Hollywood Boulevard (30 page)

    "Drop the garbage bag." That was the last I'd see of the roses; too bad about the Day of the Dead dolls. "That way," she said, pointing to the opposite end of the room, toward a small bedroom. "Keep going." We entered the bedroom, also all white, airy with a big window looking out on her balcony. The room was pin neat. A low bureau held all sorts of cosmetics and perfumes. Above it hung a large, framed color photo of a woman in showgirl gear: boas, sequins, pasties, G- string, satin dancing shoes, garter and white fishnets, topped by a feathered headpiece. The woman, who was not smiling, had to be Sylvia in her prime, looking not so much hard as tigerish and sensual: bright red mouth, full and slightly pouting. Her body was full too, and curvy. An all- around sexy dame, she looked like a handful. It made me think of the old rat- pack days, Sinatra and his crowd, Dean Martin and the others; boozy, womanizing old Hollywood.

    Sylvia let me take a good long look at her stripper portrait before pointing to a walk- in closet. I saw the light switch was on the outside. I followed where the gun pointed and went in. The light was on. The closet was stuffy with Sylvia's clothes and stale with sweat and old perfume. It was carpeted in the same white shag. The walls seemed thick, where I could see the walls for all the old gowns and shoes and the rest of Sylvia's wardrobe, looking like it went back fifty years. The floor was mostly clear of stuff, and there was a pillow and a small pink flannel blanket meant for a child's bed and, just by the door, an old- fashioned porcelain chamber pot with a lid.

    Sylvia started to close the door. "Wait! This is it?" I asked, something close to terror inching into my voice. "Sylvia!" I said to the closed door. "I'm claustrophobic, Sylvia; even a blanket over my head terrifies me—" I started to cough. Panic was folding over me, white and hot at my throat. I banged on the door. The light went out. I yelled as loud as I could and banged with both fists.

    "There's a flashlight and a bottle of water on the floor. Now, shut up."

    "Sylvia? Wait! Please open the door." I tried to calm myself, or my voice anyway.
"Sylvia?"
Nothing. Then I heard scratching and hard breathing by the door. Mucho. "Mucho!" I called, like the little beast was Lassie and could go get help, save me from having fallen into the well. "Mucho!"

    "Mucho, come here." That was Sylvia. I started screaming and kicking the door.

    "No one can hear you; you might as well save your breath," Sylvia said.

    She'd already let me know no one lived next door to her or below her and, like my suite, no one above either. She must have made a point of telling me that. But the closet wall would be an exterior— also like mine— connected to the hallway where the maids came and went, and maintenance guys; activity. Only nobody cleaned her rooms, and I was the only guest on the floor except Grant, on the other side of the landing. The filled- to- bursting shelves lining both walls would serve as insulation. I was pretty well isolated.

    Think of something, Ardennes. "Sylvia! What about my car, Sylvia?
What about my car, you maniac?
" If I'd gone to Indio, how could my car still be parked outside?

    I didn't notice a chain on the outside of the closet door when I walked in. She opened the door a few inches, and I hurt my shoulder shoving as hard as I could until the short length of chain stopped me. Who installed the chain for her; hadn't they wondered at it on the outside of a closet and realized she was planning something diabolical, like a kidnapping?

    "My car, Sylvia," I said through the gap, my lips touching the door frame. " Andre will see it and . . ."

    "You're not too observant, are you? It's been gone since yesterday. I returned it to Enterprise. Paid up with your American Express card; contract canceled."

    "You're lying. They'd recognize me, a nice- looking guy— Dave— they'll figure out—"

    "Not at LAX, where I dropped it off. Busy airport, they don't notice much. By the way, you owe me for the cab fare back."

    "I owe
you
, you sick old witch?"

    "Keep a civil tongue, Miss."

