Hollywood Boulevard (22 page)

    "What do you have to be so sorry about?"

    Was that the cop talking? I looked up, I couldn't be sure if he was seriously concerned or being on- duty polite. Sincere won, I guess, because he took my chin in his hand. He did it with such authority. Hold me, I thought. I did not say those words out loud, but he folded me into his arms and did just that. I pretty much did the rest, responding to him with everything I had.

    He placed his hands on my hips and ran them up, then down my torso, slowly, like a blind man reading Braille, his fingertips taking in my length, my curves, my folds. His hands were warm over my sweater. He moved lower onto my loose linen pants and the sides of my thighs. I pulled away. He pulled me back, firmly, and I got a good whiff of whatever he put on in the morning: shaving cream, deodorant, and maybe cologne. I was glad I'd closed the curtains. His back faced the balcony door; one of the dining chairs was pushing into my back, or I was being pushed into it. That was when I saw Grant Stuart's passkey lying innocently on the table.

    "Not in here," I said, my voice low. The Detective put his mouth over mine, and I ate into his greedily. "Hang on, Billy," I said when we were done with the kiss.

    "Billy?"

    "No one ever told you you look like William Holden?"

    "No."

    I held Grant's passkey up for him to see. I grabbed my passkey and said, "Come with me." The Detective hesitated. I stood by the door, opened it and checked both directions. To get into Grant's room we would be briefly exposed at the landing; it couldn't be helped. For all I knew Alma was in the room right now cleaning. There was the chance Grant was not on set and was in there himself. I'd say I was coming for the printer if he was. For someone who'd been reasonably faithful, I was suddenly scheming like a pro. The Detective came to the doorway. I held up my palm, then fast- walked to Grant's door and inserted the key. The green light came on, and I pushed the door open.

    His room was a large single, a small sitting area with two stuffed armchairs, a couple of low tables, and a TV cabinet like mine. The wall to the left was full- length mirrored closet doors ending in a tiny kitchen alcove with a sink, countertop two- burner stove, coffee maker, and below- the- counter refrigerator. The bathroom came next, and the king- sized bed opposite, behind the sitting area. The balcony drapes were closed. A small desk on that side of the room held papers and the printer. Grant was a very neat guy, not a single personal item lying around. I turned and waved the Detective in. I watched him slink down the corridor like a big tomcat on the hunt. He hooked the do- not- disturb sign on the door, closed and locked it. The bed was made, but the Detective chose the floor.

    My heart raced as he removed my top and next the linen pants. I stood still while he got out of the overcoat and jacket. I hadn't seen the gun before this. He yanked off the holster and laid the piece carefully over his jacket. I loosened his tie while he unbuttoned his shirt.

    We made good use of the carpeted floor. When he entered me, easy at first, I was a tingle of open nerves, a mix of excitement and feel- bad all over because this was a strange body inside my body. Why the hell I thought of Joe at that particular moment when it was Andre I was betraying is anybody's guess, but none of that lasted too long because I wanted what the strange body was doing like a desert wants rain. I could feel as lousy as I wished to later on.

    I didn't count on him being so tender when it was over, but he was. He got up and found a towel in the bathroom for me to use. He sat back down on the floor next to me and watched my face like a man, not a cop. I was afraid he'd say something, but he didn't. He touched my hair and finally did say, "You have a lot of it, a brown halo."

    I lay with my head on my arm, looking up at him. "What
is
your name?"

    "Devin— Irish, of course, a cop. The Gaelic is fawn, stag, or ox."

    " Which are you?"

    "Take your pick, depending on the time of day."

    "My first husband was Irish. . . . I don't know why I said that."

    "No crime in it."

    I laughed.

    He reached for his shorts and white undershirt and stood up. He looked even more Billy Holden in his underwear. I was partially covered with the bath towel, but he studied what he could see of me as he dressed. He'd lifted the tie over his head, so he only had to loop it back on and tighten it. I watched him replace the holster and the gun and then the jacket. He was back on the job.

    He helped me to my feet and I looked around for my panties, but froze hearing a voice outside. Someone had stopped just outside the door. I felt my heart fall about a mile and thump as it landed. I pictured Grant walking in on the director's wife, naked as sin next to a man wearing a gun. Then I heard Sylvia say, "Mucho, quiet," real low. She seemed to linger at the door. The Detective moved next to the wall, so if the door opened he would be ready. I heard the low clack of Sylvia's heels on the landing, then die down on the carpeted corridor to her apartment, past my suite, and then her door bang shut.

    "Just my neighbor and her dog," I whispered. Now all the Detective and I had to do was sneak back to my rooms. Well, I did anyhow.

    Once I was dressed he signaled me to be quiet. He opened the door a crack, then wider, and gave me the okay, wordlessly telling me to go first and open my door. I ran back for the sex- soiled towel and took it with me. He waited until my door was unlocked and I was inside. There was no noise from Sylvia, so I waved him in, but he waited a minute before coming down the corridor. I was thinking, now what? I'd just done a cop on my husband's second assistant director's floor. I had to hand it to myself for knowing how to complicate my life. I watched the complication walk toward me; at least I'd picked a hot one.

    The Detective walked inside and I shut us in, quiet as I could. He went out on the balcony and looked over the railing wall in both directions. He came back in and asked if I wanted to get some coffee. I asked about the box of dead flowers. We put them back in the mailing box and tucked the lot up on a high back shelf in the walk- in closet, all the while not saying a word to each other. I grabbed a hat, scarf, key, wallet and my phone, and we walked outside. I was on automatic pilot. I'd wanted to replace Grant's towel with a clean one of mine, but the Detective said to do it later. We walked to his car in the visitor's slot, and he opened the passenger- side door for me to get in. Just then Alma came out of one of the rooms opposite, where there was a landing and a short flight of stairs to the driveway. She was holding a bundle of dirty white sheets. Our eyes met; she smiled. I waved. She took in the Detective as she closed the door behind her. Great.

