I banged as hard as I could on the carpeted floor with my tied- up fists until I was short of breath and worn out, all to no avail.
When Sylvia finally turned up again and unlocked the door, I didn't move a muscle. Come get me, you old witch. Come get me.
At least the TV was off. She shone a flashlight on me, and I blinked, a deer caught in the headlights. I kept still. She left the light off and unbolted the chain. This was my chance, but Mucho burst in and tore at me, all ten inches of him at face level where I lay on the pile of Sylvia's clothes. I sat up. He growled and paced in front of me as Sylvia put down a tray of covered food. She held the gun in her hand the whole time, using her right hand to slide the items into my prison.
"Mucho! Come!" The dog ran to her, and she slammed the door, rechained it, turned on the light and opened the door to the chain. "Bon appetit," she said.
"Is it nighttime?" No answer.
I was disheveled, hungry and glum. I tried to resist, but the food smelled good. I dove in.
The Muse doesn't have much of a kitchen, no complicated cuisine; the breakfasts, sandwiches, and snacks but no dining room, only limited room service down below. Up top we didn't even have minibars. Sylvia had helped herself to a stainless- steel dish cover, a tray with the hotel logo on it, and likewise the table linen. There was a white carnation on the hotel tray, set in a tiny glass vase, and a meal of capon, carrots, red potatoes and avocado. The food was precisely prepared and delicious, only there wasn't enough of it. Minute bones were all that remained on the plate when I was done. I licked it clean. Dessert was sliced papaya. I was still hungry.
I crawled to the back of my cave to digest. The day must have remained cool because the closet wasn't hot at all. That was yesterday that it was hot, right? Or was it the day before? What difference did it make? You're supposed to keep track of time, I told myself. How? I asked back. Make marks on the wall, like prisoners in movies do? I wonder if Sylvia locked Lucille in this very closet. I had my pillow and my little flannel blanket, the flashlight. The light was still on and the door was open to the chain. I should be trying to escape. Isn't that what they tell prisoners of war? What about The Great Escape with Steve McQueen; wasn't that a true story? He was supposed to be a messed up guy, or did Hollywood success mess him up? Probably Hollywood did. All the lackeys, even the lowly PAs on a set have attitude, as if being in the vicinity of a star gives them an edge. For what? Stars are objects in the night sky, diamonds the at mosphere wears of an evening. Luminaries! Crap! It's all filling and no cake. Is that why you quit, Ms. Thrush?
I was beginning to see certain advantages to captivity: a chance to think, guilt- free, to clarify everything that needed examining. Clear out the mental dust, wipe away the cobwebs, rearrange the files— a life's work, in other words. Here I lay committing the sin of idleness; an empty chair, enforced downtime, and oodles of it. If only I wasn't so sleepy. Maybe that's what I really want to be when I grow up, a prisoner. Silly, silly me. Old Sylvia's a pretty good cook. Where is old Sylvia? Out reconnoitering? It must be late, moving toward the end of day two? And I'm still supposed to be in Indio, thinking? Where's the cavalry? I didn't go to the moon, Billy, I'm right here. What about all those horror movies where the girl is abducted? There's always a cabin in the woods, miles from the nearest gas station, only bears to hear her cry out. What's that supposed to be about? Primal insecurity? At least Sylvia won't rape me before slitting my throat. And there's that hideous movie where the madman throws the drugged woman alive into a coffin and buries her. Who thinks this stuff up? Why? What's the thrill for the sicko? Fear of annihilating solitude, death of human contact? He imagines himself buried, reaches sexual climax while she slowly expires, but not before waking up in a narrow box six feet under? I shivered, stood up, did some clumsy, hand- tied jumping jacks, stretches, squats. I was not sorting anything out. . . . I lay down again. I'll make lists, that'll pass the time. Start with my directors and work my way through all the other actors . . . every part I ever played . . . no matter how small . . . get a handle on all of it . . . Maybe I should do charity work when I get out of here. . . .
