She paused a moment before crossing the gnarly Malibu Road, its name not posted to discourage outsiders. She didn’t see a single car coming and crossed the road. She heard a gut-jerking song from Phantom at the same instant she heard the screech of tires and saw the flash of an old Buick LeSabre coming straight at her. For an instant her brain and her feet froze, then air whooshed out of her lungs as she hurled herself toward the opposite sidewalk. The car clipped her right side, sent her tote flying, and her crashing onto the sidewalk where she landed at the feet of a woman with a white toy poodle on a leash. The poodle barked maniacally in her face, his sequinned collar nearly blinding her.
The woman, wearing too-tight white Capri pants that barely covered her hip bones, and a tube top of bright lime green, wasn’t, however, a sloucher. She fell to her knees beside Mary Lisa.
“Oh my God, that maniac tried to kill you! I saw it. Are you all right? What hurts? Are you bleeding inside? Sorry, you wouldn’t know that. Don’t move.” She pulled out her cell phone and dialed 911. The poodle stopped barking at the sound of his mistress’s voice telling the dispatcher what happened. When she punched off, the dog started licking Mary Lisa’s cheek.
She didn’t hurt yet, but she knew, somewhere deep where such knowledge resided, that pain would come, and it would be arriving soon and it wouldn’t be good. She pictured a tsunami, nearly to her coastline. She looked up at the woman, but couldn’t think of a thing to say. So she lay there listening to the woman talk to her while lightly patting her arm, as the dog’s tongue scratched her cheek.
“An ambulance is on the way, you lie still, it’ll be okay. My name is MacKenzie Corman and I’m an actress, but that isn’t important now. Well, yes it is since I have an audition in two hours in Burbank, but I’ll stay with you until the paramedics arrive. Calm down, Honey Boy, don’t lick her face off. There, there, you’ll be all right. Maniacs, they’re everywhere, even here in Malibu. Damned fool. He wasn’t a crazy boyfriend, was he? Do you hurt anywhere?”
Mary Lisa thought about that. “I don’t hurt in one particular spot yet, and that’s a relief. Thank you for helping me.”
“That’s okay.” Honey Boy, now curled around Mary Lisa’s head, occasionally licked her hair, pulled free of its French braid, her baseball cap having flown off her head when she’d gone airborne. MacKenzie sat down beside her and kept patting her shoulder.
Mary Lisa heard voices coming closer now, some low and worried, some excited and loud.
“Is she a drug overdose?”
“Is she dead?”
“Who is she?”
“I sure like that green T-shirt.”
MacKenzie called out, “A car hit her. Everyone stay back, give her room. An ambulance is on the way.”
Mary Lisa whispered, “Ask if anyone saw the car hit me.”
MacKenzie asked, but no one had seen anything. Until an old man wearing a black bikini Speedo and black sleeveless shirt, a surfboard balanced easily over one wiry shoulder, jogged up. “Yeah, I saw the silly bastard, aimed right at her, did it on purpose, you ask me. I saw him do a big skid onto PCH going south. No cops around when you need ’em. I hope she didn’t happen to owe Breaker Barney money, that wouldn’t be good.” He managed to step through the growing crowd of people, and gasped. “Mary Lisa! Oh my God, dear girl, oh my-”
Mary Lisa smiled. “Hello, Carlo. How are the waves today?”
“Fine, perfect actually. Hey, who’d you piss off?” Carlo squatted beside her and lifted her hand in his. Honey Boy growled at him, received a consolation kiss from his mother, and subsided again, wetting a hank of Mary Lisa’s hair with drool.
“I’ll be okay, Carlo. It happened so fast I didn’t see the driver. I don’t owe anyone any money. You know I’m not stupid enough to gamble with Breaker in his house of sin. You know Breaker and I drink espresso most mornings over at Monte’s. He likes me, says I’m cheap to keep.”
Carlo thought about this and nodded. “This isn’t Breaker’s style anyway, particularly when his mark is female. It’s okay, sweetie, you lie still. I’ll stay here. Hey, who are you?”
“I’m MacKenzie Corman-nice name, don’t you think?-and I’m an actress. I have an audition in an hour and fifty-one minutes in Burbank.”
