Hollywood Boulevard (14 page)

    "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.

    She asked if she hadn't seen my face in a movie or two, and I confessed I'd been in the business but was out of it now. She peered at me inquisitively, a quick smile passing over her mouth, edging toward a smirk. "What's the matter? Not enough ego?"

    I let the remark go, surprised at the tone of it, and explained that I was in L.A. with my husband, Andre Lucerne, who was directing a film. "Ah," she said, "you're with that crowd taking up half the rooms. A nice bunch of kids, couple'a good- looking fellas too."

    I said I hoped she wasn't disturbed by the late nights.

    "Not me. I like people around, so long as they don't make too many demands. I look at the world, Ar
den
," she said, mispronouncing—hitting the
dennes
too hard. "A peeper in my way. It's how I get my thrills these days." I had the sense she'd had plenty of thrills— maybe not all of them positive— in her time. Mucho trotted back to her, and it looked as if he'd decided it was time for them to go. She picked him up and stroked his head. "Plenty of poking going on; I've seen those kids coming and going at all hours, not always from the rooms they start out in."

    Amused, I wondered if she was an insomniac. " Movie sets are short- lived hives; proximity breeds quick partnering."

    There was something like disdain in her expression as she said, "Not just movies; all of entertainment, half of it spent in the sack. You see, I've been in the illusion business too." She paused, feeling for something in her pocket that evidently was not there. "This was a more passionate town a few years back. I'm a born Angelina, so I know. There really can't be too much lovemaking in the world, can there?"

    I looked at her and laughed the first good, solid laugh since I'd arrived. I thanked her for the cake and neither of us made any polite overtures about a drink or a see- you- later line. The visit had been brief, more a pair of animals sniffing out their terrain, both satisfied to leave it at that. Or I was.

    So when I heard her door bang shut just now I was tempted to rush out and waylay her. I went out on the balcony and peeked over the rail. A minute later I saw her put tiny Mucho down on the driveway. He shook his miniature body and headed up the low rise of the roadway at surprising speed, Sylvia following. Wasn't she afraid a car or a cat would kill the runt? One of Andre's crew said he'd seen a coyote near the back entrance to our unit, precisely where the dog was headed. Sylvia must have overslept to be walking him this late. She was attired to be noticed in a leopard- skin- print smock over white capris, and bless her if she didn't have heels on. A wide- brimmed hat and sunglasses finished the look.

    I wanted to ask her about the long- ago fire and mysterious death in her apartment. Did she know about it? I wanted her to invite me in so I could see for myself where the event had taken place. From what I'd been able to gather online— which wasn't much— I had the idea this was a cold case and someone had maybe gotten away with murder all those years ago.

    I waited but didn't hear Sylvia return. The back entrance was near what I call the troll house, a low bungalow with a slate roof that could have been dropped out of a fairy tale. It was a separate rental and, as far as I knew, empty. From there a narrow path leads sharply up to two levels of wooden stairs, one to the first floor of rooms, one to our floor. All the rooms and suites have more than one way of being reached. The third floor is set back from the second, so I, happily, have no one tramping above me. The entries to the third- floor rooms face west and the pool below. Bridges lead to the doors along an open walkway. It was on one of the bridges that I'd seen Pale Guy and Kitty. I hadn't seen Pale Guy again, and that was fine with me. Sylvia must have walked up to the pool area via the first floor, past the fake waterfall. But it was time for me to throw my clothes into the dryer.

    I had an actual mission today, a wifely one at that. I'd forgotten how cool L.A. springs can be, especially at night, and hadn't brought enough sweaters. Andre hadn't either and for once he let his needs be known instead of stoically handling things on his own. I told him I'd pick up a scarf for him and a couple of sweaters for us both. With all the brand- name shops sprung up around the new Kodak Theater, I could walk to my errand. It would put me back on the Boulevard, but this time with the safety of purpose in my step. I wouldn't get trapped in a shoe store.

    Dressed and showered, the wash folded and put away, I was ready for my mission. I'd try to get hold of Sylvia another time. My cell rang as I was heading for the door. It was Fits. I leaned against the kitchen counter to hear what he had to say, glad he'd called and maybe wasn't angry anymore but anxious that maybe he was.

    "Did you read the book?"

    That was his hello. "You just gave it to me— but yes, up to the part where she tells the loser beau she's quit acting."

    "Right. So finish it."

    "I will. . . . Fits, I'm sorry I didn't keep up."

    "I didn't either."

    "But you didn't disappear—"

    "Let's not drag out the treacle. You made a mistake. A bad one. I don't care why. Just fix it. All right? I gotta run."

    "No, Fits, wait! Does the name Sylvia Vernon mean anything to you?"

    "Sounds like a Chandler noir character. An actor?"

    "Burlesque dancer, I think, or was."