Eventually, clean out of profound thoughts, with a little help from whatever Sylvia was slipping me, I fell asleep again. It was downright cold when I woke up. The closet was black. I felt chilled, but no way to put a sweater on while tied up. I wrapped the blanket tighter and crawled to the door; it opened to the chain. There was a low light from somewhere. I got my compact and stuck the mirror out as far as my hands could go. I saw a little half- moon nightlight plugged into the wall near the bedroom door. How quaint, in case Sylvia had to go wee in the dark, not to break her old kidnapper's dancing legs. Mucho lay at the foot of her bed in a regal, downy little bed of his own, and he was snoring pretty loud for such a runt. I could just see the rise and fall of Sylvia's body under the covers. It was the middle of the night. I flashed my light along the closet walls, careful to avoid the wig heads. My dinner things were gone! The chamber pot was empty and clean, and there were new water bottles. I'd slept through Sylvia clearing the dinner things? The potty removal too? Dammit, she drugged me again! I couldn't have slept through all that activity. Was she still using my Valium, or what? Well, I was wide awake now. I should start yelling, wake her up; why should Sylvia rest peacefully? Maybe someone would hear me yelling in the quiet of night. Andre must be asleep next door. Right next door, for shit's sake! Only he was way on the other side from my closet domain.
I didn't yell. I sat there, my mind running like a high fever. Nothing to conclude, I told myself. Hours went by. I think. Maybe not, maybe only ten minutes. One Mississippi, two Mississippi . . . I imagined myself in one of those vegetative comas, fed by a tube, sponge- bathed, my body creamed against bedsores, fingernails cut so they didn't grow into claws, hair combed each day, trimmed when required, teeth brushed, shades opened and closed accordingly morning or night, cheerful chatter from the day nurse filling the waking grave of my room. Not that I would know, being a turnip. What a great part that would be to play, just lying there acting in voice- over . . . lying there thinking all kinds of things with my vague coma- way of knowing. Fed and brushed and bathed; no worries. But what if I could hear and feel and had not even an eyelash motion to communicate with, just an endless tooling around in my brain over absolutely nothing? I'd want to yell, kick, scream; I'd go mad and no one would ever know. . . . The equivalent of being mentally buried alive. There I am, buried alive again. This is not good. Quick, change the topic. But if I am buried alive, did I do the burying?
Okay, Ardennes, think of something else. . . . One Mississippi . . . breathe . . . two Mississippi . . .
Then it was morning again, and Sylvia was waking me up. There was a new tray. It was oatmeal this morning, with milk and butter, toast and jam, and tea. She looked at me as I lay in my corner. I like oatmeal, and I suppose I was hungry, but I didn't budge a muscle.
"Sick?" Sylvia asked. She was seated on a vanity chair in the open doorway, wide open, revolver in hand. The balcony curtain was open partway, I could tell by the extra light outside my jail. It must be a sunny morning out in the world.
"Not sick, Sylvia, hungover from all your doping." She didn't react. "I've been wondering what I did to make you hate me so much." I didn't sit up. I watched her sideways, my head on my pillow, cheek in both tied- together hands. I imagine my not eating her food irked.
"I don't hate you."
"What, then? I'm locked up three days. Why?"
"Your oatmeal is getting cold."
"If you let me eat with the door open, I might jump you." She waved the gun by way of reply. "Sure," I said to the gun. "But would you really shoot me, Sylvia? I don't think you killed Lucille. You loved Lucille. And I don't think you'd shoot me any more than Mucho."
"Try me."
I shrugged and slowly rose. She sat straighter. I crawled over to my bowl and picked up my spoon. I ate, and I drank my tea. There was a banana on the tray too. Mucho wandered into the clo
set. Sylvia called him back. I finished my breakfast while she watched, feeling like a death- row prisoner eating her last meal, the warden look ing on.
"Do you look at pornography, Ardennes?"
"Oh, are we having a conversation? How pleasant. Yeah, I've glanced online, occasionally, casually. Why?"
"Even at my age I love a woman's body. I made my living showing mine. No touching, though. The men did not touch Sylvia Vernon, even when I was getting almost too old and the dance numbers too raunchy and I needed the money. I've displayed enough of myself to make a clock blush, but I kept the men off. These girls today have it bad with lap dances and back rooms. That's not dancing."
