Hollywood Savage

by Kristin McCloy

Although at first she staved off my inquiry, wanting, she said, “for once in my life to be mysterious!” eventually I teased it out of her, every convoluted step of the way she’d figured out my location, beginning with pretending to be my assistant, calling a bunch of airlines with some ludicrous story of a stolen credit card—all of which, I thought, crazily unnecessary for the information she needed to obtain, which naturally only made it that much sweeter—until she’d found out the date of my departure. She did for me the voice she’d used, and it was pitch-perfect self-important assistant to a star.

  Ultimately, she admitted, she’d sneaked back into my house by squeezing herself through one open window, and found everything she needed to know scribbled on the back of an envelope next to the phone.

  Ah, I said, the old breaking-and-entering trick.

  We went on in the same vein, by tacit agreement neither of us mentioning her husband or my wife, or even Walter, both too glad of each other’s company to risk even a moment’s solemnity. It would always be there, I think we both felt that; it could certainly wait one more night.

  Besides, New York itself was intent on seducing us, and the same way it will see your bad mood and raise you one, fortunately it performs equally well with euphoria.

  Meandering down Lafayette Street, my favorite for its breadth and stature, its perfect combination of grand architecture and drop-dead modern, we saw the crescent moon just beginning its ascent. Thoroughly buzzed by then, we went into a candlelit spot tucked away on a small side street when we heard cool Brazilian jazz (wandering, literally, wherever the music took us).

  She said, Miles, this is serious fun …!

  Her hair had golden highlights, it picked up the light of her skin, the light of her eyes. She’d never looked so young—all at once I could see her as she must have been when she was eighteen, when she was twenty-two—arms crossed self-consciously across that luscious chest, legs strong, thighs lean from the bicycle she used to ride everywhere, hair so blond from swimming every day the tips turned silver.

  What, I said, mesmerized, drunk; I could think of nothing charming to say, I could not take my eyes off her.

  This, she said, she waved a hand around, she laughed, helpless. It’s…

  What? I said again, smiling now, as tongue-tied as a kid.

  It’s like an amusement park for adults imagined by Fellini… Who are all these people? Where the hell did they come from, and where does everybody sleep at night? It’s insane …!

  We laughed, reached for each other at the same time, kissed as if we’d been separated years.

  Get a room, someone said, and we broke apart to see a young man smiling as he walked past, hair falling in his eyes, adding, I mean really …!

  Despite the adolescent mix of alcohol we’d imbibed so far, I ordered a bottle of champagne, recklessly sure nothing could touch us, not now (not ever).

  The bartender brought it over in a silver bucket of ice, condensation dripping down its sides. He poured it, he was smiling, too.

  When you’re happy, she murmured, the whole world…

  I kissed her lips as they curved upward yet again, tasted raspberry and mint, tasted what I could only call joy.

  Gee I’m glad you’re here.

  She laughed, all night long, just purely happy. It lifted years, not just from her face, the frown lines gone, but from her whole demeanor. She had a carelessness I had never glimpsed before, and all at once it struck me: she was three thousand miles away from her husband and child; she was an entire continent away from her family, and she no longer had to fight the constant sense of vigilance, of guilt.

  That’s the way, I realized, it had always been for me with her, in LA.

  This music is so sophisticated, it’s so sexy, she murmured, looking impossibly glamorous with her glass of champagne. It makes me want to live in Paris, or at least New Orleans—makes me wish I had a French balcony with shuttered doors and some flimsy negligee to wear on it…

  What is it, I asked, laughing, I had never heard her whimsical, that you think you’d find there?

  The unimaginable, of course, she answered coolly, looking at me, then added, so quietly I could barely hear her, What I crave most.

  Lucy, I thought, but I didn’t say it, Lucy was where the unimaginable and the imaginable met for me; she was the world.

  We ended up having to hail a cab before we’d finished the champagne (speaking of unimaginable!), so fucking hot for each other it was ridiculous.

  We stumbled into the elevator at the Chelsea, me groping her like some sweaty kid, her giggling maniacally as she tried (unsuccessfully) to keep my hands off her breasts.

