Hollywood Boulevard

by Janyce Stefan-Cole

  I was back up at the Muse earlier than I'd planned, leaving me with extra, unaccounted- for time that was unaccounted for anyway. I lay down and read the Salinger up to the part where Franny tells her shallow, full- of- himself boyfriend she's quit acting and is having some sort of anorexic episode, a spiritual crisis. She's come to see acting as all about egomania, and she's ashamed. I closed the book, and threw it into the bed- table drawer. There was nothing wrong with my appetite. I went out to the sitting room and turned on the TV. Maybe television would dumb my brain down to the mush the martini hadn't.

  The house phone rang. I was beginning to hate that thing enough to want to smash it to bits, fling it over the balcony and then run my rented car over it, back and forth a couple of times until the plastic housing was beaten to smithereens. I shouldn't have picked up. It was a guy from the Hollywood Reporter. They were planning on doing a piece on Andre Lucerne's new movie, and—

  I cut him off. "You'll have to speak to Mr. Lucerne's management to arrange that." They knew that, but they'd just learned his wife— me— was in town, and with my background and all, the paper thought—

  You mean you found out I was in town from the lie that maniac Lundy planted in Variety, I said to myself. "I'm sorry, I don't give interviews. I'm here with my husband, that's the whole story." He said he'd find an angle. I kept the turndown as polite as I could until he finally let it go. I was not about to agree to a- whatever- happened- to- Ardennes- Thrush feature.

  Christ, what a day! I hoped Andre would be in early. I'd suggest Thai takeout, or I could throw some pasta together. Where was he anyhow; he hadn't called all afternoon. He hadn't even returned my call. Okay, he was busy with the film. Sure, he was busy. I was pacing. I stopped at the big window. The sun was nearly gone all the way into night. I hadn't partially closed the glass curtains as I usually do, ahead of the heavy, room- darkening damask drapes I closed each night before bed. I thought I saw White Shirt standing in his yard, facing me. I was staring hard until I remembered if I could see him, he could see me. I nearly jumped a mile when that stinking house phone rang again. Suppose I ripped the damn line right out of the wall? Trouble is there are two extensions, one here, one in the bedroom; I couldn't very well tell the hotel people I'd tripped twice.

  I growled a hello as rough as I could; if it was that reporter again—

  "Good evening, Ms. Thrush. It's Sharif, at the front desk."

  "Oh, Sharif, I'm glad." That sounded insane; why would I be glad it was Sharif ?

  "Oh . . . well, there is a gentleman down at the desk who says it's urgent he speak with you. Shall I put him on the phone?"

  "No! No. Listen, Sharif, find out if he's a reporter. Please tell him I'm not talking to the press."

  "I understand. Can you give me a moment?" I said yes, and he hung up.

  I turned down the lights and closed the glass curtains all the way. I went into the bedroom and did the same, leaving a light on by the bed. The house phone rang again two minutes later. I picked up at the bed. "Ms. Thrush? Sharif again. The gentleman is not a reporter. He said you spoke the other day. His name is Eddie Tompkins."

  Eddie Tompkins? Who was Eddie Tompkins? "Did he say what this was about? Never mind, Sharif. Ask him to wait; I'll drive down to the lobby."

  I still had on the form- fitting dress I'd worn to meet Fits. I'd wanted to look good for him, for old time's sake, I suppose. I found a baggy, neutral brown cardigan, tossed a wide scarf over that, grabbed the door pass and car keys, and walked outside. The cool evening air hit me like a slap. I needed a slap just then. The road down to the main hotel is high, narrow, and steep. On the right, past the buildings, is an immediate hill with a sprinkler system watering what might be pindo palms and some kind of dusty- looking, maybe Aleppo pines. Creeping purple flowers fill in the hill that drops off sharply to the left. I drove a little too fast on the dark road and had to brake hard for the slow- moving automatic security gate opening out.

