Wrong City (5 page)

Kind-hearted
pretty people. Vish went to jelly around kind-hearted pretty people every time.

“Come on. I’ll
help you close up, then I’ll run you to the hospital to get you checked out.
Okay?”

Somehow, almost
against his will, Vish found himself following her to her car, a sporty gold
two-seater. Compact yet glamorous, the perfect vehicle for Troy. She hauled an
enormous leather shoulder bag filled with a wadded-up jacket and what looked
like a stack of screenplays off of the passenger seat and shifted it to the
floor. “Sorry if your legs get kind of scrunched. Hop in,” she said.

Vish obeyed,
even though he wished he could put a stop to this. Despite her mild, friendly
appearance, she must have some force of will behind her, because he found
himself following her without arguing. He didn’t want to go to the hospital,
now or ever. He felt fine, albeit a little groggy. Head was maybe a little
sore, but not enough to warrant all this fuss and bother.

It seemed
important to make Troy happy, though, so he leaned back in the passenger seat,
closed his eyes, and let her take charge of his life.

T
roy drove him to the big hospital on Venice
Boulevard. From there, she was firmly in command. At her request, Vish forked
over his driver’s license and let her fill out his admission forms, let her
steer him to a hard plastic seat beneath a wall-mounted television set in the
waiting room, let her talk to the nurse at the front counter.

After too long
of a wait, after Vish had explained to Troy once more that this was kind but
unnecessary, because he felt perfectly fine, really, a willowy doctor with
smooth brown skin and a crisp white smock finally led him into her examination
room. She introduced herself as Doctor Gott. Vish blinked.

“Doctor… God?”
he asked.

She didn’t
smile. “No relation. Gott, two Ts.” She gestured for him to hop up on the
table, then shone a pen light in his eyes. “What happened?”

“I hit my head
on a tree branch.”

She prodded at
the back of his head, parting his hair with slim fingers. “Tree branch?” she
asked. A hint of skepticism at the edges of her tone, maybe.

“Yeah. I was
checking around my apartment building for damage after the quake, and I stood
up too quickly and bonked my head.”

Doctor Gott
didn’t say anything. Vish fought a wild compulsion to elaborate further. After
a moment, she stepped back and smiled at him. “Well, let’s get you checked
out.”

She shone more
lights in his eyes and prodded at his skull, all while keeping up a calm patter
and jotting down notes on her clipboard. Vish answered her questions as best he
could. She dabbed at his bloody scalp with a mesh pad and applied some antibacterial
ointment to the cut, then gave a small nod.

“Okay, Vish,”
she said. “Pupils look good, your reactions are normal, and that wound’s not
deep enough for stitches. Keep it clean, and you should be fine. To err on the
side of caution, though, I’d like to order a CT scan, just to make sure there’s
no swelling on the brain.”

Vish hesitated.
“Is it necessary?”

“It’s a good
idea.” She smiled at his reluctance. “It’s not complicated, and it won’t hurt a
bit.”

“I’m sure it
won’t. It’s just…” He shrugged. “‘CT scan’ is a very expensive phrase.”

She glanced
down at his paperwork on her clipboard. She considered for a moment, then
nodded once. “I do recommend it, but I can’t force you to get one. Your choice.
Promise me, though, that you’ll return immediately if you feel dizzy or
nauseous, or if you feel anything out of the ordinary at all.”

“Great. Yes, of
course. Thank you,” Vish said.

“Keep awake for
at least the next twelve hours, too. I’d advise having a friend stay with you.
Ask Commander Hotpants if she’s up to it.” At Vish’s look of complete
incomprehension, she frowned. “Troy Van Ellen. I saw her with you in the
waiting room. That was her, right?”

Vish didn’t
know Troy’s last name, and he’d lost track of the conversation somehow, but he
nodded. “Yeah, that’s Troy.”

“Good.” Doctor
Gott smiled. “Have her keep an eye on you. This is not a good day for being
alone.”

No sense
explaining he’d only met Troy and thus she wouldn’t be interested in
babysitting him. He nodded, then hesitated. “Can I ask you something? When I
said I bumped my head on a tree branch, you looked like you didn’t believe me.”

She considered.
“The skin split cleanly. Something rough like a branch, you’d typically expect
the scalp to look torn. Your injury is more consistent with a blow from
something smooth, like a baton or a pipe.” At his look of confusion, she shook
her head. “But injuries are strange beasts sometimes. You say it was a branch,
that’s plausible. Just wanted to be sure someone hadn’t beaten you up, that’s
all.”