  In our room, falling onto the bed, we could hear the bathroom plumbing had gone screwy; the toilet flushed continuously, the bathtub still hadn’t drained.

  We couldn’t have cared less, everything just made us giddier. We had crazy sex, fell asleep for maybe forty-five minutes, woke up grabbing each other.

  Sometime around three A.M. I called downstairs and offered the man fifty if he’d bring back some ice-cold Stoli (and candles, Lucy urged, and Cadbury’s chocolate); it only took him twenty minutes to spill the booty on our bed. We sat naked, drinking straight from the bottle, she let me spill it into her trembling navel. Ended up draping towels over the windows to dim the dawn.

  I felt seventeen again (except of course I never did this when I was seventeen); it was one long tantric session, the pursuit of intoxication, making a kind of shimmering hologram of desire, the intense circuitry of two minds joined at the hip.

  Reminded me of that motel in Big Sur, it was the same dynamic—both of us making a fetish of specific physical parts, having hours of nonorgasmic sex until it became a sort of delirium … until finally, much later, I woke squinting against the light shining past the falling towels to feel her falling on that rigidity; mad, breathless.

  —5 may, NYC

  Woke up as the sun was setting, the day gone. Ashtrays everywhere, overflowing, their stale smell in the air, empty bottles rolling on the floor.

  Luce? My voice a croak as I called out to her, my lungs like two rusted bellows. From the bathroom, I could hear the toilet running still, but nothing human.

  In a sudden panic, I stumbled across the room, coughing to clear my throat, calling her name again, louder this time.

  She wasn’t there.

  I sat down hard on one of the armchairs, my heart thudding in my chest. Thought with real fear how I had to quit smoking again—could feel the vise of it in my chest, the lack of oxygen making my head ache.

  She’s gone, the thought surfaced then, and for a few seconds I was so convinced I couldn’t even rise to check for her stuff—she left me, I thought, the same way Maggie did. (Has.) Will. (Will!)

  It’s only, I thought, a matter of time.

  But when I finally did stand to look, there was her suitcase. In fact, her stuff was everywhere—the double strand of heavy pearls her grandmother had left her strewn around the base of one lamp, her high-heeled boots still kicked off on the rug, the white dress crumpled at the foot of the bed.

  I rummaged through my shit until I located some aspirin, palmed four, and swallowed them with a mouthful of lukewarm Stoli. Hair of, I told myself, though I knew it for the excuse it always is, then stood under an equally tepid shower until the water went truly cold (three minutes, tops).

  Just as I was pulling on my jeans, the door flew open and Lucy burst in, face flushed, eyes overbright.

  She flung her arms around me, kissed me ardently.

  I woke up ages ago, I tried to get you to come with but you were out. I just couldn’t wait! So I asked the girl behind the desk, she told me all kinds of places to go, I got a slice at Famous Ray’s, it was amazing! Oh, and can you please tell me why they call it an egg cream, when it has no eggs and no cream, either? It’s weird, Miles, I gotta tell ya—

  She spoke in a torrent, kept interrupting herself. She really had been everywhere, down past the West Village into Tribeca, and
then some. She was overflowing with stories, descriptions of the people she’d seen, snippets of talk overheard—

  This little boy was sitting in front of me on the bus, next to his mother, his nose squashed against the window—he reminded me of Walter somehow, even though his hair was jet-black and very straight, I think he was adopted because she was a real blond not that it matters—anyway, suddenly he asks her, Mommy where does God live? And you could see she was stumped, for a second she just looked at him and then she said, Well, honey, I think God lives everywhere, in everyone—so he turns back to the window, this was not satisfactory, and said, No, Mommy, I mean which building?

  She refused to let me shave, insisting I looked “sexy” with my days’ growth. Come on, she begged, she tugged me right out the door. Walking down the hall, she kept kissing me, saying she wanted nothing but aphrodisiacs—oysters, shellfish bisque, and chocolate mousse …!

  I’m starving, I agreed, wishing that first unease would dissipate. I flashed her a grin, sure she’d see through it, but she smiled back even more widely.

