by Marta Acosta
“Sure, if you define a good time as hauling an unconscious pendejo from a bar into my bed.”
“You wanted me that bad,” he said with a grin.
Damn, if I didn’t still see the appeal of this man. Sexiness radiated from him, like heat from hot asphalt.
“Do we know each other?” he asked.
“I know who you are. I’m Milagro De Los Santos and I’m working on the ‘Teeth of Sharpness’ rewrite for Skip Taylor. I found you in town last night and brought you back here.”
“That’s quite a name. Is it real?” His eyes dropped lower. “Are those?” He didn’t wait for an answer but sat on the sofa, picked up the phone, and dialed room service. He ordered an enormous breakfast and as an afterthought said, “Do you want anything?”
I ordered fresh raspberry crepes and cranberry juice.
Thomas hung up the phone and said, “Think I’ll have a shower.”
“Yes, do make yourself at home.” I said it sarcastically, but he didn’t seem to notice. “And wash your hair!” I shouted after him.
The food arrived just as Thomas came out of the shower wrapped in a thick terry Paragon robe. He had a towel twisted around his hair the way women wear them, and the overall effect was vaguely regal. It was one of those actor things.
“How do you feel?” I asked as he examined his roasted vegetable omelet. The skin around his eyes looked like crumpled tissue paper, and he looked at least a decade older than I knew he might be.
“Like death warmed over,” he said. “Okay for a vampire.”
I almost spit out my juice. “What did you say?”
He said, “See if there’s any hot sauce in the kitchen.”
“I’m not your servant.”
Thomas looked hurt. “Latinas are usually such good hostesses.”
“Fine, whatever.” I got up and went to the kitchen. In the cupboards with a supply of upscale condiments was a bottle of salsa picante. I put it on the table in front of him. “So you think you’re a vampire?” I asked in a flat voice.
“That’s what my therapist says. Emotional vampire. Sucks the life right out of a relationship.”
I relaxed. “Really?”
He drank an entire glass of orange juice before saying, “I’ll show you.” He went into the bedroom and came back carrying his trousers. After rooting around in the pockets, he gave me a folded sheet of paper with the caption “DSM-IV Diagnostic Criteria for Narcissistic Personality Disorder.”
I read aloud, “‘The Narcissistic Vampire Checklist.’ It’s a true-or-false quiz. Do you think you’re more successful than others your age?”
“Obviously.”
“Are you convinced you’re better-looking, brighter, et cetera, than others?”
“Sure.”
“Are you a name dropper?” I asked.
“Does it count when everyone I know is famous?”
“Do you think it’s critical for you to live in the right place and socialize with the right people?”
“That’s what my manager tells me.”
We went through the rest of the list and he answered yes to nearly all of the questions. It occurred to me that most F.U. alumni would also score high.
Handing him back the page, I said, “I think this quiz is for people who really aren’t handsome and successful.”
“And special and smart,” he added thoughtfully.
“How could I forget?” I said. “I wouldn’t take the diagnosis that seriously.”
“Man, I knew that vampire thing was bogus. What do you know about psychology?”
I told him that I had taken Psych 101 at F.U. He seemed to think that made me qualified to debunk his therapist.
“Are you here to dry out?” I asked.
“No, I’ve got to bulk up for ‘Teeth.’ I just played a POW in an Italian production so I had to go all anorexic. A couple of drinks in town and I was wrecked.”
“How did you get to La Basura, anyway?”
“Good question. If you find out, let me know.”
He finished his meal and went to the front door. “Have housekeeping clean and press my clothes and send them to my room.”
I walked him to the gate and said, “Say please and thank you.”
He opened the gate. “Por favor and muchas gracias.”
Thomas suddenly kissed me full on the mouth, but he did it in a professional, impersonal way.
“There’s your thrill for today. If I get bored, I’ll look you up,” he said, walking toward the main building. I glanced around and saw Bernie Vines standing by a golf cart, closing a camera case.