“You’re gorgeous,” Carlo said, giving her the professional and objective eye, “but so is every other girl I know in L.A. You’ll need buckets of talent and O.J.’s luck. You related to a movie star, maybe a successful moneymaking director or producer? That’d be the ticket.”
“Well, no, but I’ve really got this role down. I’m going to play Lena Cross, a noble dedicated nurse who’s ministering to poor Indians in backward mountain villages when she happens to find out there’s a gold treasure chest in an Andean cave.”
“Low budget, huh?”
Mary Lisa moaned. She didn’t mean to, it boiled up out of her throat. The tsunami had struck and pain ripped through her side. Carlo angled his surfboard so it shaded her face. “Hot sun today,” he said to Mary Lisa. “I hear sirens, close now. You hang in there, baby doll.”
Well, there was really nothing else she could do, Mary Lisa thought. She listened to all the conversations around her, not really understanding the words, and not really caring.
“You’ve called her three different names now. Which is it?”
A beautiful smile broke through Carlo’s sun-seamed face. “She’s my favorite bitch goddess.” He looked back down at Mary Lisa. “You want me to call Bernie at the studio? Maybe Lou Lou or Elizabeth? What about that idiot agent of yours?”
Mary Lisa shook her head, closed her eyes against a sharp jab of pain in her side. “Not yet. Maybe a Band-Aid will fix me up. I don’t want them to freak out.”
MacKenzie went en pointe. “What do you mean, bitch goddess? What studio? You’re not famous, are you? Maybe it’s the same studio where I’m having my audition. All the stars dress like dog meat down here so they won’t be recognized and have their photos plastered all over the fanzines. You don’t mind?” And MacKenzie fingered Mary Lisa’s curling red hair, pulled off her huge Audrey Hepburn sunglasses, and leaned down to study her face. “You look familiar. Who are you?”
Carlo grabbed the sunglasses and slipped them back over Mary Lisa’s eyes. “Don’t you watch Born to Be Wild? It’s the best soap on TV, noon every day on Channel Five. Mary Lisa won the Emmy for Best Actress, the third year in a row. Never been done before.”
MacKenzie shrieked. “Oh my God, you’re Sunday Cavendish! Oh my, I see-the bitch goddess! But you don’t look like her, you look like a regular person, kind of ratty, actually, but that’s okay. You don’t look like a bitch, but someone sure tried to run you down. Maybe it’s revenge, you know? Oh goodness, Honey Boy, no, no, sweetie, don’t lick her mouth.”
Carlo’s face faded from Mary Lisa’s view, but he kept his surfboard above her to shade her from the sun. The pain in her hip started drumming big time now.
The tsunami had hit hard. She felt dizzy and light-headed, nauseated. She swallowed. No way was she going to vomit. She heard Honey Boy panting close to her ear. When she finally heard a paramedic shouting for people to move aside, she wanted to sing hallelujahs.
As they strapped an oxygen mask on her nose and loaded her gently onto a gurney to put her in the ambulance, she heard MacKenzie announce, “I helped save Sunday Cavendish’s life. I’m a nurse by nature, Lena Cross, Angel of the Andes.”
Honey Boy barked.
And suddenly Puker was there, snapping photos over a paramedic’s shoulder, grinning down at her like a maniac.
“I’ve got a restraining order on you, Puker. I’m going to put you in jail for this.” She didn’t know if she’d said the words out loud because Puker didn’t stop clicking until a paramedic shoved him out of the way.
“Nah, the restraining order expired last week,” Puker called out, and snapped more photos.
“Get out of the way, you moron,” a woman said. “Not you, dear. You hang in there. We’l
l have you to the hospital in under twelve minutes.” Mary Lisa felt a hand on her forearm. She felt it stroking her even as she floated away.
THREE
The first soap: In 1930, Chicago radio station WGN started a fifteen-minute daily serialized drama set in the home of an Irish American widow and her young unmarried daughter.
UCLA Medical Clinic in Santa Monica
Mary Lisa sat on the edge of the stainless steel gurney, her sneakered feet dangling. She felt wonderfully loopy. She wiggled her hip. No pain, not a single zing. Drugs were magic. She started singing Lennon and McCartney’s “Yesterday.” It didn’t alarm her that she seemed to be watching herself from about three feet away, marveling at how silly she looked and how sweet her voice sounded, even though she wasn’t in the shower. She lifted the hideous open-backed blue paper sackcloth and gingerly eased down her panties to look at the continent of bruises spreading on her hip. A little bit like Australia, she decided. Perhaps by evening, at the rate it was growing, she’d be a billboard for India. She knew, objectively, that the bruise was going to make her whimper once the drugs wore off, but for now, she fancied the fast-spreading green splotches were mountains. Maybe there would be a yellow blob right in the middle for Ayers Rock.