  She’s high, it occurred to me, high on the city and no one to take care of but herself, and it should, by rights, have delighted me—on some level of course it did, in the same way that it’s thrilling to introduce two friends and watch them immediately click—but I couldn’t seem to shake the feeling I’d woken to, a gnawing sense of dissolution—I couldn’t pinpoint it (but then, who wanted to?).

  It was just a hangover, I told myself; no doubt all I needed was some air, a good meal.

  Luckily for me, Lucy was totally distracted, she talked enough for both of us—she’d bought a little notebook someplace, had written things down—

  A gas station—have you ever noticed how few of them there are?—had this sign, “Please do not horn,” but then that last word was crossed out and underneath someone had written “hork” instead …!

  Oh, and, and, and, she said, she licked a finger to flip the pages. Listen to this, taped to a window outside one of those corner stores with all the produce—

  A Korean deli.

  It said “chicken vegetable warp”—oh and propped against a window I saw another sign that said “Wanted: Piano-bar player, must also know how to open clams”—that’s a real job description, huh?

  Although I was genuinely amused, I was still dogged by paranoia; for the sake of anonymity, or maybe just in an attempt to quell that feeling, I stepped into the avenue and flagged a cab heading uptown, told the driver to take us up to the Royalton Hotel, an old Ian Schrager place, sure I wouldn’t run into anyone I knew there.

  Walking into the lobby, I was gratified by Lucy’s quick intake of breath. Wow, she said, apparently reduced to a teenage vocabulary by the midnight blue velvet sofas, chairs whose backs swooped up in a way that was sheer liquid, the candlelight glimmering everywhere.

  She leaned against me, closed her eyes.

  I wish it were the twenties, she said. And we were on our way to Africa for six or seven months, with three steamer trunks between us and a wardrobe tailored in London, or Paris…

  I laughed, steered her through the side door and into the bar. Lucy went to the bathroom while I finagled a table for two, sliding into a seat that was still warm as I listened to a burst of what I guessed to be German (the language of contempt, with all its spitting, guttural sounds) from the couple who’d bequeathed it to me.

  “The higher you fly,” a woman sang, hauntingly, a single breath over the synthesized sound of tribal drums, “the harder you fall.”

  I ordered a cosmopolitan for Lucy, a whiskey sour for myself, was unsurprised when the drinks got to the table before she did.

  That line, she said, rolling her eyes, God.

  You mean lines, I said. Accent on the plural, there (referring to what I knew went on in most New York City bar bathrooms after dark).

  I guess. She dismissed the thought, put both hands around the fishbowl that passed for a martini glass (which, frankly, at fifteen bucks a pop was almost fair), and raised it to her lips.

  Thank you, she murmured, then added, It’s so sexy, she wouldn’t quite meet my eye, as if revealing too much, having your drink chosen—she cut herself off only to restate it, having your mood masterminded for you.

  I felt myself relax for the first time, smiled deep into her eyes, dimly aware of the same woman still singing in the background (“where is the love,” her voice dreamlike, from another place, “where is the love”)…

  Twenty minutes later, tired of waiting for the waitress, I was going to the bar for another round when I heard a voice, so familiar for a second I simply froze.

  Miles? Is that you?

  … And there was Peter, looking amazed, a small retinue of people I didn’t know clustered at his elbow.

  My God, it is he, Miles Lexan King, the very one!

  His little group laughed and I tried for a casual grin, aware he was performing for them (aware, too, of Lucy’s eyes boring into me).

  Peter, good Christ, what the hell are you doing here?

  Why, I have an assignation, he drawled, motioning behind him so vaguely they all laughed again.

  We clasped each other briefly, the man hug.

  What’s your excuse? His tone never lost the easy affability I’d wager he’d long ago cultivated, but his gaze was piercing.

  Oh, you know, had a spot of writer’s block, thought maybe a change of scene—New York in springtime, all that.

  Listen to you, “a spot of”! I gather you’ve talked to Maggie, then, and your young charge since they took themselves off to London?