  I parked in the ten- minute zone and walked quickly into the lobby, still with no idea who Eddie Tompkins might be. I was glad for the small lobby. I would be in sight of Sharif or the other desk personnel. A man stood up, tall, built, and black. It took me a minute or two to recognize the shoe clerk from the discount place on Sunset. I had no idea what to think to explain his presence. Did I drop my wallet at the store? Nothing was missing that I knew of.

  "Ms. Thrush, thank you for seeing me on such short notice."

  Short or long, what did he want? "What's this about, Mr.—"

  "Tompkins." He held out his hand, I didn't take it. "I'm sorry to be so forward; I figured you'd understand, being an actor too. . . ."

  I scrunched up my face, genuinely lost.

  "Did you give my card to Mr. Lucerne?"

  "Your card?"

  "Yes, I gave you my card the other day."

  "In the shoe store, would that be right? You gave me it in the shoe store where you work, is that correct?"

  "Yes . . ."

  "Mr. Tompkins, people give each other business cards all the time. Perhaps that's why they are so — I was going to say cheap, but inexpensive will do. Usually nothing comes of the gesture, but I think the understanding is along the lines of don't call us, we'll call you." He really was a nice- looking guy and bigger in the little hotel lobby than I remembered from the sprawling, life- swallowing shoe store. I was actually seeing his face for the first time. He looked all right, pleasant enough. Christ, could I blame him; he wanted a job. Still, coming to my hotel, and at night?

  "Is everything all right, Ms. Thrush?" That was good old Sharif behind me at the desk.

  "Yes, Sharif, Mr. Tompkins was just leaving."

  "Please, call me Eddie."

  "No, Mr. Tompkins. And I don't know what became of your card. My husband usually throws them out. You can imagine the demands people make . . . so I'm sorry not to be able to help out. If you'll excuse me . . ."

  "I'm the one to apologize, Ms. Thrush. . . ."

  He looked as if he had more to say, but I turned and walked to Sharif. "Good night," I said over my shoulder. I was opposite the front desk in a matter of steps. "I don't think I've checked on the mail lately, Sharif." My voice was too loud and cheerful, I fought down a stammer.

  Sharif, ever at the ready, smiled wide. "I have your mail right here for you." He looked past me as he handed me a row of white envelopes. The automatic entrance doors facing the front drive whooshed open and then closed. "He's gone, Ms. Thrush."

  " Thank you, Sharif."

  "Of course. A woman in your position can't be too careful. Would you like a cup of tea, Ms. Thrush?"

  I thought a minute. Eddie could still be hanging around the driveway. "You know, I would."

  Sharif, about to go off duty, gave me the all clear, and forty minutes later I was in the car on my way back up to the rooms. I'd forgotten my cell phone when I'd gone down to the desk, and it felt like a limb was missing. I drove fast up to the restaurant entrance. The valet stepped out of her booth. I waved when she recognized me and veered left to the computerized gate into the upper hotel grounds. I glanced in the rearview mirror to be certain no one was following and punched in the code numbers; the gate opened, and I drove in. My slot was way at the other end from the hotel units. I saw Andre's car parked below ours as I passed. I glanced at the clock; he was early. I parked and walked toward the stairs, the mail clutched in my left hand. Looking up, I saw the lights go out in our suite. Was Andre leaving again? Dammit, I didn't have my phone. I raced up the stairs and there he was, in the hallway. I thought I heard Sylvia Vernon's voice and then her door close.

  "Andre?"

  He looked up and nodded. "Come," he said, waving me in.

  He closed and locked our door once we were inside, turning on the kitchen light. "Is everything all right?" I pointed to the wall in common between our two units. We both turned when a sudden breeze blew the balcony door open. I'd locked that door and closed the glass curtains, which were now partially ope
n. I always locked the balcony door before going out. Okay. Maybe Andre had stepped out for a minute. Maybe I couldn't be dead certain I'd locked the balcony door, but I was sure I'd seen the lights go out.

