Dial H for Hitchcock

by Susan Kandel

  “I smile when I’m nervous.”

  “How are you going to pay if you lost your wallet?”

  “Cash.”

  He shook his head. “I can’t do anything for you.”

  I pulled a hundred-dollar bill out of my purse and placed it on the counter. “Any possibility you might change your mind?”

  He pushed the money back at me. “No.”

  “Help me out here. It’s pouring rain and I’m exhausted.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “It’s not about helping or not helping. I can’t do anything without a credit card.”

  I smoothed down my shirt. “Will a driver’s license do?”

  “Maybe.”

  I dug through my purse and laid the driver’s license on the counter.

  He studied it for a minute. “Anita Colby.” He looked up at me. “Of Hollywood, California.”

  At least I had the hair now. “That’s right.”

  “Originally from Arizona?”

  “What?”

  “Your plates.”

  “Right. Tucson. Dry heat. Which I really miss tonight.”

  He looked back down at the license, then at me. I held my breath. “You take a good picture, Anita.”

  I exhaled. “Thanks.”

  “You an actress?”

  I shook my head.

  “You remind me of somebody. Anyhow, just sign the book, and I’ll show you to your room.” He removed a key from the hook.

  After I signed the register, we got my suitcases out of the trunk and headed down the path to the other side of the parking lot, stopping in front of a door with a tarnished number ten on it.

  The man who was not Jason opened it, stepped inside, made a face. “Stuffy in here. The owner has Raynaud’s disease. That’s when your hands and feet turn blue. She has us set the thermostat on high. Most people don’t like it, though. I can open this window here, let in some air.”

  I took the key out of his hand and laid it down on the flimsy wooden dresser. “That’s okay. I like it warm.”

  “Your choice.” He put one suitcase on the end of the bed and the other on a stand in the corner near the television. “No premium stations, I’m afraid.” He walked over to the desk and opened the drawer. “A Bible, the yellow pages, and the current issue of Bakotopia. It’s the local alternative weekly. You need anything else, dial zero.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Name’s Roy, by the way.”

  After he left, I double-locked the door, peered through the blinds to make sure he’d gone, then sat down at the desk and looked at myself one more time in the mirror.

  It was official.

  I’d joined the sorority of the damned.

  All of Hitchcock’s blondes were lost souls: alcoholics, teases, frigid, kleptomaniacs, depressives. And I was one of them now. The kind of girl who has to touch up her roots every four weeks. But how long exactly could I afford to do that?

  I opened my purse and dumped my cash on the desk. Then I got a pen and piece of paper out of the desk drawer.

  Okay.

  I’d started with two thousand eight hundred and fifty five dollars, to which Bridget had generously added five hundred. That made three thousand three hundred and fifty-five. But I’d paid close to ten dollars at the parking garage near Cedars-Sinai, and four hundred to Lewis, whose car I’d hit. Then there was the food at the Thai temple. I’d gotten a free sample of kanom krok, which turned out to be grilled coconut rice fritters topped with slivered scallions, and quite delicious. But I’d paid for my own beef satay and was still hungry when I was done with that, so I’d gotten a papaya salad and a Thai iced tea to wash it down. Before I’d left, I’d clipped a twenty to one of the little fake trees in the temple for the monks. Then there was the five dollars for trail mix, the five dollars to get into the Crystal Palace, the fifty at the beauty supply store, two hundred for Carmen, and twenty-five bucks for the polyester scarf she’d sold me, which was cunningly imprinted with penguins and something I’m sure I’ll wear all the time. That made seven hundred and twenty, to which I was going to add one hundred and fifty for two nights here in paradise, meaning that if I wasn’t touching Bridget’s money, I had less than two thousand dollars left. At least my gas tank was full. Deduct another forty for that.

  Exhausted, I kicked off my sopping wet pedicure thongs, stripped off my pants, shirt, and underwear, and slipped between the sheets. Only they weren’t cool or crisp or even white because dead blondes don’t stay in three-star hotels.

