“I know. I promise I won’t do this again. Please.”
He gives me a hard look, then turns the knob on the door. “In here,” he calls out. My stomach turns over. Suddenly the flashlight arcs across the ceiling, leaving me in darkness. The door scrapes. Jake steps outside, holding on to the doorknob behind his back. “Looks like everything’s okay.”
“You sure, Mr. Singleton? We better check it out.” The voice is hoarse, gruff with importance.
“Nah, I looked around.”
I lunge for my laptop and cell phone, unplugging both and jamming them in my carryall. I swing around, yanking the sleeping bag out of the backseat and rolling it in my arms.
“Any problem, you gotta let us know.” It’s another voice, this one softer, lower pitched. “You want us to look around the bushes?”
“No, whoever it was is long gone. I heard someone running off earlier.”
“Okeydokey. We’ll be on the lookout. G’night, sir.”
“Thanks a lot. Take it easy.”
Why did Jake Singleton do that? I watch him turn back into the garage, his flashlight flicking around, sizing me up. I freeze, my heart thumping, wondering what I’m in for now.
“You said something about your husband? He’s been giving you trouble? You don’t look banged up. Are you hurt?”
“No, I’m not, it’s just that—” I pull the sleeping roll directly in front of me and hug my carryall under my arm. “Look, it was wrong to sneak in here, but—honestly, I didn’t have anywhere else to go.”
“There are shelters, you know. There’s no shame in going to one. If you’re getting battered, they’ll take you in. My wife and I give to one of those outfits downtown somewhere. If you need me to make a call—” He flips open his cell phone. “You got kids?”
“No. I really appreciate this. I can go now, really.”
“Sure, whatever. It’s up to you. It’s just—I can’t let you hide out in here, you know? Not with my mother on her own. If your husband’s looking for you, you got to find some safe place. Anyone you can call?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. My car’s just down the street.”
“You want me to walk you?”
“Really, I’m fine. I can’t thank you enough.” I edge past him and step onto the damp grass. “You’ve been very kind.”
“Just take care of yourself, okay?”
I make myself walk at a steady pace up the flagstone walk, skirting the swimming pool, knowing his eyes are on me. I slip through the break in the hedge, just before the garden gate, and hurry down the slope, keeping to the shadows. I stop abruptly, spotting the two security guards circling my Volvo like road kill. One of them kicks at the front fender; the other peers into the passenger window, then spits into the bushes.
A minute passes. I have to pee, but I don’t dare move. My Margot Kidder nightmare isn’t over yet. I could still end up with a “caught in the headlights” shot of myself disheveled, my arms clutching a sleeping bag, splashed on the cover of a supermarket tabloid: “ALL IN A DAY’S WORK! FORMER ‘HOLIDAY’ STAR DOWN AND OUT IN BEVERLY HILLS!”
Tears sting my cheeks. Wouldn’t the paparazzi love this shot? Jinx, face puffy, mascara smudged, lurking in someone’s hedge. I press my forehead into my sleeping bag, recalling poor Margot, missing her front teeth and in need of meds, cowering in someone’s backyard. What’s my excuse? If I’m busted now, it’s the end of my job next week, the end of pulling myself out of this confounding mess I’m in.
I watch the two guards, Laurel and Hardy in size and shape, amble slowly toward their patrol car. I wait for Stan to pour Oliver coffee from a red thermos. I can taste it, smell it, but I’m hours away from getting a cup myself from the coffee urn at my Meals–on-Wheels gig. I help out in their kitchen once or twice a week—it’s a free breakfast and a place to go, filling my stomach and making me feel useful. Besides, my wardrobe fitting isn’t until tomorrow afternoon, leaving me plenty of time to shower at the health club.
Finally the patrol car pulls away from the curb. The moment they turn the corner, I sprint to my car. I know how they operate. They’ll circle the block and drive by again. There’s no choice but to spend the rest of the night parked in the shadows of Aaron’s Holmby Hills estate.
