Truck Stop Jesus Page 6

  He swayed on his feet. “Leave her out of it. It’s not like I’m a hundred. You and I could have something, Paradise. Something special. This is LA. Nothing is surprising here. Nothing new under the sun and all that. Nobody cares about propriety. Trust me, I hear the crazies talk all day long. And I think you know how I feel about you.”

  Paradise tried to swallow but couldn’t. “Stop, please. I want to go inside. I want to leave.”

  “I love you, Paradise … I need you … ” He’d never taken it this far before.

  Paradise fought rising nausea. “Stop.”

  Burt’s face hardened. He shoved her and her back thumped into the mirror. “You spoiled brat. I ought to take you over my knee and spank you. I gave you your life. I still do. You know I pulled strings with clients, big ones, to help you get that audition? You’re a freak show. Everybody knows it. They all think you’re nuts. I could yank the opportunity away just as fast as I made it happen. You eat and breathe and act and wear your dresses … You sing your stupid golden moldies because I allow it. And I’m not asking anymore. I’m telling. We’ve both wanted this for a long time.” He wobbled and caught himself on the wall.

  Drunker than she’d thought.

  “We? And if I say no? If I don’t want to … how did you put it? Get along? What then?”

  “Then you’re done, you little tramp. Cut off. I’ll even make a few calls to the studio. You know how many of those millionaire poser movie execs I see in my office every week? But that’s not going to happen, is it? You need me. You want me.”

  He grabbed her then, gripping her shoulders with strong hands. Paradise shoved against his chest, but it might as well have been a brick wall. His mouth smashed against hers, and she gagged. He let up and stepped back, victory shining in his eyes.

  “I’ve been waiting years to do that,” he said.

  Tears flooded her eyes. “I know.”

  Concern came to his face. “Hey, Pare. It’s gonna be okay. We’ll get through this together.”

  “What’s the matter with you? Are you crazy?”

  He turned to the mirror and watched himself as he started to unbutton his shirt. “Don’t talk like that, Paradise. I might change my mind and cut you off anyway. Regardless of how special what we have here is.”

  The lamp smashing against the back of his head surprised her as much as it did him. When had she picked it up? How? She was small—an atom floating in infinity. Too inconsequential to hit a man with a lamp, but there it was, broken on the floor.

  He stumbled to an overstuffed chair and sank into it. Not like in the movies. Had she killed him? A loud snore sent a flood of relief through her body. More alcohol than smashed lamp, hopefully. She grabbed her bag and ran.

  Sure enough, Eve lay curled up on the couch.

  Welcome to dinner with Eve and Burt. Why didn’t she drink? Really?

  She paused in the drive and leaned against Burt’s car to catch her breath and slow her heart that threatened to pound through her chest. The sun hung low. Red and angry in the leftover Santa Ana heat.

  Her stepfather had flirted and gawked at her most of her life while Eve turned a blind eye, but he’d never gone this far. Paradise’s insides twisted with a surge of anger and residual fear. She wiped her palms on the front of her sarong and willed her legs not to buckle. Who did he think he was?

  Past the drive and across a narrow strip of manicured grass the steep hill fell away and the ocean burned yellow beneath the dying sun, peaceful blue now gone.

  “What do you want, Paradise?” Its voice more insistent now.

  Strength began to return to her legs.

  A garden rake leaned against a replica of the Venus de Milo. Poor Venus. No arms. Helpless.

  Join the club, sister.

  “What do you want, Paradise?” the ocean called again.

  “I don’t know! Leave me alone.”

  No way to tell when the idea sparked, but there it was and wouldn’t be deterred. Years of Burt’s wandering eyes and oh sorry, that was an accident touches, overwhelmed her. The rake came to her hand with a mind of its own.

  Burt’s car practically glowed in the evening light. Panamera. Porsche’s most expensive model—just ask him. Burt’s pride and joy. The kind of car you wouldn’t be embarrassed to have parked in your Malibu driveway. Keys still in it. He must have been eager to see her.

  Easy. Just like in the movies. Start the engine, loop the seat belt through the steering wheel to keep it straight, wedge the rake handle against the gas pedal, pop it in gear and …

  There it went.