    She shut the door tight. I heard her tell Mucho to come along, and then I think the bedroom door closed. I was breathing hard. How much air could the closet contain, and for how long? The old clothes held whiffs of deodorant, cologne, and camphor— mothballs maybe— and what was that? Smoke! The fire lingering in the walls? Didn't she say something about that? I was sweating all over and scared, my gut wobbly as a bowl of Jell- O, hands icy cold. I'd be happy to face the gun again, anything but this wardrobe tomb. I slumped down on the floor and pressed my face to the door. My eyes grew used to the dark and I saw the thinnest strip of light under the door, piercing through in spite of the thick carpeting. I put my hand along the strip and felt a draft of cooler air. It was hot in the closet. "Please," I said into the dark. "Please . . ."

    After a while, maybe ten minutes during which I tried with all my might to follow the breathing exercises I'd half paid attention to in a long- ago yoga class, I calmed down some. Joe had a good laugh over that: "Yoga, so perfectly L.A," he'd said. "It's better than sleep ing around," I'd joked back. Kidding like that didn't go over well on the phone. I knew the calm was temporary and I'd better take advantage of it, so I crawled on all fours until I found the water bottle; there were two next to the flashlight. I turned the light on and shone it around my prison walls. Surveillance took all of two minutes.

    I drank some water and leaned the flashlight against the pillow. She'll have to feed me at some point; she'll have to open the door to pass in some food, and that's when I'll kill her. Unless she plans to starve me to death? She's small, she's old . . . she has a gun. I don't care; I'll overpower her, let her shoot me . . . if she fires the gun someone will hear it.

    I didn't have my watch, so no way to tell the time. I guessed going on eleven. Wouldn't Andre have come back to the hotel by now? And the Detective? He'd be calling my cell again. Fits would call too, later on, he said, after work. I'd be missed.
The phone charger
is still in the wall! That
will be noticed; I would never leave without the cell phone charger. Ha. No, Andre won't notice. He'll be scrambling for a new lead; he's fighting off the wolves . . . he must hate me so much by now. He'll call when he realizes my car is gone . . . he'll get the message. Will he believe I've gone to Indio? Without leaving a note? Will he get the Indio clue?

    A bird attacked us there, a screech owl.

    Indio was a bit of fast thinking. My friend— a set designer, another abandoned victim of my quitting— drove us to an estate there after a long, complicated shoot. We were both exhausted. Andre was in New York. We sat all afternoon in the hot tub. It was winter in the desert, so not roasting hot; the Santa Rosa Mountains were pinkish- violet hazy beauties surrounding us. The house was huge, with a caretaker who made himself scarce so we were alone, tooling around the hacienda with its artificially watered gardens and lawns, waterfall and infinity pool. We saw a roadrunner shoot across the lawn and laughed our heads off because he zoomed just like in the cartoon.

    Beverly mixed pitchers of margaritas as the sun set. I made guacamole, and we grilled some dinner and were outside afterward, lounging, feeling no pain having downed serial margaritas. Later we stood by the pool on one of the big marble terraces, looking up at stars that looked close enough to pluck, when something dive- bombed out of the dark, screeching like a bat out of hell. We screamed, clutching each other while he turned and came back at us. I was taller and felt the breath of a wing on my hair and pictured razor- sharp talons slicing into my scalp. We ducked and ran, clinging to each other, into the house, laughing in our terror. No one heard our screams. We found out later it was a screech owl and that he'd once attacked the owner. Next day we packed up and left.

    I called Andre to tell him about the attack. He didn't react much, maybe because I woke him up in New York. Will he remember the owl attack? Will he put two and two together and realize I'm saying I've been attacked? Will he? Oh, Andre . . .

    What about Billy when I don't return his call . . . except he'll think I'm running away from him, from yesterday. He's a cop; if I

                     I
was
being stalked— he wouldn't focus on any postsex regrets. Unless he's insulted; he is a man. No, he's a cop; he'll smell trouble. Billy, I
am
in trouble. . . .