The Playboy Mansion is just a short hike up the road from the Spelling place, and I’ve wondered now and again what it might be like to camp out for the night at Hef’s Tudor-style mansion. It’s been years since I was last invited to a Playboy party, but how tough could it be to slip through the shrubbery, mingle among a thousand guests, and lose oneself back in the north forty, somewhere behind the Woo Grotto and the nesting peacocks? It must happen all the time that some reveler, having missed the last van to the parking lot, is found sunbathing by the pool the day after a big bash, waiting for the next party to begin. Hef seems like a nice enough guy, the sort who might offer you a cookie and a cold Pepsi while you hung out.
But I’m truly fascinated by the Spelling mansion. Now owned by Petra Ecclestone, daughter of the Formula One racing magnate Bernie Ecclestone, the estate is a gazillion-square-foot pile bordering the southeast end of Holmby Park. Tonight, sitting in my car, lulling myself to sleep, I once again imagine myself discovering the electric gate ajar and strolling up the driveway to find the front door wide open. I indulge in a fantasy raid, my mind taking me on a virtual tour of the house, not as it is, because I’ve never actually been inside, but as I would want it to be, smelling of Rigaud candles and lavish floral arrangements.
My simulated tour is a comforting, mind-numbing relief during those long hours when, alone at the edge of Holmby Park, I feel like I’m clinging by my fingertips to the edge of the planet. I long for sleep, but the drowsier I become the more afraid I am of dropping off, leaving myself prey to whatever bogeyman might be out there. While I fantasize about Candy’s famous gift-wrap room and Aaron’s bowling alley, curling up in a big armchair in front of a crackling fire, a glass of fine Montrachet in my hand, my eye is on the long shadows cast by trees in the light of the street lamps, vigilantly watching for any stray movement, any sinister approach.
Tonight I scrap my fantasy when my eyes fix on a gunmetal-gray, unsafe-at-any-speed rattletrap that trundles up to the curb some twenty feet beyond my Volvo. It’s not the first time I’ve seen this rusting road warrior, a convertible with a peeling roof, parked at the south end of the park, but I’ve never laid eyes on its owner. I crane my neck as the door opens. A dim interior light illuminates a broad-shouldered figure behind the wheel. A man slowly climbs out, throws his shoulders back, and stretches before closing the door again. He steps up on the curb, rocks back and forth, swinging his arms.
Then, with the stealthy grace of a coyote, he lopes across the grass toward the men’s restroom. It’s locked for the night. If he’s a regular here, he should know that. He does. Without bothering to try the door, he stops at the edge of a pool of lamplight, fumbles for a moment, then thrusts his pelvis forward and pisses into a border of white azaleas.
The stream sparks against the wall, glinting in the light. Having marked his territory, he shakes, tucks, and zips. There’s no figuring men. Under threat of death, I couldn’t pee on flowers. Nor would I seek out a well-lit, public place to relieve myself. This is hardly a time to be houseproud, either, but my Volvo doesn’t look like the only jalopy to survive the apocalypse.
A light rain begins to fall, leaving starburst specks on my windshield. I shift to get a better view of the hunky guy with the dark, curly hair. Is he homeless, checking in for the night? He tips his head back, his face pale in the lamplight. He’s too steady on his feet to be drunk. Probably a druggy, or just crazy. Why else would he stand out there soaking up the drizzle? He leans back even further, his hands stuffed into the pockets of his blue jeans, his leather jacket glistening.
Abruptly his face turns in my direction. I hold my breath, not moving, praying he can’t see me through the dark, rain-streaked window. I catch a last blurry glimpse of him running to
ward his car as a downpour cascades in sheets over my windshield. I breathe again, feeling snug and safe with the torrent drumming on my rooftop. Who would want to get drenched molesting me? Do rapists take weather into account?
Such abstract considerations aside, I know I shouldn’t be alone in my car in the middle of the night. I should be in my own home, the one I no longer have. If I weren’t so stubborn, I could throw myself on the mercy of any number of people who would take me in. Carol and Sid. Even Dougie. Possibly Pat, my agent, who shares her Santa Monica bungalow with only her cat, Mimsy, for company. What stops me?
Here’s the deal: In return for the helping hand, people want answers to questions I don’t even ask myself. So I sit in a cramped Volvo, my body screaming for sleep, punishing myself for having been stupid, for having wrecked my life. Maybe this is what Dougie was talking about, not wanting to know and therefore not being able to move on.
