“Because as hard as it is to figure how she got out of there alone, it’s impossible to imagine her being dragged out without anyone noticing. And also, I don’t know where to look yet.”
“Damn it. I suppose I should call off the shoot.”
“Rodd said something about shooting inserts, close up-what did he call them? — money shots to cover the things Thistle wouldn’t or couldn’t do. You’ve got the set, you’ve got the guys. They need to do something with those thumbs. Why not shoot those?”
“I haven’t got a body double.”
“You got the guys there pretty damn fast when you made that spur-of-the-moment decision to film the gang-bang.”
There was a moment’s silence. “Better than nothing, I suppose.”
I said, “You’re welcome.”
“You want thanks? Get her back.”
Trey hung up and I breezed across Hollywood Boulevard on Highland, the traffic mysteriously light for mid-day. Good Lord, I thought, mid-day? I checked my watch: one-forty. It felt like it should be getting dark already.
If Thistle had left voluntarily, I needed to find her for her own sake. Feeling the way she did, all alone, pumped full of dope and face to face at last with the reality of the deal she’d made, there was no way to know what she’d do. I found myself somewhat taken aback by the intensity of my anxiety. I’d met her only that morning and she’d been stoned on a potpourri of psychotropic substances the whole time I’d been with her. She was hopeless, aimless, self-loathing, self-destructive, probably not long for the world. The wreckage, I supposed, of someone who had briefly possessed a remarkable talent and hadn’t been able to adjust to life without it.
Except, I asked myself as I slowed for a red light, who loses a talent like that? It was innate; she’d had it at seven. Something like that doesn’t just decide to change ZIP codes, wander away, and desert the person it animated.
What had she said about her genius for mimicry? “It’s about the only thing I have left.”
The light changed, and I forced myself to confront the alternative. If she hadn’t left voluntarily, if she’d been taken-well, that was exactly what I’d been hired to prevent. I’d assumed from the beginning that someone on the crew was involved in the disruption, and now-if she’d been snatched-in her disappearance. And behind that person, I was certain, was someone much more dangerous. Someone who’d proved that by shooting Jimmy. Someone who would probably be capable of writing full stop to Trey’s project by killing Thistle.
So, one way or the other-alone, on her own, loaded and probably self-destructive, or taken by someone who wished her ill-Thistle Downing was in trouble.
I made the turn onto Romaine, forcing myself to focus on nothing but what was in front of me. Nothing out of the ordinary, as far as I could see. No lingering cops, no obvious hoods hanging around. If Thistle had run and word had gotten out, then whoever was trying to wreck the filming would be doing exactly what I was doing, but for a different reason. She finds her way here, they’re waiting, and just like that, no movie. Maybe they kill her, maybe they just lock her up for a month, maybe they put her in the trunk of a car and drive her up to Canada or down into Mexico, then keep her stoned and happy until Trey’s either given up or has been surgically removed from the situation. Then let her wander back on her own.
I knew a couple of people who would have handled it exactly like that. Unfortunately, I also knew a couple of people who would have just put a bullet in her head and sunk her into the Pacific off Catalina. Well-weighted and soon forgotten, just another fallen star.
No one seemed to be loitering around the Camelot Arms, no one was sitting in a parked car on either side of the street. The white Chevy was gone, and Jimmy’s Porsche had been hauled and was probably being taken to pieces by now in some forensic garage. I wondered whether he’d been carrying any identification, whether the car had been registered to him, whether there was any way the cops could have put a name to him. Whether, in short, his beautiful wife, Theresa, was still pacing the floor wondering when he’d stroll through the door, wrapped in his Jimmy Dean cool.
Talk about fallen stars.
Okay, as far as I could see, there were no watchers at the moment. So. Park on a parallel street and walk, keeping my car out of sight of anyone who might come by while I was inside? Or just grab the closest space, in case I had to leave in a hurry?
Habit dies hard. I pulled around a corner and parked a couple of blocks away. I figured if anyone was going to try to come into the apartment while I was there, it would probably be marginally better if they didn’t know I was inside. It might give me the ten to twenty seconds of surprise I’d need to leave the place standing up.
Up the dirty stairs for the second time that day, quietly, just in case, and slowly so I could sort out my lock picks. I paused a few steps from the top and singled out the two I thought I was most likely to use, and then climbed the rest of the way and made the right into the hallway. And then stopped dead, trying to figure out whether to stay or run. One thing was clear. I wouldn’t need the picks.
Halfway down the hall, Thistle’s door sagged inward on a single hinge. The top panel had been hit by something heavy enough to splinter and buckle the entire door, yanking the latch of the lock right out of its socket. I found myself thinking that the noise must have been thunderous.
I stood still, breathing shallowly through my mouth, the same way I do when I think I hear someone moving in a house that’s supposed to be empty. It’s the quietest way to breathe, but it doesn’t let you smell much of anything. We humans have lost maybe ninety-nine percent of what was probably once a pretty keen sense of smell, but the impulse is still there, and even the human sniffer, if the human who’s using it is sufficiently attentive, can occasionally deliver some information: perfume, cigarettes, someone we love, the presence of death.
And, surprise: I learned something. I learned that someone had spilled a large quantity of cheap red wine in the vicinity. The fumes had an acidic edge that went straight to the back of the nose and stayed there. But whoever spilled the rotgut, if he or she was still around, wasn’t making a sound.
My imagination is actually too active for the career I’ve chosen. It’s always too easy for me to visualize someone else, standing just as quietly as I am, waiting for me to give myself away. Waiting for the whisper of furtive movement that says look out.
So be Mister Neighbor. People walked up and down this hall all the time. Time for one of them to come along, and he wouldn’t be on tiptoe. In fact, he’d probably be whistling. So I started to whistle and headed on down the hall, my eyes on the open door. The rank stink of the wine thickened as I approached. When I was opposite it, I slowed, just another curious yobbo, and looked in.
Devastation. The couch was tipped forward, the rug half pulled aside. Junk was everywhere on the floor.
I kept whistling and walked the rest of the way down the hall, to the fire door at the end. I pulled it open and then closed it, loudly enough to be heard by anyone who might be in Thistle’s apartment. Then, moving very quietly, I worked my way back down the hall, my back hugging the wall. I was wishing for the second time in two days that I carried a gun.
At the edge of the door, I stopped, my back still touching the wall, and counted very slowly to ten. Not a sound. I pivoted around and took the three quick steps that put me inside and against the wall, just beside the door. Invisible from the hall, but a nice, close, resolutely life-size target to anyone who might be inside. The smell of the wine was strong enough to choke me, and I breathed through my mouth again, mainly for self-defense. Before I moved another inch, I surveyed everything I could see.