At least she hadn’t needed stitches anywhere. But she could see the directors’ eyes rolling back in their heads when they saw the scrapes and bruises on her arms and neck. Because of the grinding schedule, there were four directors now on Born to Be Wild, each responsible for one or more hour of airtime a week. Mavis in wardrobe, who loved to turn Sunday out with lots of skin showing, wouldn’t be happy either. She studied the half dozen Band-Aids dotted here and there, and thought them very nicely designed.
Strange that they’d left her alone all of a sudden. They were probably waiting for the pain meds to kick in so they wouldn’t have to hear her whine. She hadn’t really whined much, she’d been pretty stoic, truth be told, only whimpered a bit.
She eased her panties back up and pulled the crinkly paper gown over her as best she could, not that she really cared. She threw back her head to finish giving her all to “Yesterday.” When she was four years old, she hadn’t understood it very well, but she’d had a great little memory.
A man stuck his head through the curtain, not a doctor, but a lovely slender man in a light sports coat and tan slacks. He was in his early thirties, black haired, with soft brown eyes that nonetheless looked quite shrewd. At the moment he also looked amused as he stood there politely, evidently waiting for her to finish the song. She grinned at him, cocked her head, and asked, “And you would be…?”
He stuck out his hand, gently took hers. “Hello, Ms. Beverly. I’m Detective Vasquez of the Lost Hills Station in Calabasas. We handle any problems in Malibu. Let me say that I like how you sing that song, as do most of the people in the waiting room. In fact there was a bit of a singalong happening. Sounds like you’re a happy camper.”
“Ain’t drugs great? And they’re legal so you can’t arrest me. Do you know what? I really like police officers.” She realized she was still holding his hand. She didn’t want to let go because his hand was big and warm. When he finally managed to get his hand back, he lightly patted her on the shoulder. “Hey, Deputy Lindstrom said you played kissyface with a car.”
“More like kissy-hip,” Mary Lisa said and touched her fingertips to her side. “I’m growing a bruise the size of a continent, Australia, most likely. It’s got mountains and valleys. Do you think it’d be okay if purple represented rivers?”
“Why not?” He stared at her, his eyes crinkling in amusement again, but his voice was quite serious. “The doctors say you were very lucky, that you’re not really hurt.” He smiled, showing white teeth and kindness. “You’re an actress, right?”
She nodded. “Much of the time, yeah.”
“There’s a photographer out there, a skinny guy with sharp eyes who made me as a cop. I got rid of him, but he’s probably a lurker. You know him?”
“His name’s Puker Hodges and you described him perfectly. He’s good at what he does. He can disappear behind a dead bush when he wants to. I saw him in Malibu today before that car hit me. The jerk snapped pictures of me when they were loading me into the ambulance. He must have followed the ambulance here. I wonder how long it will be before one of them shows up on the cover of the National Enquirer.”
“If you’re recognizable, not long at all, I would imagine. Puker?”
“That’s what I call him. I think his real name is Poker. That’s weird too, isn’t it?”
Detective Vasquez pulled out a small notebook and a pen. “I hear you’re a soap star.”
She nodded. “I play Sunday Cavendish on Born to Be Wild.”
He stared at her a moment, then grinned real big and shook her hand again. “A real pleasure, ma’am. I thought you looked familiar. Born to Be Wild is the soap of choice at the sheriff ’s department. We all get a kick out of the ‘jugular’ dialogue. You get amazing reactions. You’re everyone’s favorite.”
She sat there, sneakered feet dangling, and preened, but only for a moment. Then she gave a deep sigh. “That’s nice, thanks for telling me. Now, I don’t suppose you caught the jerk who hit me?”
“Not yet, and that’s why I’m here.”
He’d dropped his voice a half octave and he sounded dead serious again.
“Oh dear. You stopped smiling and my hip started throbbing at the same time. Bummer.”