“Bernie!” I shouted.
“Morning, Milagro. Gotta run!” Bernie said, hopping into the golf cart. “Hey, Tom, you want a ride?”
Thomas, distinguished as a sheik in his robe and turban, stepped into the cart and asked, “Do I know you?”
“Sure, we met last night. Bernie Vines, at your service.”
I wanted to throw rocks at both of them, but just then my phone began to ring.
I picked up and said, “Hello.”
There was a sound like wind or hollowness, and then I heard Oswald say, “Hey, babe.”
My heart rose at the sound of his voice. “Oswald! Why haven’t you called? I thought…”
“It was only an argument, Milagro,” he said, and sounded very stressed. “We’ve got patients lined up for a block outside of the clinic, and the surgeries are scheduled from morning until late at night, and at the end of my shift I can hardly stand. It’s the best thing I’ve ever done.”
It was now official: he was a saint and I was a terrible girlfriend. “That’s wonderful, Oswald.”
“Sam said that you are at Mercedes’s. Say hi to her for me.”
I didn’t want to upset the important work he was doing, so I said, “I was, but, um, I decided to stay at Nancy’s for a while. She’s on her honeymoon, and I can write peacefully here.” The line began crackling with static. “I got a rewrite job.”
“What did you say?” he asked.
“I said…” And the static now sounded like a roomful of obsessive-compulsives popping bubble wrap.
“Bad connection. It’s hard to get reception here and I’ve only got a few fast breaks in the day.”
I heard about every fourth word as he talked excitedly about the work he was doing and described the kids coming to the clinic and a young surgeon he was training.
Oswald said he’d try to call again in a few days. Then there was nothing but crackling on the line. I said, “Hello? Hello? Oswald, are you still there?” but no one answered.
I would feel better after a shower. But when I went to the bathroom, wet towels were crumpled in a corner, and the carefully handmade, soy-ink packaging of complimentary Paragon products was strewn on the floor. Small bottles of lotion spilled their contents on the counter.
I showered and had to wash my hair with the teaspoon of shampoo left in the bottle. After dressing in a spa-appropriate outfit of white blouse and khaki pants, I straightened the room as best I could so that the cleaning staff wouldn’t think I was a complete cochina.
I drank a glass of mineral water mixed with a tablespoon of blood, then began working on “Teeth of Sharpness.” Housekeeping came and I hovered around the kitchen nervously, and told the maid in Spanish that I didn’t need the refrigerator re-stocked while I was here.
In the afternoon, I went to the lobby of the main building. The vampire family was on my mind, which is probably why I imagined that I saw Gabriel’s back. The man I spotted was with an older couple, though, and he was arm in arm with a young woman. I almost followed them into the restaurant, but I realized that the stiff-legged man couldn’t be my graceful friend.
Charles’s head popped up at the concierge station and he smiled my way. I went to his desk and said, “Hi, Charles. I thought I saw a friend of mine here, Gabriel Grant. Can you see what room he’s in?”
Charles bent to his computer and hit a few keys. “Sorry, no one here
by that name.”
“Redheaded fellow with parents and a young woman?”
“Oh,” he said with a smile, “I know who you mean. That’s not his name. The whole family has been coming here for years.”
“My mistake. I didn’t see his face. Have you heard about my truck?”
“I just talked to the mechanic. He didn’t have a chance to look at it yet, but he promised to get back to me later today. I would be happy to arrange a driver for you if you need one.”
“No, that’s okay. I’ll be working today.”
I was turning to leave when he asked me if I planned to take advantage of the spa services. “We offer twenty-seven kinds of massage, including our Paragon Mineral Water Therapy. If you are seeking a more spiritual experience, may I suggest the Walkabout Dream Therapy, which simulates all the stages of an aboriginal walkabout in one ninety-minute session. Many of our guests enjoy the Agave Massage, which helps drain toxins from your lymphatic system and restores balance.”
