Crashed jb-1 Read online

  “I’m sorry. But grabbing the horn was stupid.”

  She didn’t respond. Then I heard a sniffle.

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake, stop it,” I said. “You weren’t hurt that badly.”

  She stopped sniffling and went perfectly silent. I couldn’t even hear her inhale. Just as I was about to tell her to breathe, she made a choked sound, and it turned into a laugh. “They gave me a cave man,” she said. “They could have given me a Thistle fanatic who’d gush about how great she was and talk about shows I don’t even remember. They could have given me a sensitive poet in a beret, or a paranormal who would have looked into my soul. They could have sent a drug dealer, which would have shown some consideration. But they gave me a cave man. A Neanderthal therapist. Sensitive questions and clenched fists.” She laughed again. “Who are you, anyway?”

  “I’m Junior Bender.”

  “No. That’s what your parents named you, or some variation on it. Who are you? Who have you made yourself into in-what-thirty-eight years? Thirty-eight, thirty-nine, something like that?”

  “Thirty-six.”

  “Well, whoops. I over-guessed. Maybe it’s because your face looks like it was attacked by a cloud of parakeets. Wait, I remember, a chandelier. Look, if you’re having trouble telling me who you are, if this is, as you therapists like to say, a difficult area, let’s start with something easy. What do you do? When you’re not driving people like me, as though there were people like me, what do you do?”

  “I’m a burglar.”

  “Oh, go find somebody who’ll believe it. Try the bus station. Lots of dumb people come in every day on the bus.”

  “It’s true. Like it or not, I’m a professional burglar.”

  “You mean, like full-time?” She stretched the words out derisively.

  “Well, you see, that’s one of the nice things about being a burglar. You only work a couple of times a month.”

  “What do you do the rest of the time?”

  “Read.”

  “Yeah. A bookworm burglar who punches women and does therapy on the side. What’ll you say if I ask you tomorrow?”

  “Same thing. I’m a crook with a book.”

  “Then what are you reading?” She snapped her fingers. “Right now, and don’t take any time to think about it.”

  “Oracle Bones by Peter Hessler. The Dream of the Red Chamber by Cao Xueqin-”

  “Gesundheit.”

  “Waiting, by Ha Jin, and The Rape of Nanjing by Iris Chang.”

  “Huh,” she said. “Isn’t Nanjing a city or something?”

  “Yes. ‘Rape’ is figurative. The Japanese killed maybe three hundred thousand people when they were occupying it during World War Two.”

  “So things could be worse, you’re saying, in your oblique booky-burglar-therapist fashion. We could be in Nanjing, getting killed by the Japanese. With swords, maybe.”

  “Actually, I was answering your question. But things could always be worse.”

  “Oh, listen to you,” she said. “What the fuck do you know about things being bad, or worse, or hopelessly, end-of-the-world, chew-a-hole-in-the-wall miserable? You’re a cave man who breaks into houses two nights a month and gets all sensitive with stoned women.”

  “Don’t be a jerk.”

  “Okay,” she said. “I won’t.” She straightened her legs out and extended her arms in front of her in a stretch. I glanced over and saw the clarity with which the long muscles of her arms were defined. She was far too thin; she’d burned away most of the subcutaneous fat. “You got any money?”

  “Of course, I have money. I’m a burglar. When we run out of money, we steal more.”

  “Give me some.”

  “For what?”

  “To buy a bus ticket to Omaha, what do you think? Dope costs, and I’m not willing to do what it takes to get it free. Not yet, anyway.” She put a hand on my arm. “How about it? Save me from that. It’s awful, what they make a girl do. Please, mister? I’m a good kid, really. Don’t make me … don’t make me-” She laughed. “This isn’t working, is it?”

  “Nope.”

  “Aww, come on. I don’t need much.”

  “No.” Doc’s right-hand signal was on again, and I looked up and saw the offramp for Woodman Avenue coming up. I muscled in ahead of the car behind me and slowed slightly to let Doc move over in front of me, getting a nice long honk for my pains.