When he returned
to the waiting room, Troy was deep in animated conversation with a pair of teen
girls. She laughed at something they said, her red-gold hair managing to
shimmer even under the flat glare of the fluorescent lights, then patted one of
the girls on the shoulder and gave the other a quick one-armed hug. When she
spotted Vish, she leaned forward and said something inaudible to them, which
made them erupt into delighted giggles, then headed over to him.

“All clear?”
she asked.

“Yeah. I’m
fine,” he said.

“Cool. Let me
run you home,” she said. She hoisted her purse onto her shoulder.

Vish hesitated.
“Do I have to fill out any more paperwork or anything?”

“Nope. You’re
good to go.” Troy took his elbow gently and led him to the door. She turned to
wave goodbye to the girls one more time.

“Friends of
yours?” Vish asked as they crossed through the parking lot.

“Ah… not
really,” she said.

Vish looked at
her. Her face was flushed bright pink. Realization dawned. “You’re famous,
aren’t you?”

She shook her
head. “Hardly. But I’m on TV,” she said. “It’s this show on cable—
Interstellar
Boys
?”

Ah. “Commander
Hotpants? That’s what my doctor called you.”

The pink
deepened to crimson, though she looked pleased. “That’s a nickname some fans
have given my character. You’d have to see the show, but it makes sense in
context.”

Vish smiled. “I
haven’t seen it. Her comment confused me greatly.”

Troy snorted.
“I can imagine.” She considered. “The show is the only big thing I’ve ever
done, and not many people watch it. So, no, I’m definitely not famous. I’m
surprised your doctor recognized me.”

“I’m sure I’d
like your show if I saw it. I’ve heard good things about it. I just don’t have
a television,” Vish said. “I mean, right now I don’t. I’ve had one in the past.
I don’t want it to sound like I’m anti-television or something.”

Something about
Troy—her pretty smile, maybe, or the light pressure of her small hand on his
arm—turned him into a babbling idiot. She just grinned and led him to her car.
“You’re not missing much. I mean, it’s a really good show, I’d say that even if
I wasn’t on it, but it’s not going to change anyone’s life. It’s just cute and
fun, that’s all.”

“One of your
costars was at a party I catered last night.” The girl in the bumblebee dress,
teetering in heels on the railing, poised above oblivion. “I can’t remember her
name. Tiny blonde teenager, short hair?”

“Aw, Kelsey?
You met Kelsey? Did you get to talk to her? She’s a darling, isn’t she? I adore
her to pieces. The entire cast is so great, and we all get along so well. It
makes going to work a pleasure.”

Easy to
believe. Impossible to picture anyone not getting along with Troy. “I didn’t
talk to her. But she seemed nice.”

Troy smiled.
“Where do you live?”

“About five
blocks from here. Go straight down Venice.”

“What did the
doctor say? Do you have a concussion?”

“A small one,
at the very worst. She didn’t think it seemed too bad. I’m just supposed to
stay awake for a while. Make sure I don’t fall unconscious, I guess.”

She gave him a
sidelong look as she pulled out of the lot. “Do you need someone to stay with
you?”

“She suggested
that, but I don’t think it’s necessary.”

She shrugged.
“I don’t have plans. We could hang out, if you wanted.”

Funny how just
those casual words made his heart beat a little faster. “That’d be great,” Vish
said. “I’d love the company. But please don’t feel obligated in any way. I’m
really fine.”

“No problem.
I’d feel terrible if you slipped into a coma while you were by yourself,” Troy
said. “Which way on Venice?”

“Left. You’ll
be taking another left on Glencoe.”

Her expression
was neutral as she looked at his building. Too neutral. Vish was practical
enough not to be ashamed of where he lived. This was what he could afford, this
sufficed for his needs. Seeing it through her eyes, though, was different. The
rusting fence, the discarded furniture in the empty pool…

She brightened
once they were inside his apartment. “Oh, this is nice,” she said. “You have
really good style.”

“Thank you.” He
did
have good style. He’d painted the walls when he first moved in,
covering the tobacco-yellowed white in pale olive with a painstaking ivory
border at the top to lend the illusion of crown molding. Glossy black paint
over pasteboard bookcases, a chenille slipcover over his Goodwill couch,
acrylic rugs in Persian-inspired patterns over the gray nylon carpet.