This would be a good opportunity to test my endurance to human touch. “So many to choose from. What is the Mineral Water Therapy?”
“That’s very special,” Charles said. “Your massage therapist submerges you in an aged oak tub of hot spring water and works on those places of dense tissue. A nose plug is provided.”
“That sounds, um, interesting, but I don’t suppose you have regular deep-tissue massages?”
He looked disappointed. “Yes, of course. Shiatsu, Thai, Korean, sports deep muscle…we have the traditional treatments. Here is a brochure with all the descriptions.” He handed me a pamphlet printed on handmade paper.
I opened it and glanced through a list of oddball therapies. I thought of how nice it would be to feel another person’s hands taking care of me. I’d been deprived of physical contact when I lived at my parents’ home and now I sought out touch like a cat seeks a petting. “The deep-muscle massage will be fine. If you could set something up for tomorrow, I’d appreciate it.”
There was a bistro in an interior courtyard and I had a very healthy and tasty salad of organic greens dressed in a citrus vinaigrette. As I was enjoying a leisurely meal by myself in this chic resort, I pretended that things were improving in my little world. My state-of-the-chica assessment was: fab career development correlating with financial improvement. Relationship issues could be worked out.
A man in a wheelchair, his face obscured by a hat, bandages, and dark glasses, sat at a far table. Even his hands were covered in bandages. An attendant cut his food and carefully fed it to him, making me realize that my own health was not so bad. Perhaps I had been staring at the mummy man, because he seemed to be looking right at me. I couldn’t tell through his sunglasses. I quickly looked away.
Ian would take care of Silas and then I could go home as a successful screenwriter. Mrs. Grant couldn’t say I didn’t have a career then.
The invalid kept his face turned in my direction, and he made me uneasy, even if he wasn’t actually looking at me. I finished my lunch and put a big tip on the table.
When I got close to my casita, I saw the front door open. I knew I had locked it, and housekeeping had already cleaned. I approached cautiously. Two large leather suitcases blocked the threshold. I shoved them aside and heard splashing. Through the open French doors, I saw the dark head and brown body of someone in the pool. The naked person had the general size and shape of a man, and the specific size and shape of Thomas Cook.
I looked down at the suitcases and saw a TC monogram.
“Hey,” I said as I walked outside. “Hey!”
Thomas swam to the edge of the pool. “What’s up?” he said as a greeting, not an inquiry.
“Why are you here and how did you get in?”
“A housekeeper let me in.”
“Isn’t that against Paragon policy? Why would she do that?”
“Because I’m Thomas Cook.” He hauled himself out of the water with the lack of inhibition common to children, models, and the insane, creatures comfortable with nudity. Yes, I could have averted my gaze, but I told myself that I really needed direct eye contact to convey the depth of my annoyance. If my gaze happened to drift south, it was purely accidental.
“These jerks gave my room away. Get me a towel, would you?”
I was already fetching the towel when I realized he was ordering me around. “Get it yourself.”
“Okay, I didn’t want to get the floor wet.”
“Oh, all right,” I said. When I returned with a towel, I said, “Why were you kicked out?”
He shrugged his bony shoulders. “I couldn’t get that straight. Maybe I checked out when I was ripped?” he said, as if he was asking me for an answer.
“They must have another room for you. I’ll call the front desk and see.”
“Actually, they were kind of hostile. They said something about damages.” Thomas left the towel on the cement and walked inside.
I put the towel across a chair to dry and followed him inside. Picking up the hotel phone, I said, “I’m sure we can straighten this out.” I pressed the “front desk” button and someone answered, “Front desk, would you please hold?”
“Yes,” I said. I listened to soothing pan pipe music and glanced around for Thomas. I hoped he’d gone to put on some clothes.
The music stopped and a voice said, “Thank you for your patience. How may I help you, Ms. De Los Santos?”
“Hi, I was wondering if you had a—”
I heard a banging sound coming from the kitchenette.