  This confirmation of my suspicions (she’s out of town, they are together) made my blood run cold; I literally felt my entire body change temperature, my hands go clammy. For a moment, I couldn’t speak, but I managed to nod, tried to affect a thoughtful gaze (one that I hoped said OH YEAH, and ISN’T IT AMAZING …!), but I glanced, I could swear it was involuntary, toward Lucy before catching myself, looking away.

  I swallowed hard, but it was too late; Peter’s keen eye had missed nothing.

  She told you, of course, he said, and I sensed concern from him for the first time—carefully masked, naturally; after all, we both had appearances to maintain here—about that lit rag sending them first-class Virgin tickets?

  Who knew, I managed. Literature with an expense account!

  I cleared my throat then pretended to have a brief coughing fit.

  That’s what I get, I said, mock-wiping my eyes, for trying to surprise my wife.

  He just looked at me, his groupies bored with our conversation by then, and tipped his beer back. For a minute we just stood there, nodding inanely.

  I don’t know what you’re up to, he said finally, overtipping the bartender, who rewarded him with a smile he could take to bed, but I hope you don’t think you have something better going on over there.

  The complicity between us—it’s the complicity of friends, the complicity of men.

  Look, I’m here a couple nights, I said (confidential tone). It’s research.

  Whatever, Peter said, his wave elaborately offhand, mocking. Let’s do lunch when you get back for real, huh?

  I’ll call you, I muttered.

  He didn’t bother answering.

  My editor, I told Lucy, sitting back down, as if nothing had happened, although I’m back empty-handed.

  Your wife, she said at last.

  He’s not going to say anything.

  Are you sure?

  I shrugged; could not have sworn it, but there are always those people who will be your friend first. Even if—even when—you end up criminal.

  Let’s get out of here, she said. I was only too happy to oblige.

  ***

  Back out on the street with Lucy, the city’s mutated once again, now become a minefield of exposure. My need for evasion, my sense of hiding out, acute—the sudden & terrifyingly gripping fear of being seen. Who’s that.

  The clandestine life—amazes me how the same terrain
can hold entirely different planes of existence. Here, on this most familiar of grounds, I am dogged by a curious sense of dislocation, a kind of nausea.

  The life of secrecy is a life of fear. The capacity for being found out exists continually, and then continues to exist. It is like nuclear threat, underground but ever-present.

  Although I realize my logic’s warped (it was precisely this logic that led us right into Peter), I’m too freaked out to head back downtown—to go anywhere near my usual haunts—so we end up at Monkey Bar, a place that was cool, oh, about a thousand years ago…

  … And yes, my worst fears are confirmed when I hear the French accent of the people slouched at the bar next to us. Worse, they’re complaining about New York.

  So derrty, a short guy’s drawling, making the face of distaste.

  Ees cheep, I mean, cheepERR, okay, yes, but why every place the same? Gap, Starbucko’s—and ze drogue storrs! Quelle horreur! The woman next to him chimes in.

  Nothing makes me more patriotic than listening to a bunch of Eurotrash putting the city down, and before I can contain myself, I’m leaning over and saying hey, you don’t like it, why don’t you leave? It’s not like anybody’ll miss you, right?

  Miles! Lucy grabs my arm, scandalized. The French assholes immediately start speaking exclusively in their own—doubtless superior—language, laughing exaggeratedly, but I see the short guy move a discreet distance away, and I know they’re at least a little freaked out.

  We move further down the bar, order a couple of drinks, but the evening’s lost its shine; we can’t seem to sustain conversation, Lucy’s earlier effervescence now evaporated, and as if in abeyance to our deflated mood, everyone around us seems equally colorless, too many tourists with accents and maps, not enough natives around.

  It’s the area, I tell her, but don’t explain what we’re still doing in midtown.

  Let’s go back, Lucy says, standing abruptly, her eyes gone liquid, naked with something I hesitate to call desperation.

  She wraps herself around me in the cab home, tucks her head firmly beneath my chin so I can’t see her face.

  What about Cambodia, I ask her when we’re finally in bed. Want to live in Cambodia?