    We drove past Highland and left onto Ivar, then up to Yucca, where the Detective parked illegally, placing an LAPD card in the window. We walked to an old- time coffee shop just off the corner, a place only an insider would know about. A line of booths, long lunch counter, and wide blinds along the windows to keep the sun out. The decor was Formica and plastic, and either lunch was over or business was slow. We took a booth, and a puffy blond waitress came over with two menus. "Haven't seen the likes of you around here lately, Dev." She smiled as she spoke, not wide so much as knowing.

    He nodded. "I don't get over here much anymore."

    The waitress passed me a hard- to- read but not unfriendly glance as she handed me a menu. "You want to know what's good today?"

    "Nah. Cheeseburger, fries, coffee. A couple'a extra pickles," the Detective said, handing back the menu.

    She turned her waiting eyes on me. I don't eat much red meat. Andre eats none, but I was suddenly hungry as a wild beast for hard- core protein. "I'll have the same, only no coffee. Do you make shakes?" She nodded. "Vanilla, please."

    "How do you like that burger done?" She meant me; apparently she didn't need to ask Devin Collins how he liked his.

    "Medium," I said.

    Now what? Were we supposed to make small talk, like what just happened on the hotel floor hadn't happened? Were we supposed to explore its meaning, linger in its glow? Or should we discuss what was going on with me and how I was going to be made to feel safe? It was pretty clear discreet was out.

    "I lived over here," the Detective said. I felt he was letting me know he hadn't slept with the waitress.
If
he hadn't. I didn't say anything to the news. "I was downtown— homicide— and it wasn't a bad commute."

    "What happened before . . ." I started to say, but I didn't know what to call him: Devin, Detective, Billy?

    He cut in, not done yet with what he had to say: "I shot a guy, a known killer wanted for a list as long as my arm. Trouble is, he was unarmed, his gun just out of reach. I didn't aim to kill, only to take his shooting arm out. Police commissioner thought my actions a little too Harry Callahan and moved me over to Beverly Hills burglary. No one was sorry to see the bad guy go down, only nobody else wanted to do the job."

    I didn't know anyone who shot at people. At least not for real, I only knew movie bullets. For a second I thought he was making it up; that would be the tone deafness actors can get for real events. "Did he die?"

    He glanced over the mug of coffee the waitress had set down in front of him, steam rising. "I got what I aimed for, so no. He went to jail, where he resides to this day."

    "I should be impressed—"

    "My wife was killed on the 10 just prior to the shooting. A pileup on a foggy afternoon."

    "That's too bad." I looked over the menu again like I'd forgotten something, and then up at Billy (Billy's what I'd settled on). "You don't have to tell me any of this."

    "Just saying why I left the neighborhood, how being transferred out of downtown to Beverly Thrills was a result of my being too mad at the bad guy, or at something."

    " About your wife?"

    "The marriage stunk; at least for her it did. Pretty much we were spared divorce proceedings." He pulled a toothpick out of a pocket and carefully unwrapped the paper covering, just to be doing something with his hands, it seemed. "She was on her way to her boyfriend's in Santa Monica when the tractor- trailer took her and five others. No winners."

    "Oh."

    "So, sure: No explanations required, I'm just telling you how I stand." He gave me a that- means- you look. Only it seemed to me he had just explained a lot.

    The waitress came with our order. There was a big pile of fries next to an old- style flat burger patty. I pulled the bit of paper off the straw end and took a long suck on thick, cold vanilla shake. I looked up to find the Detective watching me. It was the first time I'd seen him smile.

    I took a big bite of burger after loading up on ketchup. "Mm, this is so good." Billy nodded, chewing. "So," I said, my mouth full of meat, "this guy's dad is about to turn ninety and he wants to give him a really special birthday gift. So he hires a call girl— good looking, classy— and takes his dad to the hotel. Only Dad's just feeling old. His show is on TV, he tells his son, kind of cranky. 'C'mon, Dad,' the son says. 'You don't turn ninety every day.' So they shuffle down the hotel hallway, and the son, turning to leave, tells his dad, 'Go ahead and knock on the door.' The call girl was told to say, 'I'm the special on your special day!' She does, and the old guy stands in the doorway. 'The special?' he says. 'I'll just have the soup.' "

    "That was a joke?" the Detective said, perfectly deadpan.

A 
tree stands outside Andre's New York loft.

Soho doesn't have a whole lot of trees, and this one— I have no idea what it's called—

took off so that by the time I came along as Andre's third attempt at until- death- do- us-part, it had already grown up as high as the fourth floor. In summer the crime lights backlit the leaves orange- gold at night. Mornings I looked out at leafy branches sunlit a pale green, with sparrows chirping and twittering on and off all day long, sounding like things were all right with them. That tree made me feel okay living in the loft, and I started worrying that it would somehow die. Cities are hard on trees, and lately there was the long- horned Asian beetle killing certain types, maples mostly. The Parks Department started cutting them down to prevent the beetle spreading. Even big old trees in Central Park were axed as a precaution. That seemed like a pretty failed remedy to me, but maybe amputation was better than a chemical attack, some sort of tree chemo that would take out even more greenery and do who knew what to the birds and maybe to people too.