  Andre strode over and closed the door. I turned on some lights in the sitting room. Knowing without having to ask, he poured me a glass of red wine from an open bottle on the kitchen counter. He poured vodka for himself out of the bottle in the freezer. "Andre?" I said, taking the glass.

  He lifted his. "Cheers."

  I took a sip, obeying the custom after a toast. "Were you next door?"

  "Hmm? Ah, the old crone heard me come in just now and said hello."

  "Sylvia Vernon?"

  "Is that her name?" His phone vibrated in his pocket. He moved to the dining table and glanced at the caller ID.

  "Were you going out again?"

  "What? No." He said hello into his phone. To me he said, "Come here. You look lovely." He studied my dress under the sweater and nodded approval. He said into the phone, "No, Carola, my dear, I was talking to my wife." I went to him and he reached for my neck and hair, pulling me gently to him as he continued talking into the phone. I lingered a moment, taking in the scent of deodorant, someone's cigarette smoke, and the faint hint of his body odor underneath. Over his shoulder I saw my cell phone blinking on the couch. I walked over and picked it up; one call: ID BLOCKED. No messages. I turned the phone off.

  "So, how is Fits?" Andre asked, finished with his call. "Weren't you having dinner? It must have been quick."

  It was a disaster, I thought. "He couldn't stay long," I said, going for bland.

  "He is an interesting actor. I ought to use him in one of these films." He seemed to be considering. Andre often seemed to be considering.

  "Have you eaten?" I asked. I didn't want to talk about Fits.

  "Yes, a bit. I'm not hungry, really." His phone rang again. I walked into the kitchen to see what there was to put out. I decided on bread and cheese and dipping oil and set out a plate. I refreshed Andre's drink. I found a ripe mango I didn't remember buying that I peeled and sliced and put out too. I wanted this sudden domesticity to dispel an uneasiness enveloping me like a leather- gloved hand— a hairy hand— but it wasn't working. Too much was going on all of a sudden and I was feeling tossed like a cork on the sea of that too much.

  I sat down at the table, opposite Andre. I didn't mention Eddie Tompkins. I did mention Lucille Trevor— the actress who'd died in the fire next door. When I'd seen Andre standing close to Sylvia's door I'd thought of her, as if she might have been magically alive inside. Andre said he'd heard about the fire.

  "Then you knew? When you booked the hotel?"

  "Didn't I mention this to you over the phone, in New York?"

  "Did you? I think I would have remembered. She was an actress."

  "Ah, Hollywood loves a dark tale. Actress- tied- to- the- train- tracks melodrama."

  "But it did happen, right next door in Sylvia Vernon's suite."

  He looked at me, head angled. "You're not superstitious, are you?"

  I wanted to ask why he was home so early, but his phone rang again. He shrugged an apology as he answered. I ate a little as he talked. Between calls I listened, without resentment for once, to him telling me of the day's shoot. I gathered there was trouble brewing with his leading lady, Luce Bouclé.

  I’m already forgetting to look at the hills. When I make my morning tea it's possible to pretend I am in Italy: the red- tiled roofs on the hillside and the thick palm trees that sprout out of their serrated trunks like flowers on steroids. There's the Italianate house in pale ocher stucco and the surrounding cypress trees, rigid as sentries with their at- attention compressed arms. I spent three days in Umbria once, on location— that's my reference to Italy. Afternoons the hills are strictly south of France. I've gotten so hunkered down inside myself I have to remind my eyes to stay alert as the hills go brown under an insufficiently rainy spring. Masses of magenta bougain villea explode here and there. The Russian sage trees don't seem to mind too little water, but the pines look wan and dry. That's the funny thing about this town; a day that starts out moist with weather off the Pacific, heavy dew or fog or thickly clouded skies, can end bone dry by afternoon, zero humidity. I can only guess the foliage sucks the moisture out of the air when it's there to be sucked, and makes do. This morning promises another sunny, moisture- free day. Good for doing laundry.

