The courtyard was secured behind a wrought iron gate that nearly reached up to the Disney-esque, second-floor turrets on either side of the entrance. Marty went through the gate, closed it behind him, and discovered a lushly landscaped garden, with potted flowers and bird feeders everywhere, the elegant patio furniture arranged around a small pond and a stilled fountain.
"Over here, sweetie." The old lady was waiting for him in a one-piece bathing suit at one of the tables, her bony legs crossed, nervously shaking one foot, the sole of her house slippers slapping against her heel.
Her skin was unnaturally weather-beaten and creased with use; it looked like someone had stretched a loud floral bathing suit over the cracked leather driver's seat of an old car, then strung a necklace of enormous fake pearls around the headrest.
"Come, sit down, before the ginger ale goes flat in this heat," she motioned to the pitcher and two plastic glasses, which were on the table beside some suntan lotion and a beaten-up John Grisham paperback.
Marty took a seat and stared at her as if she was an apparition. The air itself was shimmering like a TV signal that refused to come into focus. All he could do was lamely offer her the roll of toilet paper back.
"You keep it sweetie," she waved her hand at him, each finger ringed with an enormous glass jewel. "In case you have more tummy troubles."
Either he was dying, he thought, or this is just what the body does after riding a fireball, getting shot, and running through a cloud of toxic gas. In which case, shitting his guts out and losing any sense of physical or mental equilibrium would be totally normal and healthy.
Marty set the toilet paper down on the table and reached for the pitcher of ginger ale, but had a hard time capturing it because it wouldn't stay still. Nothing would. He finally managed to grab the pitcher and pour some soda into his glass, but he had real trouble getting any in his mouth, spilling half of it down his shirt before he realized he was still wearing the dust mask. He tore the mask off his face and swallowed the tepid, lukewarm ginger ale in one, long gulp.
It felt good. He immediately filled the glass again, drank it all, then settled back in his seat. The air was rich with the scent of fresh-blooming flowers and a hint of coconuts. For the first time in hours, he felt at peace. Safe. He could stay here forever.
"It's very peaceful here," he said.
"Are you feeling better?"
"Much better, thank you." Enough to feel embarrassed again for what he had done. "I'm sorry about your bush."
"Bushes are ugly things," she said. "I don't care about bushes."
"Why did you help me?"
"We don't get many guests here at the Seville," she took a saltine and swallowed it whole in her huge mouth. "And it's such a nice day."
If this was a nice day, he couldn't imagine what her bad days were like.
"Besides," she smiled, "we entertainment professionals have to stick together."
"How did you know I'm in the TV business?"
"Your bag," she tipped her head towards his gym bag, which had the network logo on the side. "I've done many fine productions for your network."
"What do you do?"
"I'm a featured player," she reached over to the seat beside her and lifted up a huge photo album. "I've been in hundreds of productions and worked with all the major stars."
Marty had absolutely no idea what a featured player was, but at least now he knew why she rescued him from having to wipe his ass with a leaf. Even though her true intentions were revealed, he didn't feel in any hurry to leave. He still felt light-headed and the solitude of her courtyard was soothing.
She opened her album on the table and turned it around to face Marty. "That's me in
Hello Dolly
with Barbara Streisand."
She tapped her gnarled, bejeweled finger on a photo of a crowd outside a train station. "I'm the pretty woman standing behind Walter Matthau."
Before Marty could find her in the picture, she flipped the page to a still from
Planet of the Apes
. "That's me, the monkey woman holding the basket of fruit, two monkeys to the left of the marvelous Edward G. Robinson, though you can't really tell it's him with that make-up on. It was one of my richest roles."
Now Marty understood what the term "featured player" meant. It was either an antiquated description of what she did, or a phrase she made up to make her work seem more like genuine acting. She was an extra, one of the countless, nameless background faces hired at $70 a day plus meals to fill out corridors, streets, and crowd scenes in shows.