My toe flips open the glove compartment. I reach in for a packet of snapshots. In the gloomy light of the street lamp, I riffle through dogeared photos, stopping at one Paul and I had used for a Christmas card. Tanned and grinning, both of us in shirts and shorts, we’re wrapped in each other’s arms aboard the WindStar. As familiar as I am with this picture, I look at it now and again to test myself. Am I still susceptible to the man’s undeniable attributes?
Once again, I fail the test. My eyes fall on Paul’s laughing face, the curls of sandy hair glinting in the setting sun, and I feel the tug, knowing my heart would swell if I were to hear his voice on my cell phone. What will it take to wipe out the longing? I stare at the picture for long minutes before drifting asleep.
My eyes pop open again as the first dirty streaks of light filter through early-morning cloud cover. The rusting convertible is no longer parked at the curb. There’s no sign of its soggy, hunky occupant. I stretch my arms, then look up through the trees on the hill, catching a glimpse of the mansard roof, pearly gray in the dawn light.
I check my watch. The health club will be open shortly. I’ll have my choice of classes—Cardio Sculpt or Tai Chi—before taking a hot shower. If only the club served free coffee. I can grab a bite to eat at my Meals-on-Wheels gig, then go back to the club to freshen up before my wardrobe appointment this afternoon. Not a bad agenda for someone down and out in Tinseltown.
Petra Ecclestone is probably still tucked in bed, while staff get coffee percolating and set a basket of fresh pastry on a linen-covered silver tray.
I stretch some more, smelling the coffee, tasting the warm croissants. I ache for a bowl of oatmeal with milk and a dusting of brown sugar. At moments like this I wonder if I’m not slipping past Margot Kidder and heading into Frances Farmer territory. How nuts do you have to be to go from scrounging leftovers to imaginary dining?
A harsh male voice sounds in my ear. “Is the Coop there?”
“What?” The cell phone almost slips from my fingers, and not just because of the clumsy baggy covering my hand. I glance around the Meals-on-Wheels kitchen. Cell phones are forbidden, but nobody appears to be watching me. “Coop? I don’t know—”
“Don’t gimme that. Your husband. C’mon, is he there?”
“My husband? No. Who is this?”
The caller hangs up. I yank the baggy off my hand and hit the button for recent calls. UNKNOWN. Coop? My husband? It had to be a wrong number. Fingers shaking, I hook the phone back on my waistband.
“You okay, Meg?”
Donna peers up at me, her springy gray hair smothered in mesh. She’s the only volunteer willing to wear the required hairnet. Mine is tucked in the pocket of my regulation pistachio-green smock.
I look down into Donna’s doe-like eyes and want to scream: Okay? Sure! My eyes feel like grit. I haven’t slept. I don’t know when I’ll ever see a bed again—and someone might have just called about my fugitive husband!
Instead, I say, “I’m fine. Too much coffee.”
“It’s so bad for you,” she says disapprovingly. “It got so I was shaking. I had to switch to decaf.”
I let Donna talk, which she will do at length, her busy-woman’s voice set on automatic. “Better get another tray of chicken out of the oven, Meg,” she says. I set the tray on the counter, already knowing what she’s going to say next.
“Just put the tray right here on the counter, dear. That’s right.” I want to slug her.
Why would someone call me asking for Coop?
I slide my hand into a fresh “sanitary” baggy and begin heaping individual plastic containers with chicken and a side of broccoli. Donna barely comes up to my shoulder, but she stands on an overturned crate inspecting each container of food I assemble. She hums nonstop. Not any recognizable tune, just a grating soundtrack in a minor key. I suspect we’re about the same age, a sobering thought.
Donna, who clearly has more time on her hands than even I, volunteers several days a week. Fortunately, I’ve never been assigned to deliver meals with her. But today of all days, when I’m sleepless and edgy, I draw to an inside straight: Donna and I are teamed for one of the routes. She snaps the lids of the containers closed and piles the boxes next to a thermal carry bag.
Meanwhile, the phone call rattles through my brain on an endless loop.
Coop? Another of Paul’s aliases? I can’t remember Coop among all the monikers the FBI told me he used. It probably isn’t that much of a stretch. The sourness in my gut tells me I’m either on to something, or I’d better lay off coffee.