“Are you
hungry?” she asked.

Which is how
they ended up sitting on the couch together, Troy mere inches away from him,
pizza box on the coffee table. She had taken charge of ordering. The pizza was
cheeseless and meatless, which was fine, if not Vish’s first choice. If the
food was bland, the company was more than worth it. Troy was an easy
conversationalist, both talkative and attentive. If there was anything she’d
rather be doing on her weekend than sitting around with some stranger while
making sure his brain didn’t spontaneously hemorrhage, she showed no sign of
it. She asked questions about his life, lots of questions, and seemed genuinely
fascinated by his answers.

“So what have
you written?” she asked.

“A lot of short
stories. Two novels. A few relentlessly mediocre screenplays.” Vish swallowed a
bite of pizza. It had artichoke hearts and sun-dried tomatoes on it. It was
okay. Add little goat cheese and maybe some crispy pancetta, and it’d be
downright tasty. “Back in New York, coming out here and writing screenplays
sounded like a good idea, but as soon as I got here… I don’t know. I don’t
think I have a feel for this industry.”

“Do you have an
agent?” she asked.

Vish shook his
head. “I did in New York. She couldn’t interest anyone in my writing, so she
dropped me.”

Troy winced in
sympathy. “Rough. You’re in good company, though. I know a lot of talented
people, writers and actors, who haven’t been able to get anywhere here. I’ve
been lucky, I know. Right place, right time.”

She plucked a
kalamata olive off her pizza slice and ate it, her tongue flicking out to lick
her fingers. “You should email me some of your stuff. I could pass it along to
my agent. My agency represents writers, too. They’re really good.”

“Wow. Thank
you. That would be very nice of you.” Between Troy and Sparky, he’d had as many
offers to read his material in the past day as in the entire year since he’d
moved to Los Angeles.

That was a
thought. “Do you know anyone named Sparky Mother?”

Troy frowned.
Faint creases emerged on her forehead. Small lines around her eyes, too. She
was probably a couple years older than Vish, though she looked good for any
age. “Yeah, maybe. Is he an agent?”

Vish felt a
surge of surprise. He’d almost written Sparky off as some kind of con artist.
“Yeah, I think so. He might be a manager. I’m not really sure.”

Troy nodded.
“He’s the one who used to throw all those big parties on Oscar night, isn’t he?
But I thought he died a while ago.” She shook her head. “I might be thinking of
the wrong guy.”

“That can’t be
him. Sparky’s young.”

“Swifty. Swifty
Lazar. That’s who I was thinking of.” Troy shrugged and shifted the
conversation to other matters. Sparky was soon forgotten.

They whiled
away the afternoon. They walked down to the water and strolled along the beach.
They zipped to Santa Monica in Troy’s little car and grabbed iced coffee on the
Promenade. They saw a movie, something neither had much interest in seeing,
something Vish forgot as soon as the end credits rolled. Troy insisted on
paying for everything, quietly and politely but in a way that left no room for
argument. Troy turned into a chipper and implacable brick wall whenever Vish
tried to counter-insist on picking up the tab, rendering all his efforts useless.

Well, hell.
She’d seen his shabby apartment, she knew he didn’t have a car, she knew where
he worked, she knew he didn’t have health insurance… Later, as they were
zipping back to his place, something dawned on him. “Back at the hospital, you
didn’t pay my bill, did you?”

She went pink
again. “Actually, I did, yeah. It was easier that way.”

“There’s no
need,” he said. “Please. You can’t do this. There’s absolutely no reason you
should pay for that.”

“But I
pressured you into going. And you don’t have insurance.” She smiled, somehow
managing to seem both conciliatory and unrepentant. “Look, I don’t mean to
offend you, but I have an awful lot of money right now, and it’s no big deal.
Just let me do this for you, please. It makes everything so much smoother.”

Vish exhaled,
unsatisfied but not knowing how to push the point. “You’re so
nice
,” he
said.

Troy giggled.
“You make that sound like a bad thing.”

“No. It’s
wonderful, and I’m so grateful to you. But you don’t know me, and you’ve done
so much for me today. I feel inadequate.”

She glanced at
him. “Don’t,” she said. “I want to do this. Don’t think about it, don’t worry
about it, don’t feel bad about it.”

Vish leaned
back against the headrest and watched the scenery, feeling like there was more
he should say and not having the faintest idea how to say it.