  I sat up and reached for my suitcase, which was lying at the end of the bed. I got out my silk robe and wrapped myself in it. Then I padded over to the window, opened it, and sucked in a lungful of air.

  The rain was deafening, spattering on the roof, rushing out of the gutters.

  I closed my eyes. I saw the trail at Beachwood Canyon.

  Had it really been less than a week?

  I saw the dust, the craggy slopes, the scrubby vegetation.

  The rain would wash away the soot caked onto the grasses, and in the morning everything would be new again. In the spring, the cottontail rabbits and mule deer would come out. And the flowers. I could see the lavender of the lantana. The white sumac. The red Erythrina.

  I opened my eyes.

  Anita would never see the flowers.

  I slammed the window shut and walked toward the bathroom door.

  I needed a shower.

  Chapter 28

  The bathroom was small, but spotless. The white tile glowed blue under the fluorescent light.

  I tore up the piece of paper I’d used to work out my finances and flushed it down the toilet.

  The water swirled in circles, then disappeared.

  Indoor plumbing. Truly a marvel.

  I slipped my robe off my shoulders and let it fall to the floor. Then I yanked open the plastic curtain, stepped inside, pulled the curtain closed, inhaled the lemon scent of antiseptic, unwrapped the soap, turned the handle marked H to the right, and screamed as the water hit me like a thousand knives.

  For ice-cold water I was paying $59.99 plus tax?

  Beggars can’t be choosers, I supposed.

  I wrapped myself in a towel and walked back to the TV, trailing fat drops of water on the dun-colored carpet.

  Oh, yeah. No premium channels.

  A person could always read.

  I got out the phone book.

  That was when the banging started.

  It was rhythmic. Slow, then fast. Slow, then fast.

  I flopped onto the bed and pressed a pillow over my ears.

  I could still hear it.

  Then the banging stopped, and a voice came from the room next door. “You okay in there? We heard you screaming a minute ago.”

  Jeez. “I’m fine.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yup.”

  “You don’t need anything?”

  Solitude. Hot water. Cable. Vindication. “Nothing.”

  “Good night.” Then they turned on the television. Sounded like a World War II movie. Lots of sirens and explosions.

  I kicked my suitcase off the bed and stretched out.

  Back to the yellow pages.

  I was going to find Anita’s sister, Gloria. There weren’t many other options left.

  First, I went to the section marked Toys and flipped to H.

  No listing for Hello Kitty.

  Then I tried S for Sanrio.

  Nothing.

  C for Children.

  Nothing.

  N for Novelties.

  No luck.

  Then the phone rang.

  I leapt to my feet. Who could possibly be calling me here? I picked up the receiver.

  “Anita? Roy from the office, here. Listen, if somebody’s holding you hostage, just say, ‘Sweet dreams, Henrietta,’ and I’ll have the cops there in half a second.”

  “Please don’t call the cops, Roy,” I said. “I’m perfectly fine.”

  “I heard there was screaming.”
<
br />   “There was no hot water.”

  “It takes five minutes to warm up. I should’ve warned you.”

  “Don’t worry about it. Good night.”

  “You have anybody in there with you, Anita?”

  “No. Why?”

  “Because you’re paying single occupancy. If there’s someone there with you, it’ll be extra.”

  “I’m alone. And I’m not expecting anybody.”

  “Okay, then. Sleep well.”

  Excellent work. Reassure the kook at the front desk that you’re all alone for the duration of the night. Well, he was probably harmless. Just a lonely guy with nothing to do.

  I got back into bed and flipped open the Bakotopia. Saturday night in Bakersfield. Sky’s the limit. There was a wet T-shirt contest at Brunhilda’s, with two-for-one beers on tap. There was also a speed-dating event back at the Marriott. And the Buckaroos were performing at the Crystal Palace, to be followed by karaoke.

  I bolted upright.

  What was that?

  Get a grip, Cece.

  It was the rain. Or a branch hitting the roof.

  I knotted my towel around me and tiptoed to the window, then lifted the middle slat of the blinds ever so slightly so I could see out. The rain was shooting down on the asphalt so hard it looked like electric sparks. Nobody in sight.