  “Why not?”

  “It’s a principle. I don’t fund drug habits.”

  She removed her hand from my arm and punched me on the shoulder. “How fucking high-minded.”

  “And how about you?” I asked. “The question you asked me. Who are you? Who have you turned yourself into in the past twenty-three years?”

  “Oh, my God,” she said, bringing the back of her hand to her brow like Joan Crawford about to scream. “I’m so ashamed. You have no idea how much I’ve needed to hear that question.”

  “Then answer it.”

  “Are you familiar with the concept of irony? Remember, I was just talking about it? I was being ironic. I am who I’ve always been. A total fuckup. But now I’m a drugged fuckup. And you know what they say.”

  “No. I don’t.”

  “A drugged fuckup is a happy fuckup.”

  “You weren’t a fuckup,” I said. “You were brilliant. I’ve watched you.”

  “That wasn’t me,” she said, putting her feet back on the dash. “That was never me, until the end, when it wasn’t any good any more. That was me. Before, when it was good? The first three or four years? That was Thistle. That was the adorable, irreplaceable Thistle.” She looked out the window again. “The little bitch.”

  22

  Knife through butter

  After that announcement, we sat more or less in silence for another twenty minutes as she rode out the ups and downs of her high. During one of the peaks, she asked a couple of questions about the books I was reading, and I told her a little about my approach to education.

  She thought about it for a moment and then said, “Jeez.”

  “I saw your journals,” I said. “A lot of them. When I was getting some clothes for you. What do you write about?”

  “It’s not really writing,” she said. “It’s circling the drain. It’s one long enormous spiral going down, down, down, and I’m following it around and in, closer to the center, and down, closer to the hole.”

  “And what’s the hole?”

  “My soul.” She laughed. “Isn’t that dramatic?”

  “I guess,” I said. “It’s not very good, but it’s dramatic.”

  “It’s not that bad,” she said. “It’s better than that thing I said about what they make girls do for dope. Why’s he stopping?” Thistle pointed at Doc’s car. He had made the turn into the studio driveway and come to a sudden halt. Then he opened the door and climbed out, limping toward us as fast as he could. He got to my window, his face red, and said, “Turn around. Back up. Get her out of here.”

  And then from behind him, around the corner, a crowd of people hurtled toward us: mostly drab folks carrying things, and here and there a few members of the on-camera “talent” pool, people with bright clothes, streaked hair, and orange faces.

  Thistle said, “Oh, no.” She kicked the dash. “Go, go, go, go.”

  And then Doc was elbowed out of the way and people had surrounded the car, hammering on the windows and holding up cameras and shouting questions. There seemed to be only one word: spoken, called, shouted, over and over again by the crowd: “Thistle, Thistle, Thistle,” and every now and then, “Over here, Thistle. Take off the glasses, Thistle. Over here, Thistle.” A blond woman wearing makeup the color of a tequila sunrise slammed a fist on Thistle’s window and said repeatedly, as though it were the modern equivalent of open sesame, “Entertainment World News, Entertainment World News.”

  Thistle put both hands over her face, grabbed a breath, and started to scream, a sound high enough and sharp enough to slice a hole in the roof
of the car.

  “Don’t,” I said. “Don’t give them what they want.” I reached over and put a hand on her arm gently, as flash cameras went off like fireworks. She was shaking violently. I pinched her to get her attention. “You can ruin their day,” I said. “Screw up their pictures. Don’t let them affect you.”

  She shook her head, fast, “You don’t know what you’re-”

  “They want to see you fuck up. That’s why they’re here. Don’t fuck up. You just behave better than they do. It’s easy. They’ll hate it.”

  She went still. “How?”

  “Outclass them. Class bewilders the hell out of them.”

  “Outclass-”

  “You have more class when you’re asleep than these people will have on their wedding day.”

  “I have-”

  “These people are liver flukes. They’re tapeworms. They have no talent whatsoever. They come at the smell of blood and drink some and then they go back to the studio and spit it up on camera. Are you telling me you can’t outclass this bunch?”