    I decided to dump everything out of both bags, starting with the clothes bag. I changed from the jersey I was wearing into a white t- shirt, and I took off my jeans and put on a little white summer skirt I'd tossed into the bag. I placed my Mason Pearson brush near the door; maybe I could smack Sylvia in the face with it, poke her eyes out. My purse might hold a file or something sharp, like the keys to the Soho loft, and could be used as a weapon. I found an opened bottle of water, who knew how old, a tampon, lip gloss, sunglasses, eye drops, an umbrella— too small to hit a person with— really old gum stuck to its wrapper, oh, a couple of hard candies, boarding- pass stub, loose receipts. No nail file. I emptied out my wallet next. . . . How did Sylvia get my AmEx card and the car keys? I flashed on her moving around when I went to make us coffee— that was only yesterday— how long has she been planning this? Everything was lying right out on that end table . . . where Andre's lilies were, probably running low on water by now.

    What day is it? That table I bought should be delivered today or tomorrow; they said within two weeks. Haven't two weeks gone by? The desk will call. Sharif will wonder why he hasn't seen me. The maids will wonder. Or am I supposed to disappear, fall away into nothingness, into whatever happened to that guest who walked the gardens and spied on her neighbors?

    
"Sylvia!"

    She must have been right outside the door because she answered immediately: "What?"

    "What do you want from me?"

    "What do
you
want?"

    
"What?"
No answer. "Sylvia, open the door, please. I won't try anything. I can't hear you. . . ." She opened the door as far as the chain. " Thank you." No reply. "I'll need toilet paper, Sylvia. . . ."

    "You think I killed Lucille Trevor."

    "Why would I think that?"

    "They all did."

    "Do you want me to ask you if you did?"

    She laughed a little hyena's laugh. Mucho's head pushed into the door and growled. He was small enough to fit through the crack, but he stayed outside. "What were you doing snooping into all that?"

    "Nothing. Sharif— at the desk— told me about the fire. I was curious, that's all."

    "You have nothing better to do?"

    "Apparently not." She turned and left the room. I could hear her heels clacking lightly. The carpeting swallowed most of the sound. "Sylvia?" I said softly. I grabbed the little compact mirror out of my kit and held it outside the door. The bedroom door was open. I moved the mirror around. The bedroom curtains were shut; the room was fairly dark. I heard her heels again and pulled my hand back inside.

    The closet light went on. "Back into the corner, all the way into the back," Sylvia commanded. She held a lit flashlight on me through the opening. She tapped the revolver on the door frame. "Stay there. Don't move a whisker."

    "Okay. I'm back as far as I can go." She unchained the door and threw in a roll of toilet paper and two granola bars, then slammed it; I heard the chain go back on. At least she left the light on.

    The silence that followed was more determined. I drank some more water. I opened the Salinger, forced myself to read. Zooey was going on about something in the bathroom, his mother seated on the closed toilet seat, chain- smoking. He's in the tub and wants to get out, but Mom wants to talk about his sister Franny and her troubles, and she's not going anywhere until they do. Zooey is an actor in a family of geniuses. Why would Salinger write about actors in a genius family? Since when are actors geniuses? It was no use trying to read. I tossed the book. It was so hot in the closet. I drank more water. I felt like crying but couldn't. It practically goes with the territory that actors can pull out the tears on cue, but I couldn't have cried right then if I was being paid a million dollars. I drank some more water.

    The closet had two rods full of hanging clothes on both sides and shelves above the rods, and below for shoes. On the back wall were two sets of high shelves but no rod, just a pile of clothes on the floor. The shoe racks were filled to capacity. More shoes spilled loose out onto the floor to the left of the door. There were boxes and clothes folded on the shelves, except for the top shelf along the back wall. That one held white Styrofoam heads, some with wigs on them— strawberry blond, fiery red, brunette and black— some bald. Lipstick had been painted on the faces where lips would be if the heads had lips. I didn't like the heads. They were harmless but had the feel of a Halloween scream movie. I drank more water. It was so hot.

    I tried the door, pushed it with both hands as hard as I could. Then I realized it wasn't locked, so I shoved as far as the chain would allow. All was quiet outside my prison. I had the sense Sylvia had gone out. I couldn't hear a bird chirp or a car, not a human voice anywhere. I sat on the floor feeling drowsy. . . . I shook my head, drank some more water. . . . I could hardly keep my eyes open—