She flipped rapidly through the pages. "I left the business after being a nurse for a few seasons on
Diagnosis Murder
. My character just wasn't challenging any more. Most of the time, she walked up and down the same corridor holding the same files. I really felt my character should be answering phones, perhaps even consulting in the background with other physicians. The second assistant director wasn't willing to take the creative risk so I resigned. I've been waiting for the right role for a comeback."
"I see," Marty nodded. "I'm afraid I have nothing to do with the casting of featured players."
"But you'll keep an eye open for any interesting roles?"
"Certainly." Getting her a job as an extra was easy. It was the least he could do for her. He was grateful for her kindness. Then again, he thought about what she might say on the set. Oh, he's a delightful man. I met him when he was shitting in my juniper bushes.
Perhaps he'd just send her a lovely fruit basket instead. Or some flowers for her garden.
"You live here by yourself?" he asked to change the subject.
"Oh no. The Flannerys are upstairs and Mr. Cathburt is relaxing over there," she waved to someone on the other side of the pond.
Marty craned his neck and saw two bare feet and part of a mangled chaise lounge sticking out from under a massive slab of stucco, tile, and glass. The startling sight seemed to sharpen his vision, enough to finally notice that the roof on the second floor had caved in. When he turned back to the old lady, the air wasn't shimmering nearly as much and his pulse was pounding in his head. Death, and the fear of dying, brought things into focus once again.
"Mr. Cathburt likes to take a little nap in the afternoon," she whispered.
"I don't think he's napping."
Marty got up and hurried over to the crushed chaise lounge to see if there was anything he could do for Mr. Cathburt. There wasn't.
Mr. Cathburt was smashed under the remains of a second-floor veranda. On the patio, a few inches away, a glass of iced tea sat undisturbed on the latest issue of The Globe, which was crusted in a dried puddle of blood. The iced tea was cloudy with particles of plaster and stucco, and the headline on The Globe shrieked: Inside Clarissa Blake's Lesbian Love Den! Her Bisexual Galpals Revealed! As curious as Marty was about Clarissa and her galpals, he wasn't about to touch the magazine.
"When he wakes up, Mr. Cathburt and I usually water the garden," the old lady was just chattering away. "Everything would die if it was left up to the Flannerys."
Marty heard another voice, barely audible. At first he thought it might be Mr. Cathburt, squeaking from underneath the veranda, but then he recognized the scratchy broadcast cadence: the voice was coming from a speaker. He looked around and found a tiny head-set dangling from a cord that was pinched between the rubble and the smashed chaise lounge. Somewhere under all that, a Walkman had survived. The cord was sticky with blood, but Marty's desire to hear some news was stronger than his revulsion. He crouched beside the late Mr. Cathburt, picked up the head set, and held it close to his ear.
The newscaster's voice was weak and quivering, as if he was fighting himself to speak at all.
". . . total, catastrophic devastation. The destruction is simply indescribable. The death toll is surely in the thousands. We don't have details because the city has gone dark, there's no electricity, the phone lines are down, all we know is what we're seeing from our traffic chopper and picking up on the police band. We do know the epicenter was somewhere around Chatsworth, and damage extends as far north as Santa Barbara and as far south as San Juan Capistrano. There have been two strong aftershocks and dozens of smaller ones.
The coastal communities of Santa Monica, Marina Del Rey, and Playa Del Rey have been decimated. Wildfires are raging in Baldwin Hills, Malibu, and above Sherman Oaks. City Hall, the Griffith Park Observatory, the UCLA Medical Center, Dodger Stadium, the Santa Monica Pier, and Sleeping Beauty's Castle are a few of the prominent structures that have crumbled. We're hearing widespread reports of chemical spills and explosions, landslides, and bridge collapses. Underground gas lines have broken, fueling intense firestorms that have razed neighborhoods in Chatsworth, the Fairfax district, and Culver City.
Every freeway has sustained massive damage and most major streets are impassable, drastically impeding official rescue efforts, which are sporadic at best right now.