I'd heard this from her already, the tragedy of stripping today. Was this feminism on Sylvia's part? It's not as if anyone was going to pay her anymore to spread her inner sanctum open to the klieg lights. "Is it money you're after, Sylvia? You don't have to go to Andre. I made a ton on films. I'm not greedy, and I'm happy to share." I meant it too; I had enough money to live comfortably for two lifetimes.
"I've wondered what you do now you no longer act. Actors don't seem to know what to do with themselves when no one's looking."
"You're not in love with me or anything sad like that, Sylvia?"
"I could be. I've watched all your films. That first day in the laundry, when you waltzed in out of nowhere, I thought I must be dreaming. What was Ardennes Thrush doing in the Muse laundry room? And you were as down- to- earth as a mouse."
"A mouse?"
"Beautiful, and not always a mouse. Who frightened you? Who took your nerve away?"
"What makes you think I'm frightened, other than of the muzzle of your gun, Sylvia?"
"What do you want?"
"I've been asking you the same thing for three days, Sylvia. One of us must know."
"It doesn't matter what I want."
"It matters to me; I'm living in your closet."
Detective Collins informed Andre that his wife’s cell phone was off or out of commission; for the moment untraceable. It was noon of the third day. He'd been all over the place looking for leads. He'd sat on the phone at the precinct to check flights to New York, with no luck. He didn't request manifests for all the flights out of Los Angeles, which would get to be Homeland Security- complicated so he went with his gut feeling that Ardennes would fly to New York, if she took a flight out. He'd gone to Enterprise Rent- a- Car at LAX to show Ardennes Thrush's picture around, then to the other car rentals, but came up empty. All a waste of time, but the gumshoe work couldn't be avoided. His boss would need to know every avenue had been walked. He was losing time when every minute might matter.
Andre Lucerne and Detective Devin Collins were seated at the cluttered table, an unlikely pair. The balcony door was closed against a cool day, the seesawing of spring making up its mind. "The last activity was the morning she went missing." He didn't mention any calls made to or from him. He let Andre know Ardennes's car had been returned to Enterprise at LAX and that, as far as he could tell, she hadn't replaced it with another car.
Andre nodded. "Why LAX, I wonder, if she didn't take a flight out?" He stood up to open the balcony door, to let a little air in, the two men at the table making a heavy presence. He did not sit down again. The Detective watched him. "I wanted to say— I thought about it in the night— she would not have left without her blue and white teapot. She drags that black tea everywhere. The pot is here, on the shelf. I feel surer now my wife is missing."
"Good for you, Mr. Lucerne. Ready to face facts, are we? Have you recast your film?"
"No, I have not. Your position is important, Officer, but the significance of the situation may escape you, used as you must be to this sort of thing."
" Still worried about the press, huh?"
At this point Andre made a visible effort to control himself. "If my wife has been taken against her will, what do they want with her if not money?"
"Any number of things: sex, torture, murder, thrills . . . use your imagination." Andre was paying close attention. The Detective softened his tone. "It's also possible none of the above and she just wanted out."
"You mean flew off somewhere?"
"Not on an airplane. We checked as far as we could, unless she went someplace exotic and unexpected." No need to go into details— or the lack.
"What do we do now?" Andre asked. He looked to be struggling, as if he were not certain how to react. That was how Detective Collins saw it.
"We see what Matthew Fitzgerald has to say. I've had him picked up. He won't like it."
"You suspect him?"
"Currently I suspect everyone." He looked at Andre to be certain he understood that by everyone he meant everyone. His cell phone rang. "Yeah? Okay, bring him up. Fits is here, and not too happy."
There was a commotion at the door. Two uniformed officers brought a raucous Fits into the suite. Detective Collins nodded to the officers and told them to wait outside.
"What's the idea, Detective? You want to get me fired or what?"
"Sit down, Fits. Quietly, please."
"Yeah, well, screw you. This better be good." He slumped down onto the couch and shoved his hair off his face with both hands.