  She pulled away the hand over the side of her face closest to me and looked at me, one-eyed. “Take care of me?” she asked.

  “I will.”

  “Promise? Absolutely promise?” Her teeth were clenched. “If you break it you’ll die?”

  “Promise. Now take your hands away from your face and sit back. Relax your face. Don’t look at them. Don’t take off your sunglasses. Don’t even look like you’re listening to me. Don’t give them anything to photograph. They don’t exist. Do you hear me?”

  “They’re not here,” she said, putting her hands in her lap again, like a little girl about to receive communion.

  “We’re out in the middle of the desert. You don’t see anybody, you don’t hear anybody.”

  “You’re sure you haven’t got any pills.”

  “Completely sure.” I looked up and saw Eduardo and three of Trey’s black-suited threateners shoving their way toward us, literally picking people up, moving them, and putting them down elsewhere. They were almost to the car. I signaled them over to the driver’s side.

  “Slide over here,” I said to Thistle. “These guys are going to bull their way through this, with us behind. You get out with me and stay right next to me. Tight, okay? I’m going to have my arm around you all the way. Don’t look down, like you’re hiding your face. Don’t look at them. Don’t say anything, don’t react, no matter what they say. Just walk with me, head up, face front, with the shades on. Got it?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I’m not sure I can-”

  “You can. We can. Come on, I’m a cave man. I can get you through this bunch of city softies. Look at them. They wouldn’t even know how to go to the bathroom outdoors. They’d wipe themselves on poison oak. They’re afraid of bugs. We’ll cut through them like butter.”

  “Like b-butter,” she said, stammering slightly. Her lower lip was trembling, and I saw that the hands in her lap were knotted.

  “Good. Come on, get over here.”

  She slid across the seat, lifting her legs for the console, until she was sitting thigh to thigh with me. The woman with the orange face was fighting her way around the front of the car, her eyes fierce and her teeth bared, as big and white as Chiclets. She was following her cameraman, who was swinging his expensive camera to clear a path.

  Eduardo was at the door. He looked at me, eyebrows raised. I held up one finger.

  “This is it,” I said to Thistle. “You and me, okay?”

  “Okay.” She grabbed a breath and gave me something that was trying to be a smile. “Okay.”

  “Here we go.” I nodded at Eduardo and opened the door. The crowd surged forward, but Eduardo and the other three guys formed a semicircle and pushed everyone back so I could get the door all the way open. There was an explosion of noise and a barrage of flashes. Thistle and I slid off the seat and into a standing position beside the car, and Eduardo’s crew started forcing their way through the throng with us practically hanging onto their belts. I had an arm around Thistle’s shoulder, and she was clutching my shirt with both hands.

  “Over here, Thistle!”

  “Thistle, give me a smile.”

  “What about the drugs, Thistle?”

  “Is it true you’re broke?”

  “Thistle, look, I’ve got some dope.”

  “Over here. God damn you, look over here.”

  “Thistle-what about your mom? You talking to your mom yet?”

  And then there was a blast of light to my right, and I saw the sun gun on top of the Entertainment World News camera, and the orange-faced woman pushed her way in with a concerned expression, glanced at the cameraman to make sure she was in the shot, leaned forward, and said, “Thistle. How do you feel about doing porno?”

  Thistle shuddered against me and said, “Aaaahhhhh,” more a breath out than a word, and for a moment I thought she’d go limp. The woman worked her way closer and began to ask her question again, and I reached over Thistle, palm open, put my hand on the woman’s face, and shoved. She went straight back and then down, her cameraman backing up to follow her trajectory to the pavement. I said, “No comment.” There was another burst of flashbulbs, mostly aimed at the reporter on the asphalt, and we plowed on through the crowd. At some point, Doc fought his way over to us. “How’s she doing?” he asked me.

  “Ask her.”

  “Thistle. How are you?”

  “Like a knife through butter.” She was pale, and her face shone with sweat, but her voice was steady. “But when we get inside,” she said, “you’re going to give me something.”