  Some things really did work like they did in the movies.

  “What do you think of that? Just like Thelma and Louise,” Paradise said.

  Venus de Milo remained silent on the issue.

  Poor Burt. Couldn’t happen to a nicer guy.

  The Olds was fast, the original muscle car and Paradise took the turns hard, feeling good for the first time in days. Burt would explode. He’d kill her.

  Goodbye, Burt.

  Hello, life. Hello, fame. Hello, money. Hello, independence. She didn’t need Burt or Eve or anyone anymore. She was Scarlett O’Hara.

  “After all, tomorrow is another day … ” she said to the wind.

  Then again, what if Burt made good on his threat? What if he really did have connections with the studio?

  What had she done?

  Stars poked through the Malibu sky above. They sang to her, perfect voices in beautiful harmony. “What do you want, Paradise?”

  “Sorry, Paradise Jones can’t come to the phone right now. Please leave a message and she’ll get back to you … later … maybe.”

  She braked hard into a turn, then hit the gas as the road straightened.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Jesus is My Copilot

  Paradise rolled up the windows but left the top down. A kaleidoscope of neon and florescent glow played across the Olds as Los Angeles hugged her like an old friend. The sun, having recited the day’s lines, had long since exited the stage, but the night still held a healthy remnant of the desert heat.

  She drove for a while, reluctant to return to her empty apartment. She contemplated calling Ash but opted against it. Her friend would probably be busy bouncing through the Melrose club scene with the latest man in her life.

  And like they said, whoever they were, three’s a crowd.

  Daytime and nighttime Los Angeles. Two very different cities simultaneously occupying the same 469 square miles of coastal Southern California desert. One a sun-drenched wonderland of tourism and industry. A bright-sky, Rose Parade kind of place with a smog-alert where Midwesterners stood in line at Universal Studios and crowded the streets of Hollywood, snapping cell-phone pictures of the stars on the Walk of Fame.

  But past the red carpet and the paparazzi’s flashbulbs, nighttime Los Angeles read from a whole different script. With Gidget safely holed up in her bedroom doing homework, it became Marlowe’s turn. Unlike Malibu, no stars graced the night sky here. The city’s domed ceiling glowed a perpetual twilight of brown and orange. Beneath it, pale-faced musicians haunted the club scene and bragged about the big break right around the corner, never dreaming that in twenty years most of them would be working the counter at Guitar Center, telling and retelling tales of the glory days to clones of their former selves. Waiters and waitresses, temp workers and Radio Shack sales clerks shed their polyester and became actors, huddled around micro-brews and skinny lattes. Drug dealers and con men moved in and out of the streetlight glow, looking to cull the weakest of the herd while the invisible homeless army shuffled the shadows on silent feet.

  Day or night, Paradise loved the city. She drove the streets for an hour, waiting for her heart to slow. Finally, back in her narrow apartment driveway, she turned off the engine and let her forehead thump against the steering wheel. The anger wasn’t gone, but it had at least moved to the backseat.

  Good night, Los Angeles. You’ve been a great audience.

&
nbsp; What had she been thinking?

  Would Burt call the police? Of course, he would. He knew how to spin things. She’d be arrested. Go to jail. He’d be the respected innocent victim of his crazy stepdaughter. She’d lose everything.

  What could she do? Go to the police and tell them her side of the story? His word against hers, and even if they believed her, there was still the pesky little fact that she’d sent his hundred-thousand-dollar car off a cliff. No denying that one.

  Now you’ve done it, Paradise Jones. How’s the weather in Costa Rica this time of year?

  And what about Gone with the Wind? It might become the working title of her life story—or at least, her acting career.

  Think about that later.

  She’d bought the huge red suitcase at an estate sale in Brentwood. The amount of clothes she was able to shove into it surprised her, and she managed to snap it shut by sitting on it. She left her cell phone on the kitchen counter because she’d seen a crime drama where the police were able to track them.

  Lady sings the blues. Goodbye, Billie Holiday.

  Thirty minutes in and out.