  Andre was up early and gone. I was alone with thoughts that were not making much sense. I watched the parrots gad about, electric green and going loco all over the coral tree. They didn't look like their thoughts made too much sense either. I told myself to make myself useful. With my tea steeping, I ran with the plastic basket of wash down to the laundry room. The sign advises, "Laundry 9 a.m.–9 p.m. only." It was seven thirty. I loaded a machine, put the soap and quarters in and raced back upstairs before anyone saw me in a hooded sweatshirt over my satin nightgown tucked into a pair of gym pants. I microwaved soy milk for my tea, grabbed a peach yogurt out of the fridge, and looked out the large window. Too cold, I decided, to sit outside, so I parked myself at the table, facing out, and took a sip of boiling- hot tea. Sylvia Vernon's door banged shut next door. I was sure I'd heard that same bang last night when I came back up after Eddie Tompkins's creepy visit. She's a habitual door slammer.

  We first met in the laundry. I ran smack into her as I was racing out in a fury because I'd put my dollar's worth of quarters into the machine and started it without opening the lid first, which was backward. The water started to flow and then I opened the lid to find someone else's wet clothes still in the machine. I had no choice but to pay for a second round. The clothes must have sat there all night, and I suspected they belonged to one Andre's people who'd tossed the wash in and then gone for a beer. I had only two quarters in my pocket, meant for the dryer. I swore out loud as I filled another machine with my clothes. There were only three washing machines, and none of them looked too clean— something I planned to let Sharif know about, though what can a hotel's management do about slobs? How can they prevent a guest from trashing a room or having loud, rock-'n'- roll- fueled sex or doing the wash earlier than the sign says? Anyhow, I turned for the door full speed ahead and that was when I ran into Sylvia Vernon.

  She must have been up at the crack because she was there to retrieve her finished wash from the dryer. "Easy, tiger," she said, her voice throaty from years of cigarette smoke. In between apologizing for nearly knocking her down, I spit out boa feathers from the collar of an off- white satin dressing gown. Her hair was the near white, bleached blond of Carol Channing's on a head that was no longer young. I'd steadied her by clutching a pair of slim— not bony— shoulders and felt a surprising current of energy beneath.

  Though we shared a common wall and balcony and our front doors were only inches apart, I heard almost no sounds from Sylvia's side other than the door slamming. A guest would have to crane over the balcony parapet and past the partition to catch a glimpse next door. Sylvia had added a wide wooden storage unit to her side of the partition, so we were doubly separate. If she sat on her balcony with her poodle, I certainly was not aware of it. Andre and I were probably more of a noisy presence. I guess she walks the dog— whose cream coloring nearly matches her hair— very early and then very late because I rarely see them outside. Mucho is always with her, tucked under an arm or inside a wide pocketbook, so when I nearly toppled her in the laundry, I nearly squished him. He didn't bark, only looked up at me with big shiny black eyes and a kind of grin.

  Sylvia rang my doorbell later that afternoon, holding a pineapple upside- down cake on a flowered plate. I was immediately fearful that her visit would be the start of repeated familiarity. I'd only been in L.A. about a week at that point and did not want to ooze into becoming one of the hotel lifer set. I also can't stand pineapple upside- down cake. But I had Sylvia pegged all wrong. She wasn't particularly interested in being neighborly. She hadn't even made the cake. I asked her in
and offered tea. She sat, declining, setting Mucho down to help himself to a tour and sniff of the rooms, nosing into every corner, doing little to endear himself.

  She told me she'd taught dancing, had been a dancer herself. I could see she had the legs. She'd worked Vegas and Reno and Tahoe, the heyday of "good dancing" now gone, she said, to lap dances, poles, and raunchy. "I don't do laps," she declared. It took me a minute to understand that by dance she meant striptease.