“All righty-right, let’s load up the car,” Donna trills. I head toward the parking lot juggling two insulated carryalls, with Donna trotting behind me.
For obvious reasons we take Donna’s car instead of my closet-on-wheels. With Donna behind the wheel of her aging Mercedes, and me riding shotgun balancing a carryall in my lap, we head into the leafy environs of Beverly Hills flats, not noted for its poor and indigent, delivering poached chicken breast Florentine to the elderly housebound. It’s happened more than once that a startled old-age pensioner has gotten up from watching me in a television rerun to find me, in person, standing at his door. I’m sure I’ve brought on bouts of acid reflux, but no heart attacks that I’m aware of.
I scan the route for our first delivery, gratified to see that none of the regular names have been scratched from the list. That means no one’s been moved into a nursing home, or a place more permanent, since my last visit.
“Okay, Donna, hang a right on Elm and we’ll do Inez first.”
I look up just in time to see the Mercedes on the verge of sideswiping a looming Dumpster. “Watch out!” I scream. The car lurches to the left, and I exhale.
“Don’t worry, I saw it,” Donna reassures me. “Listen, I just want to say I think it’s great that a movie star like you would do this kind of thing.”
“I’m not a movie star, Donna.” I grip the carryall tightly as the Mercedes drifts toward the line of parked cars. “Donna, the cars—”
“I see ’em. So, are you in anything coming up? Really, I can’t believe I’m driving around with you like this.”
First and last time. “I’ve got a wardrobe fitting this afternoon for a TV pilot. I start filming next week.”
“How exciting! Well, I’ve always been a big fan of yours.”
We pull up in front of Inez Berger’s bungalow, the only house on the street still in its original prewar state. Once Inez goes, it’ll be torn down and replaced by another Persian palace with Doric columns and a three-story front door. Inez, her eyes bright, head bobbling with age, peers at me through the rusty screen door as I double-time it up the walkway carrying her meal.
“There you are,” she says, thumping her walker against the door frame while she fumbles with the catch on the door. “I was hoping it would be you today.”
“How’re you doing?” I say, entering the small living room, pin-neat and smelling of floral deodorizer.
“Oh, you know—my fingers just won’t hold a darned thing anymore.” I look past her and see fragments of a
porcelain vase littering the floor. “I had no business trying to dust this morning.”
“Inez, I’m so sorry. Let me help clean that up for you.”
I make my way through the dining room to the sunny chrome-and-tile kitchen of a bygone era. Inez follows, slowly pushing her walker. Her legs, spindly sticks swaddled in Ace bandages, may be giving out, but Inez does a nice job of keeping up appearances. Despite fingers wracked with arthritis, her hair is neatly combed, her lipstick and rouge carefully applied.
“All you have to do is call me, you know. You should have.”
I quickly arrange the chicken on a plate and pour a glass of juice. Inez bumps her walker across the linoleum floor and waits for me to finish setting up lunch.
In a weak moment, I once gave Inez my cell phone number. Two days later I got a late-night call. I rushed over to find her stranded in her rocker, her walker toppled on its side out of reach. She’d spent hours trying to figure out how to retrieve it. After I’d set the walker upright, we played a few hands of blackjack and had hot cocoa—and I spent the night in her spare room.
I recall the comforts of the small second bedroom now and choose my words carefully while rooting around under the sink for a whisk broom and dustpan.
“Inez, I wonder if you should be on your own here at night. I could stay with you. You might feel a bit more secure.”
“That’s so nice of you to offer, my dear. But I finally bit the bullet this morning and called an agency. They’re sending someone over later today.” Too late! Damn!
She settles down at the table for her midday feast. “I don’t really like the idea, but I don’t see what else to do.”
By the time I’ve swept the porcelain fragments into the dustpan and returned to the kitchen, she’s nibbled half her chicken Florentine. I give her shoulder a gentle squeeze. “Well, if the agency doesn’t work out, call me. Promise?”
“I promise,” she says. “You know, I like it when you deliver. Everyone else is in such a hurry.”
Down and Out in Beverly Heels Page 5