  We made it through the gate, which slid closed behind us to shut out the horde, and Eduardo and the thugs led us to a door. One of them opened it and we went in, into a dark space, and then lights snapped on and something bright flew toward our faces, and Thistle screamed again and grabbed me. Then the bright mass broke apart into thousands of flower petals that fell around us, covering the floor at our feet.

  23

  My burglar

  “Ms. Annunziato wants you,” Eduardo said.

  “That’s very flattering, but not now.” I’d hustled Thistle into a makeup chair and grabbed her a cup of water. Tatiana and the makeup people had been huddled around the chair, waiting to soothe Thistle, but Doc had shooed them all out and now stood with his back to us, a needle inserted into an ampule.

  Pale in the lights surrounding the makeup mirrors, Thistle watched his movements, her mouth slightly open. She’d been shaking, but the sight of Doc at work seemed to calm her.

  “Now,” Eduardo said.

  “Go away. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

  “Young man,” Doc said over his shoulder. “As this young woman’s physician, my medical opinion is that you should beat it. And Ms. Annunziato pays me big bucks for my expertise. Scram. Mosey along. There’s the door.”

  “She’s not going to like this,” Eduardo said, but he turned to the door.

  “It’s good for her,” I said. “It builds character.” Eduardo closed the door somewhat loudly behind him.

  “A well-bred slam,” Doc said.

  “Come on,” Thistle said. “My skin feels raw.”

  “This one is on the light side,” Doc said, the needle vertical as he pushed out the last of the air. “After a few minutes, you’re going to get over the rush of that pack of wolves out there, and you’ll realize you’re still high from the first one. This is just a little booster.”

  “What about the down button?”

  “Percocet. Only one.”

  I said, “You were great.”

  Thistle rolled up the sleeve of her T-shirt. “You got me through it.”

  Doc swabbed her arm and injected her, the process reflected in four makeup mirrors simultaneously. Thistle watched herself as though the person in the mirrors was a complete stranger. I wished she wasn’t wearing the dark glasses. I wanted to see her eyes. But then her chin dropped an inch or two, and she loo
ked down at her lap. She dragged in a deep breath and blew it out.

  “Listen,” I said, “I’m sorry about that woman-”

  She brought the head up as though she was startled, but then she began to laugh. “You really did it, you know? World headlines. I might have been the third or fourth story of the night, but you decking Miss Entertainment World while I’m right next to you, that’s going to be the lead everywhere. We’ll be on the fucking BBC.” She laughed again, pitched a little too high, and took off the sunglasses and wiped her eyes. “Just walk, you tell me. Don’t descend to their level. Don’t give them anything. Show them some class.” She laughed again. “And then you paste that horrible bitch in front of every camera in Los Angeles. You know what? About six o’clock tonight, you’re going to be the most famous burglar in the world.”

  “Yeah, well, I’m sorry.”

  “Are you kidding? I haven’t seen anything that funny in years. That was Buster Keaton funny. My burglar. That’s going to be the title of a chapter in my autobiography.”

  “How you feeling?” Doc said.

  “Like a cloud of gnats. I feel like you can see through me. It’s okay, kind of a new place.”

  “Good. One pill, coming up.”

  The door to the dressing room opened, and Trey Annunziato came in. Today’s suit was a teal blue that, floating on a pond, would have attracted every female duck for miles. I guessed it at twelve hundred on special, and I doubted she’d bought it on special.

  “I want you, and I want you now,” Trey said to me, and then her eyes slid past me and she smiled and said, “Hello, darling, don’t you look pretty today? So fresh and clear-eyed. Your lip is healing nicely.”

  “This is really, really class dope,” Thistle said. “And what’s the title of this movie, Thistle’s Lip?” It’s all anybody talks about.” She glanced at herself in the mirror and tugged the lip down. “While we’re at it, don’t yell at my burglar.”

  “Your-oh, you mean Mr. Bender here.”

  “He got me in here,” Thistle said. “Don’t you forget it.”