"The lady next door says you had an argument with Ms. Thrush. She heard you below her balcony."
"Oh, yeah, and when was that?"
"You tell me."
"You send cops over to my set; they don't arrest me but drag me over here. You could have asked me this on the phone."
"The waiter at Musso and Frank's also said you had an argument with Ms. Thrush, that you left in a huff without finishing your drink."
"I'm not that much of a drinker." The Detective was quiet. "We met at Musso's, yeah. I was angry with Ardennes, sure, for quitting, for throwing her talent away. But I don't qualify that as a fight. Not even close. And I tipped that old goat of a waiter well."
Andre was seated at the table, listening. " Where is my wife, Fits?"
"In my hip pocket. I could ask you the same; she's your wife."
The Detective stepped in: "You're saying you did not argue with Ms. Thrush here at the hotel, a few days ago?"
"Yesterday was the first time I was ever at this hotel— or whatever day that was. You got the wrong guy, copper."
"It's been three days, Detective. Do you think this man is lying and that he is involved in Ardennes's disappearance?"
"Oh, not so fast, director- face. Besides, why would I take her; she's missing, that's certain? ' Cause where I left off, that was just speculation."
"Someone is lying, Fits. Either you or the lady next door."
"Try the lady next door," Fits told the Detective. He rubbed his hands over his chaotic head of hair. "This is fucking bullshit. . . . I'll go talk to the cunt myself." He stood up.
"Sit down, Fits." It was as close as the Detective came to raising his voice.
To me Sylvia was the eccentric at the other end of Mucho’s leash. I didn't picture her on the telephone or shopping or bathing or doing much of anything other than dressing large and walking her dog. So when her phone rang and she slammed the door and locked it, I had to adjust my image of her.
She must have walked out of the bedroom with the phone. I heard her smoky laugh and something like "You do know how to get a gal interested. . . ." But that was all. A short time later she was back, unlocking the closet door, opening it to the chain. She sat on the little cushioned vanity chair, crossing her legs. I could just see her left profile from my bed of rags, where I'd retreated when she'd gone for the phone.
"Yup, looks like your crew is going back to work; that fellow Olive let me know just now. You'll be glad to know the long faces are gone."
"Who? Do you mean Olav, the Norwegian, the sound guy? And they're not my crew, Sylvia; it's my husband's movie. I have nothing to do with it. Sorry to disappoint."
"Sound? I thought he was props?" I lifted my hands, palms open, and shrugged. "He said his name was Olive. That's what I've been calling him. .
. . Anyway, he asked me for a drink."
"Olav did?"
She primped her never- out- of- place, plastic- looking hair, reached for the leopard- patterned cigarette holder, installed a fresh smoke but thankfully did not light up. "You think I'm too old? It so happens Olive and I went to the Hollywood Bowl just the other week."
My eyes were bugging. How did I miss Olav and Sylvia? I also wondered about her hearing, or maybe she just didn't listen too well.
"Of course he's gay as the day is long, but I take it unkindly you think my pubic hairs are too gray to entice."
"I don't think anything of the sort. And Olav is not gay. His girlfriend came out for a long weekend just before shooting began. So better watch your panties." Apparently old Sylvia still enjoyed the idea of turning men on.
"Not gay? Could've fooled me. Bi, then. Well, they are going back to work."
My guess was Sylvia was only guessing, or outright lying, trying to rattle me. But she must have talked to Olav, and maybe they had gone to a concert. Still, all Andre could do was work scenes that didn't involve the lead; even if he had replaced Luce Bouclé, the new actress couldn't possibly be ready. Sylvia's point, of course, was Andre going back to work with me still missing, her little game of torturing the prisoner. Or did he believe my message about Indio, and did Billy buy that too, and absolutely no one was looking for me? I felt fury rising up into my throat. Shouldn't Sylvia have made some sort of ransom demand by now? "What do you want with me, Sylvia? If you plan on killing me I ask that you get it over with; otherwise, tell me what it is you fucking want!"
Hollywood Boulevard Page 26