  The heavy suitcase thumped on each stair on the way down to the car.

  Now, where to go? Where could she hide? Big Bear, maybe? Santa Barbara? Too close. Lake Tahoe might be good. It looked nice in North by Northwest, and there wouldn’t be any snow this time of year. Mexico? Too scary. Plus they might be looking for her at the border. They did that, didn’t they?

  In the end, the Olds found its way onto Interstate 10 and headed east, the whole thing feeling like a dream. What would Eve say? Nothing. When had she said anything before? And how about Ash? And Arnie? She didn’t even want to think about Arnie. He’d blow a gasket.

  Her stomach growled, reminding her that she’d never gotten around to eating dinner. At a 7-Eleven in Ontario, she bought a banana, a Snickers Bar, bottled water, cherry cola, and a prepaid cell phone. The kind they called a burner phone on the crime shows.

  They hadn’t had that technology in After Sunset.

  She forced herself to keep to the speed limit, imagining police cruisers behind every pair of headlights.

  Her eyes began to get heavy. She needed sleep. At a motel on the backside of Banning, the Chinese woman behind the check-in desk hardly gave her a glance. Paradise registered as Veronica Lake and paid with cash. Thanks to her carefully hoarded savings, she wasn’t short of it, at least, for the moment. She had enough to run or hide on. At least until she figured something out—or went to prison. She shuddered at the thought of a wardrobe limited to one orange jumpsuit.

  The television didn’t work, but the room was clean. Under the covers, tired as she was, sleep eluded her. Frustrated, she turned on the bedside light. No television, no smartphone, nothing to read except a list of local restaurants. All pizza and sub shops. Life on the go.

  In a drawer, she found a Gideon Bible. She’d heard of one in “Rocky Raccoon.” She liked that song, even if she wasn’t a Beatles fan.

  No thanks, Gideon. Whoever you are.

  She crawled back into bed and tried counting sheep but kept thinking of Burt. How could he have done it? The feel of his lips …

  More sheep, but every time one passed, it tried to bite her, gnashing out with nasty little teeth.

  Mercifully, when sleep finally came, it brought no dreams.

  Sun in her eyes woke her. Nine-thirty. When was the last time she’d been up at nine-thirty in the morning? She showered and dressed. Sailor theme—navy and white. Put on a happy face. Doris Day does summer.

  The silence of the room wrapped itself around her. For a bit, the temptation to crawl back into bed and fade back into sleep overwhelmed her. What went on outside? Were they looking for her? She had to keep moving. She left without returning the key to the front desk.

  Whatever will be, will be, right? Que sera, sera …

  WWDD—what would Doris do?

  West of Palm Springs she parked in the shade of the larger of two massive concrete dinosaurs. Top up and AC running, she dialed Ash from her pre-paid phone.

  Her friend answered on the second ring. Boston with extra Boston sauce. “Yeah?”

  “It’s me.”

  “Chickie! Where are you? The police are looking for you. They came to my apartment asking if I knew where you were.”

  So her fears were confirmed.

  “What did they say?”

  “That you made a pass at Burt and got mad and pushed his Porsche over a cliff when he turned you down. Which I told them was ridiculous, of course.”

  “Leave it to Burt to turn things around. He made a pass at me. I mean a real pass. I can’t believe I did it.”

  “You’re kidding. He came on to you?”

  “It was disgusting. I hit him with a lamp.”

  “What? I wish I could have seen that!”

  “And I did sort of push his Porsche over the cliff.”

  “Wait—that’s true? You really did that?”

  Paradise couldn’t help smiling at her friend’s enthusiasm. “Actually, I didn’t push it, I started it and shoved a rake handle against the gas pedal. You should have seen it. It was like Thelma and Louise. The thing practically sprouted wings.”

  “Oh man! Burt must be livid.”

  “I don’t even want to think about it. I just need to figure out how to set things right so I can get back there. The producers aren’t going to wait around for me to clear up my personal life. Besides, Burt might try to ruin things with them. He knows everybody. I don’t know what to do.”

  “Yeah, I understand. Speaking of that, Arnie called to see if I knew where you were. He’s freaking out.”