Nurse Blenkens whisked back the flimsy curtain at the edge of the alcove and stopped short when she saw the man. “You must be the police officer, right?”
“Detective Vasquez, ma’am.”
Nurse Blenkens said, “You’ll have to leave for a moment. You can speak to her once I’ve helped her get dressed.” She pointed unceremoniously toward the hallway and started untying Mary Lisa’s gown.
“Sure thing. I’ll be outside in the waiting room, Ms. Beverly.” Bless her cop, he pulled the curtain closed on his way out.
When Mary Lisa was back in her clothes, Nurse Blenkens said, “I really like that T-shirt. There’s just a little smudge on it. You’re hurting again, aren’t you? It’s all right, I only gave you enough of the doctor’s order to take the edge off, to see how you’d react to it. Since you’re not driving, I can give you another shot before you leave, if you like.”
She was soon rubbing Mary Lisa’s arm where she’d pulled out the needle. “Now, here are the pain meds I promised you. You can take one every four hours. They should keep you singing-there was an old guy with a broken leg in the waiting room singing along with you. Nice. Now remember you promised to check with your doctor on Monday. Come back if you feel ill or the pain gets worse. There’s going to be a big bruise on your hip, nothing for it except maybe some ice. The doctors all say it’s superficial. You’ll have to wait for it to fade, I’m afraid, actress or not. I’m sure all your makeup people can cover the smaller bruises on your face and shoulders. Oh, yes, would you give me your autograph? It’s for my nephew, Tommy. He’s a grotty little thirteen-year-old, but an excellent snow-boarder. Makes his parents hopeful.”
Mary Lisa signed the back of a prescription form and slowly eased off the gurney. She was beginning to feel quite fine again. She touched her fingertips to the bruise on her hip. “Thanks for everything. Do you know, about my bruise, I’m now thinking India -lots of fine and varied topography,” She shook Nurse Blenken’s hand. “Have I told you how much I love drugs?”
“And they love you too. Just stay away from that stuff you shoot between your toes.”
“The only thing I put near my toes is nail polish. Usually a nice coral.”
Nurse Blenkens nodded, but without a hint of a smile. Mary Lisa wasn’t sure she’d believed her. “No, really, it’s usually coral, but I’m leaning toward French now, same as my fingernails. What do you think?” She thrust her dirty hand toward the nurse and wiggled her fingers.
Nurse Blenkens studied her nails. “You’re going to ne
ed some repair. Now, Ms. Beverly, you go home and take to your bed until tomorrow morning, all right? Since you’ve been so nice, maybe you could sign an autograph to Dr. Murray’s wife, Marge. He was too embarrassed to ask. He said she hates Sunday and tapes all your shows.”
“Sure,” Mary Lisa said and signed the back of another prescription form. “I’m always telling the writers not to redeem Sunday too often, my alter ego and I are having too much fun.”
Ten minutes later Detective Vasquez helped Mary Lisa into his brown Crown Victoria.
“Hey, I’ve never been in a slick before. This is very cool.”
He grinned at her. “You know the idiom. I don’t know where that name came from. My old boss always called the detectives’ cars ‘plain wrapped,’ since they’re always one solid color, usually boring. Okay, I don’t see Puker Hodges.”
As he maneuvered out of the parking lot, he said, “I’m a little surprised that you weren’t surrounded by people from the studio by now, your friends, your agent, people like that, insisting on taking you home.”
“Actually you saved me from all that, and I’m really glad to be getting out of there without any press showing up. I wouldn’t call the studio people unless I was on life support. As for my agent, thankfully, he’s in Istanbul, taking a long-overdue vacation. I’ll call my friends when my brain is less squirrelly.”
“What’s his name?”
“Marvin Leftwich, with Trident Media, in L.A. ”
He nodded and turned right onto the highway. He looked into his rearview mirror, frowned.
“What’s wrong? Do you see something?”
FOUR
The first TV soap opera, a half-hour program, appeared in 1956 with the debut of As the World Turns.
“A dark four-door sedan. No, don’t look back.” He smiled. “It’s okay, he turned off on Topanga Beach.” He gave her a reassuring smile. “Stop worrying, let me do that. Okay, when I checked in with the station, they wanted you to know they have a weekly betting pool going about what Sunday Cavendish is going to do next. Detective Farber asked me to get the inside scoop.”
Born To Be Wild Page 2