  For now.

  But Roy had a key. He could let himself in if he felt like it. While I was sleeping, even.

  Or maybe Jonathan Tucci was on his way. For all I knew, he’d staged that entire chase. I never did see the driver of the other car. It could’ve been one of his coworkers from the lot. He could’ve been trying to spook me so badly that I’d fall for his cock-and-bull story about not being able to check into a respectable hotel without credit card or ID. And then I’d have no choice but to wind up here, exactly where he wanted me to be. In the clutches of his coconspirator, Captain Weirdo.

  I ran back to my purse and got the remains of the trail mix—peanuts, mostly—and scattered them on the carpet. I’d hear them crunch if somebody tried to sneak in.

  No. I had a much better idea. I got the desk chair and dragged it into the bathroom, then climbed up and unscrewed the light bulb. I was going to place the bulb under the mat outside the door. You couldn’t miss the sound of shattered glass. Giddy with anticipation, I opened the door and stepped out onto the stoop.

  In retrospect, it was my fault entirely.

  If I’d thought things through, I would’ve grabbed the key to the room. Or propped the door open with the yellow pages. But I was impulsive. Had been that way since I was a little girl.

  Anyway, back to where I left off.

  Just as I was bending down to place the bulb under the mat, a huge gust of wind came up and slammed the door shut.

  It took a moment for the picture to crystallize in my mind.

  Me.

  A Hitchcock blonde.

  In a skimpy towel.

  In the pouring rain.

  Locked out of Room 10.

  I ran over to Room 11 and knocked on the door, but my neighbors couldn’t hear me over World War II.

  I had no choice.

  Cursing the gods, I sprinted across the parking lot to the office. The sign was still turned to COME BACK ANOTHER TIME, but the lights were on. Thank goodness Roy hadn’t left. I pounded on the door, but he didn’t answer. I ran around to the side and saw him sitting in an easy chair with his eyes closed and a copy of the Ladies’ Home Journal on his lap. I banged on the window for a solid minute. He finally opened his eyes and gestured for me to go around to the front door.

  I hopped from foot to foot, shivering, while I waited for him.

  Gentleman that he was, he let me in without mentioning my attire. Or lack thereof.

  “If you needed a new light bulb,” he finally said, “you could’ve called.”

  “I got locked out.”

  “Then what’s that in your hand for?”

  I held the light bulb over my head. “I have a great idea, Roy. How about you let me back in my room so I can put on my clothes and explain it to you then?”

  “No need for sarcasm.” He took a key from behind the desk, then grabbed his big, black umbrella. “What’re you waiting for, Anita?”

  Back in Room 10, I was grateful for the woman with Raynaud’s disease. Covered in a blanket, I huddled next to the radiator while I waited five minutes for the water to heat up and my body temperature to return to 99.6 degrees (I run a little hot). My chignon had wilted (obviously) and my hair felt alarmingly starchy. Carmen had said that might happen. I needed to use double the amount of conditioner for a while. Luckily, I’d brought two bottles.

  Two minutes to go.

  I went over to the phone and dialed zero.

  “Yes?” Roy was chewing. A roast beef sandwich, I’ll bet. With chips and a pickle. God, I was hungry. I’d never had dinner.

  “Roy, it’s Anita. I forgot to ask you something. Do you know of a Hello Kitty store around here?”

  He started to choke.

  “You okay?”

  “Fine.” He cleared his throat a few times.

  “So do you know where it is?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Great! Can you tell me?”

  Long pause. “You planning on going there now?”

  “Not now,” I said, glancing over at the clock on the nightstand. “They’re not going to be open this late. I’m going to wait until tomorrow.”

  “Oh, they’re open. Trust me.”

  “Really?” The store was probably located in one of those big malls that stays open until the wee hours. I could get something to eat in the food court.

  Roy gave me the address.

  Then I took my shower.

  And lived to tell the tale.

  Chapter 29

  Hello Kitty was indeed open. But there were no cute Japanese trinkets for sale.

  Hello Kitty traded in flesh.

