matinees. But different. This kinda… sparkled.

    Somehow it lifted her spirits. The screen test didn't count for much. Nor did the Valium. And nor did Brody. The light was so bright, and so… so happy. She smiled, a pure smile of joy, a smile that had been alien to her lips for too long. This thing was better than uppers, it made her feel so light, so full of sunshine.

    But now it was becoming more erratic. It swooped and rose, veered and whirled. It hovered and was still one moment, was moving swiftly through the air the next. Someone leaned from their car window as it flitted by like some dazzling butterfly, but it easily avoided the man's fingers.

    The traffic crawled onwards beneath it and soon Tina was close enough to judge its size. And its simple beauty. It was pearly white with an incandescent aura of subtle pastel shades (it did have a kind of corona, although the tears in her eyes had exaggerated its depth). The light itself was no bigger than a baseball, no smaller than an apple and it skipped over the rooftops like a child might skip over stepping stones.

    
Oh glorious
, Tina thought,
gloriouuusss…

    Something splattered heavily to the ground between her Bug and the offensive Chevy pick-up, its dull mushy force breaking through the rapture. She had jumped in her seat.

    She stopped the car (it was almost at a standstill anyway) and unbuckled her seat-belt, then stretched across the passenger seat to see what had landed with such a sickening thud. Texas Straw Hat was leaning out further and looking behind to see, the noise heard even over Tanya Tucker. Together they gawked at the space between vehicles.

    It appeared that a block of ice had fallen to the ground and smashed itself into little pieces.

    They looked up at each other, both leer and animosity vanquished by their surprise.

    'Musta been from a plane,' the cowboy said in what had to have been a studied drawl. 'I heard 'bout thet kinda thang.' He peered up at the sky, searching for the miscreant aircraft. 'Comes from theyar jahns…'

    Tina had not followed his gaze; she had turned back to the vibrant light. But it had gone, disappeared.

    She sighed with disappointment. What had it been? A ball of electric, is all. No, a dancin' star, she preferred to think, a good omen. Twinkle, twinkle…

    'Oh!'

    She had jumped in her seat again. A different kind of noise this time, a more of a… more of a splatt!

    Tina mouthed another little 'oh!' when she spotted the straw stetson on her passenger seat and the Texas cowboy's broken head dangling against the side of the pick-up's door, a single stream of blood dribbling from it. His good buddy was tugging at his shoulder, unsure of what had happened, only wondering why his partner was slumped out the window like some damn drunken fool.

    'C'mon, Carl, let's git movin'.'

    No good. Tina could tell by the bloodied dent in his head that ol' Carl was dead. Daid. The poor fool shoulda never left Texas, or Arizona, or whatever fuckin' cowpoke state he came from 'cos in LA he'd copped a headache he was never gonna get over.

    She laughed and didn't know why-it sure as hell wasn't for the fun of it. Jesus, this guy was dead. Daid. Daid for sure. Her giggle turned into a sob. Oh shit… it was turning into a bad luck day for her… and a worse one for him…

    Something bashed into the sloping front of her car. Her eyes widened at the indentation it had left.

    'Oh Gaaahd…' came a moan as the buddy discovered the problem with his partner.

    And a loud scream from Tina as another block of ice smashed her windscreen. How many johns did this plane have?

    More struck the Camaro that had just drawn alongside her. The driver looked out of his window as if accusing her of the damage. He mouthed something inaudible.

    Then the sky was full of falling ice.

    Tina howled loudly as a hailstone as big as a football and not dissimilar in shape landed on the straw stetson next to her. She pushed herself away from it, rising in her seat, as though it were something alive and horrible. A blow to her shoulder numbed the whole of her arm.

    The sound of hammering was all around as the huge hailstones pummelled the Los Angeles traffic. They fell in all shapes and sizes, as icicles, cones, great stars, and uneven spheres-a lethal downpour of iced rain. Metal buckled, glass shattered, and those drivers in open-topped convertibles cowered low with arms over their heads. Over the sound of thudding hailstones and Patsy Cline from the pick-up, Tina could hear the collisions of cars overhead on Hollywood, the traffic there caught at a smarter moving pace.

    She raised her good arm just in time to deflect a blow to the head. But now that arm was numbed and she could barely lift it. She had to get under cover, into another vehicle or underneath her own Volkswagen. She tried to rise again and managed to kneel on the seat, despite her useless arms. But the Nissan behind bumped into her and she fell over the back of her seat, her long naked legs trapped by the steering wheel, her back arched. Wind was knocked from her when an iceblock, this one the size of a telephone directory, hit her midriff. She felt as if a steam-hammer had punched her belly.