Claire McNab: Quokka Question

Crikey, he had more confidence in me than was justified. "I've never been to university," I pointed out.

"Kylie can carry it off," said Ariana with assurance.

I shot her a look. Did she mean it? Apparently, she did, as she gave me a small, warming smile.

For the next few minutes we discussed the logistics of inserting me into UCLA as a student, Kendall & Creeling fees, and our reporting protocol for clients.

When our meeting concluded, Oscar Braithwaite got to his feet. I asked if I could get him a taxi, but he said that he was looking forward to getting out in the fresh air and would enjoy the long walk back to West Hollywood. I reckoned he'd be pushing it to find much fresh air on Sunset Boulevard, but he'd soon find that out for himself.

After we'd all ceremonially shaken hands again, Oscar retrieved a rather crumpled white envelope from the inside pocket of his suit coat. "Don't open this unless something happens to me. My sister has a copy too."

"You fear for your safety?" Ariana asked as he handed the envelope tome.

"I don't want to sound melodramatic," Oscar said in a serious low-key manner, "but Jack Yarrow is in my estimation a sociopath. He's capable of anything."

Ariana was leaving for an appointment in the Valley, so she saw Oscar Braithwaite out. I got busy at my computer, tapping in all the details of the meeting while they were fresh in my mind. It occurred to me that I hadn't found out what the question about quokkas was. I made a mental note to ask Oscar next time I saw him.

I'd just got to the pleasing point where I'd labeled a folder BRAITHWAITE, OSCAR when I heard the sharp dot! dot! dot! of someone running down the tiled hallway in high heels. It had to be Melodie, Kendall & Creeling's receptionist and aspiring actress.

She burst through the door, blond hair flying, green eyes wide. "Kylie! Come quick! That guy who was just here-he's been run down by a car on Sunset Boulevard!"

I flew out the front door and galloped down the street to the scene of the accident. An ambulance had already arrived, and a police car, lights flashing, was parked half on the footpath. The traffic was treacling by, as motorists slowed down to get a look. Even though it was still pretty early in the morning, a large mob had formed, mostly made up of tourists-I knew this from the cameras slung around their necks. Everyone was pressing forward to enjoy the show, not at all discouraged by a young cop in uniform, whose perspiring face was flushed as he tried in vain to keep order.

Pushing my way through the throng was hard work. Good thing I'm tough; otherwise, I'd have had a cracked rib from the elbows that jabbed me on the way. I made it to the front to find two blokes in white trying to get their very uncooperative patient-Oscar Braithwaite throwing a wobbly-onto a gurney. Many cameras-digital and video-were trained on the action.

"What happened?" I said to the person next to me, an ancient woman wearing a dusty cloche hat pulled down over her eyebrows. No camera, so she was not a tourist.

"Hit-and-run," she said, not taking her avid stare from the altercation in front of her. "SUV. Big'un. SOB didn't stop. They never do."

"They're shooting a movie," someone said behind me. "That's Robin Williams under all that hair."

"No! Robin Williams?" The name ran through the rapidly expanding audience like wildfire. People passing stopped until the crowd got big enough to spill onto the roadway. Indignant horns added to the clatter of a helicopter overhead.

I did my best to get to Oscar, but the young cop got in the way. "I know him," I said. "He's my client." But the cop was occupied with crowd control and didn't listen.

Struggling mightily, Oscar Braithwaite shouted, "You're not taking me to bloody hospital! It's too bloody expensive!"

Many in the crowd murmured in agreement. "Health care in this country is capitalism gone mad, raping the working man," declared one scruffy bloke.

"And woman," snapped an angular sheila in bright pink pants. "You men always forget the women."

Someone clapped. That got a laugh.

"Let me go!" Oscar managed to free himself from his would-be rescuers. "I'm not bloody hurt. Just a few bumps and scratches." He spread his arms and wiggled his fingers. "Look. Nothing’s broken."

"My kids love Robin Williams," someone said. "He's so funny. They've nearly worn out the DVD of Mrs. Doubtfire."

"His last picture bombed. Box office poison."

"That's not Robin Williams," declared someone else. "It's Jim Carrey."

That got a reaction. Cameras clicked anew; people surged forward; the cop, overwhelmed, headed for his patrol car, no doubt to call for backup.

"Jim! Jim! Look this way!" shouted a fan.

"I love Jim Carrey," remarked someone else. "He's so funny!"

"Can't do serious, though. His last serious picture bombed."

A spherical woman in a purple-and-orange muumuu hustled her equally globular kid to the front of the crowd. "Go on, Donnie. Ask Mr. Carrey for his autograph."

"Don't wanna."

"Yes, you do, you little creep," she hissed.

"Don't."

Oscar snatched the book and pen from the scowling kid and scribbled something down. Triumphant, the woman peered at the page. She frowned. "Oscar who?" She glared accusingly at him. "Why are you pretending to be Jim Carrey?"

The crowd murmured, not pleased. I raised my voice to say, "He's not pretending to be anybody. He's a dinky-di Aussie just visiting Los Angeles."

"It's identity theft," someone called out. The crowd growled.

"Oscar," I said, indicating the ambulance blokes, who were standing with arms folded and looking browned off, "you'd best go with them. The crowd's turning ugly. I'll get my car and follow along and meet you at the hospital."

"Bugger that," said Oscar, truculent.

"Arrest him," demanded the muumuu mother to the cop who'd returned to the scene. "He's impersonating a film star."

"Stuff it!" Oscar clambered onto the gurney. "OK, mates, you win. Bloody take me to the bloody hospital."

There was a dangerous rumble from the crowd as the gurney bearing Oscar was shoved into the back of the ambulance. "Don't let him get away!" someone yelled.

Yerks! Time for diversionary tactics. "That's not a cop," I shouted. "It's Brad Pitt!"

Pandemonium.

Oscar Braithwaite had put on a real performance in the hospital emergency. I hadn't liked hanging around there for hours any more than he did, but there was no need for him to yell at the nurses that way. By the time he was released-he had a few scrapes and bruises, but I reckoned all that hair had acted like a buffer-I was having second thoughts about my client. He was showing all the signs of being a yobbo of the first order.

I told myself maybe I was being a bit hard on the bloke, as he'd had a pretty harrowing experience. The way Oscar told it, he'd been standing on the curb with a bunch of other people waiting for the lights to change so he could cross Sunset Boulevard, when someone had given him a tremendous shove, right between the shoulder blades. He'd been rocketed out into the traffic, bounced off a humongous SUV, narrowly missed going under the wheels of a bus, and ended up in the gutter, knocked half silly.

"Bloody-Jack-bloody-Yarrow," he snarled. "He's behind it. If he didn't try to murder me himself, he got someone to do it for him."

Attempted murder? I suggested Oscar take his suspicions to the cops quick smart. That got him shaking his shaggy head violently. No way was he getting the law involved, he said, as that would just play into Jack Yarrow's hands. Yarrow would brand him as a total ratbag, a weirdo making wild accusations.

The doctor who examined Oscar wanted to admit him to the hospital for observation overnight, but Oscar started bellowing about how he'd spoken to his sister and how she'd dipped out of a faculty meeting at UCLA just so she'd be home to look after him. "Kylie here can drive me to Pen's place as soon as you bloody let me go."