“Ms. De Los Santos?”
“I’ll have to get back to you later,” I said, and hung up the phone.
When I got to the kitchenette, Thomas was just lifting the bottle of blood to his mouth.
“Don’t do that!” I said.
But it was too late. He yelled, “Yahhg!” and spit out the blood, slamming the plastic bottle on the counter; a few precious drops of thick red liquid spurted out onto the floor. As he stepped away from the mess, he slid and fell.
“What the hell is that?” he said.
“What is what?” I said. “It’s a Paragon protein drink.”
He started laughing. “Leave the acting for the pros.” He dipped his finger into a drop of the red liquid and smelled it. “It’s blood. I went out with this girl and she was into the vampire Goth scene. Do you drink it or smear it on for sex?”
“My personal life is—”
“You can get sick that way. Yeah, I thought there was something freaky about you.”
As he got up, he grimaced. “I think I sprained my ankle. Not that it was your fault, exactly, but my manager might think so. You know how they are, always wanting to call in the lawyers and sue.”
He dispassionately surveyed his naked body. “Do you know there’s a moral turpitude clause in film contracts, and Skip could have cause to fire you if he knew you were so kinky?”
“Why do I get the feeling that you’re quoting your own agent? I don’t have a contract.”
“Then you really don’t want this to come out. I feel like some Mexican food.”
And that was how I was blackmailed into becoming the personal assistant and general dogsbody of a spoiled, egocentric Hollywood has-been.
Fifteen
Indentured Sillitude
T homas spent the afternoon naked by the pool, which was very distracting. I called Mercedes and updated her on recent developments.
You would think that Mercedes would be fascinated by a naked movie star in full frontal view, but she was accustomed to the exhibitionist behavior of musicians. “Did you tell him to put on some clothes?”
“Yes, and he told me to grow up,” I answered. “I thought I saw Gabriel here today. But it was some dweeb in pants with a pouchy butt and a girlfriend.” I told her about Gabriel’s mysterious sabbatical and my friends’ secrecy on the subject.
“Maybe he just doesn’t want to deal with any hassles right now.”
“But that’s not like Gabriel. He likes
jumping into the fray and fixing everything.” I looked out toward the pool and sighed deeply.
“What was that sigh for?”
“Thomas just turned over. He looks ancient and awful, yet I still associate him with my teenage crush. I thought that being in love would mean that I wouldn’t lust for other men, but I still do. Is something wrong with me?”
“Yes, you should grow up.”
“Back on point, I’m worried about Gabriel and not just because I’m concerned about the neovamps.”
“Precúpate de tú misma.”
“Okay, but I don’t see any purpose in worrying about myself. It just makes me all angsty and Latinos don’t do angst well.”
“When was the last time you listened to Astor Piazzolla or any tango? When was the last time you read Cortázar?”
Thomas started calling, “Milagro! Milagro!” and so I said good-bye to my friend and went outside.
“Yes?”
“What about that Mexican food? I want an enchilada platter. Whole beans, not refried.”
“Where am I going to find that?”
“There’s a Mexicatessen in La Basura.”
“My truck is being repaired.”
“Have one of the drivers take you.” He closed his eyes.
I called Charles, who told me that all the drivers were booked for the afternoon. He then said, “Our chefs are happy to accommodate your dietary preferences. But if you would like food from town, I will have it delivered to you immediately.”
I asked him to order the food, and then told Thomas that it would arrive soon. I decided to go for a run. The Paragon sunscreen was pleasantly sage-scented and I put some on before I trotted off. I kept to a leisurely pace. When I was far out of view of the spa grounds, I picked up speed, enjoying the sensation of the hot, dry sun on my face.
I saw a lovely yellow and black bird flitting in a Joshua tree and even spotted a few waxy pink blooms atop the spiny arms of cacti. As I ran, I began to appreciate the subtle brown and tan palate of the soil.