  Overflowing DDD cups of it.

  Bikini-waxed, tattooed, and pierced expanses of it.

  In colors ranging from lily-white to darkest ebony.

  “You here for the audition?” asked a man with a ZZ Top beard working the front door. “Step into my office.” He put his hand over the security camera and cocked his head toward the alley.

  “How do you do? I’m here to see Gloria Colby.” I was trying to be businesslike, which was difficult given that I was wearing high-waisted Yves St. Laurent harem pants. “Is she working tonight?”

  “Don’t think so. She’s not my type, anyway,” ZZ said with a leer. “If I’d wanted the girl next door, I’d have gone next door, you know what I’m saying? But you’re my type.” I wondered if he’d put glue in his beard to make it stay.

  “Give it a rest, Leo,” said the other doorman. “And don’t fool with the camera.” He turned to me. “You looking for Gloria?”

  I nodded.

  He unhooked the red velvet rope. “Go inside and wait by the DJ booth. I’m gonna send Chastity over.”

  I’d never been to a strip club before, but this had to be the platonic version: low ceilings, smoky, poorly lit, with Whitesnake’s “Here I Go Again” playing on endless rewind. In the center of the room, a girl wearing a black light-sensitive bikini was slithering up and down a pole while guys in trucker hats ogled her and slurped beers.

  The DJ booth was in the back. Two women were leaning against it, smoking and drinking Red Bulls. Between lap dances, I guess. They were in their twenties, but looked like they’d seen it all and then some. One was wearing a nurse’s outfit with five-inch platform orthopedic shoes. The other had on a sexy cop costume, complete with handcuffs and a badge reading OFFICER NAUGHTY.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “You’re under arrest,” said the cop.

  “Not yet I’m not,” I muttered.

  “You here for the audition?” The nurse smiled. “You oughta put your hair up in a ponytail first.”

  “Yes, master.” The cop tried t
o wiggle her nose.

  “You’re mixing it up,” said the nurse. “That’s from Bewitched. She’s Jeannie. Look at the pants.”

  I decided not to explain about my 1970s odalisque phase. “I’m not a stripper.”

  “Exotic dancer,” the nurse corrected me.

  “Sorry. I’m waiting for somebody named Chastity.”

  “Coming up right behind you at two o’clock,” Officer Naughty replied. “Shit.”

  I turned around. The woman was about my age, maybe older, but she had the body of a sixteen-year-old. She was wearing a skin-tight pink tracksuit and a rhinestone-studded Hello Kitty tiara, and had a miniature Chihuahua in her arms.

  “Somebody here looking for Gloria?” Her voice was like a sugar cookie, gravelly and sweet.

  “Me,” I said. “You must be Chastity.”

  Her eyes seared into me like a laser beam. “The one and only. And I know exactly who you are.”

  How that was possible, I didn’t know. But it didn’t seem like the right time to inquire.

  “As for you two, you are on probation as of right this minute.” The cop and nurse were about to protest when she put up her hand. “Not a word. Not even a sound. Neither of you has made your minimum, and you damn well know it. Get to work. This isn’t an office Christmas party.” She linked her arm through mine. “You come with me.”

  Now Def Leppard’s “Hysteria” was playing. A woman took to the stage wearing a marabou-trimmed robe with a teddy underneath. The room was packed, but at Chastity’s approach the crowd parted like the Red Sea. Men tried to kiss her hand. Working girls quaked in fear.

  “Look at her,” Chastity said as we walked past the stage. “I have to literally pry the Ding Dongs out of her hand.” The woman had shed the marabou robe and teddy and was doing cartwheels in a G-string and heart-shaped nipple tassels. Her breasts defied gravity and several other natural laws. “But she’s got a big following. She was head cheerleader at her high school. And I was the one who stole her away from the Teaser Pleaser, thank you very much.”

  She led me upstairs to the locker room, which smelled like sweat and Chanel N° 5. There were a bunch of girls gathered around two long benches. Some were leaving for the night. Others were getting ready for their shifts. They didn’t look particularly happy, either way.