Los Angeles International Airport is on fire, its runways destroyed. Van Nuys Airport and Santa Monica Airport have also suffered severe damage.
The National Guard has been called in, but with virtually no way into the city, it could be days before they arrive in significant numbers.
We are on our own . . ."
Marty dropped the headset, his hand shaking. He was scared. There was no news about Calabasas, his home, but he didn't take any relief in that. Calabasas wasn't far from the epicenter of the quake and more than once had been threatened by fires that spread from Malibu canyon. Was their house destroyed? Was his wife about to be consumed by a raging wildfire?
"We spend the whole day out here, Mr. Cathburt and I, reading mostly," the old lady was still talking. "It took Mr. Cathburt three weeks to read
The Pelican Brief
. I finished it in a weekend, but I'm not like most people. I like literary fiction."
"You should go," Marty got up quickly and went to her. "It isn't safe here. The rest of this building could come down."
"I have all the John Grisham books, if you'd like to borrow one. We could read here together, by the pond."
The garden didn't seem nearly so peaceful anymore. Now he could hear the flies buzzing over Mr. Cathburt, the wailing car alarms on the street, the thup-thup-thup of a helicopter in the distance, the tingle of bits of glass still falling to the ground.
"I have to go," Marty told the old woman. "You should, too."
"Where would I go?" she looked him in the eye. "I've lived here for forty-seven years. There is no where else. This is my garden."
Marty nodded. "Is there anything I can do for you before I go?"
"Yes, please." She slid the straps of her bathing suit off her shoulders and smiled coyly.
Oh God, no, Marty thought.
She handed him the bottle of Hawaiian Tropic. "I could use some suntan lotion on my back."
Marty didn't want to do it, but he was so relieved that was all she was asking, he quickly squirted some lotion on his hands, rubbed them together, and smoothed the cream on her shoulders. It felt like he was polishing a dashboard with Armor All.
"That feels so good," she purred. "Your hands are very soft."
"You shit in her bushes," said a familiar voice, "that doesn't mean you've got to fuck her."
Marty turned and was stunned to see Buck leaning against the courtyard gate, shaking his head in disgust. Wasn't there any way to escape this guy?
"To each his own, I suppose," Buck shrugged and left.
"Thank you again for your help," Marty hurriedly wiped his hands on his jacket, realizing too late that now he'd be carrying that coconut scent with him the rest of his journey. Then again, it beat the scent he'd been carrying so far.
"Come back and visit any time," she smiled. "And keep your eyes open for the right script for me."
He forced a smile in return, took the toilet paper, and left, closing the gate behind him.
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Mythic Hero Paradigm
Buck was waiting for him on the curb.
"Your running is improving," Buck said. "It would be more impressive, however, if you didn't shit yourself the minute you stopped."
"Can we change the subject?" Marty started walking, stuffing the toilet paper into his pack as he went.
"Okay," Buck fell into step beside him. "Let's talk about breasts."
"Let's talk about why you're following me."
"If you weren't so fucking full of yourself, asshole, you'd remember that I live in Hollywood. We happen to be going in the same direction."
"There are at least a dozen different ways of getting to Hollywood."
"Not if you want to avoid the giant fucking cloud of poison fucking gas. Besides, I'm getting to like you, Mark."
"Martin. You won't like me so much after I tell the police what you did."
"I'm sure it will be a top priority for them." Buck snorted.
"You were supposed to stay with the guy you shot."
Buck grinned. "I'm with you now, aren't I?"
"The other guy you shot."
"Enrique and the black kid are with him. Turns out Enrique is one of those male nurses which, as we all know, means he's an amateur proctologist in his spare time."
Marty gave him a look, took the map out of his pack, and spread it on the hood of a car.
"What are you doing?" Buck asked.
"Trying to figure out where I am."
"You're a couple blocks away from Koreatown," Buck said. "Keep heading west, and we'll hit Western Boulevard."
"How can you tell?" Marty glanced around for a street sign, finally spotting one lying on the ground.