  “Tell him what happened. I need some time to think.”

  “He already heard. Word travels fast. We’re talking Hollywood, you know. Hey, you’ll be okay. You need to get back here. We can go talk to the cops. Tell them what happened.”

  Sure. Except for the fist twisting her insides into knots. How could this be happening? The memory of Burt’s thick, wet lips came without invitation. She fought it off by replaying the sight of his Porsche heading over the cliff.

  “They’ll never take my word over his. I’m crazy Paradise Jones, remember? I’m stuck. I have to disappear for a while. But you’re a good friend. Tell Arnie I’m okay, and I’ll be there as soon as I can. I’ll try to call him.”

  “Disappear? This isn’t a movie, Paradise. Come home.”

  “Can’t, buddy. Too much heat.”

  “Oh, brother. So where are you?”

  “Let’s just say I’ve left town. It’s better if I don’t tell you. That way, if they ask, you don’t have to lie. Plausible deniability and all that.” Paradise sunk a couple of inches as a Highway Patrol car cruised by. The scarf and sunglasses wouldn’t fool anyone. Not to mention the less-than-low-profile of the Olds.

  “Why are you whispering? I’m worried about you.”

  “Don’t be. I’ll call you in a few days, okay?”

  “Paradise, listen to me. I always shoot straight with you, right? You live in a fantasy world. It’s not actually 1949. I’m worried about you out there. It’s the real world we’re talking about, not LA. It’s like somebody dropping Sandra Dee in the middle of Nightmare on Elm Street. Come back where it’s safe.”

  “Los Angeles is safe?”

  “Yeah. Safer. For people like you and me. Out there you’re a fish out of water. You won’t be able to breathe.”

  “I don’t think fish breathe.”

  “You know what I mean. Don’t change the subject.”

  “You don’t think I know I’m different? I like who I am. It makes me happy.”

  “This is not a movie, Chickie. Let me paint you a picture. You’re probably sitting by the side of the road in some one-horse town, right? What are you wearing?”

  “Two dinosaur town, actually. Sailor. Montgomery Wards.”

  “Year?”

  “Fifty-one.”

  “Hair?”

  �
��Veronica Lake. It’s how I registered at the motel.”

  “And that makes sense because … never mind. Are you driving the Oldsmobile?”

  “Of course. It’s comfortable.” Paradise stretched out on the seat and put her feet against the passenger-side window.

  “You see what I mean? That’s America out there. Not Silverlake. Not Hollywood.”

  “That doesn’t make sense.”

  “For you and me it does. Look, if it were anyone else, I wouldn’t be saying this, but you’re … I don’t know, innocent. Different, you know?”

  “Not innocent in the eyes of the law, buddy. Or in the eyes of Dr. Burt Simmons, bloodshot as they may be.” Paradise wiggled her toes as the sun caught her nail polish. When she dropped her feet to the seat, two perfect steamy footprints remained on the car window.

  “The police aren’t coming back here. Tell me where you are,” Ash said.

  “I’m parked beneath a dinosaur.”

  “See? You worry me. Where are you going?”

  “Were they really that big?”

  “Were what that big?”

  “Dinosaurs.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “I’ll call you when I get there.”

  “Will you?”

  “I promise.”

  “What about Gone with the Wind?”

  The movie was a problem. “I don’t even have the part, and like I said, Burt will crush my chances anyway. He told me.”

  “He was bluffing.”

  “I don’t think so. I have to go. I’ll call you later, okay?”

  “Just promise you’ll be careful.”

  “Bye, Ash. Thanks for being you. Call you soon. I have to ring off.”

  “You’re killing me.”

  “I know.” Paradise pushed the end button. She dropped her Greta Garbo circa 1955 sunglasses to the end of her nose and took a slow look around, adjusting her scarf as she did so. Nobody paid her much mind. The concrete dinosaur dozed in the morning sun. She started the Olds and dropped it into drive.

  The truck stop on I-10 sprawled like its own sovereign nation made up of several small caliphate states. A line for the air pumps, truck wash, Linda’s Diner, gas and diesel—separate lanes for cars and trucks.