Wendy Hornsby - Telling Lies

When the rain of fire stopped, I took a sort of inventory. My right shoulder had taken the brunt of the impact. Though it throbbed, it functioned. The sleeve of my jacket was now a tattered wristlet, and bare skin showed through the knees of my jeans. I wondered about the blood running down my face, but what really bothered me was that I had no idea where I was or what had happened.

An incredible example of female beefcake vaulted the wall behind me and landed hardly rippling the muscles of her Schwarzenegger thighs. She was an Amazon goddess with LAPD 1989 WEIGHTLIFTING CHAMPS stretched across her remarkable chest. I thought I must be hallucinating. She crouched down beside me.

“You okay, ma’am?” she asked in a sweet, concerned soprano voice.

“I think so.” I could hardly hear her, but my own voice boomed in my ears.

“Think you can get up?” the Amazon asked.

“Sure,” I said, but I spoke too soon. I couldn’t find solid ground.

She took my arm and gently assisted. She was a lot to lean against.

“Sure you’re okay?” she asked again.

Being upright made me feel a little queasy, but I nodded. I was glad that she kept a grip on my arm because the ground still felt like pudding underfoot.

I managed to brush myself off. Then I looked out at the parking lot. Billowing black smoke poured into the clean air. The green Volvo was reduced to a smoking chassis at the bottom of a crater. The first row of cars in the lot were completely engulfed in flame.

And so was Uncle Max’s Beemer.

“Crackhead named Theophiluscame after me with a steak knife.” Officer Paula, the Amazon goddess, pulled up her trouser leg to show me the five-inch zipper in the skin of her muscular left calf. “He pulled out a boot gun. My partner got him, right in the ten ring. What a mess.”

I turned over my wrist to show her the faint-white half-moon gouge in the skin. “My pony, Sugar, balked at a jump and threw me into a sprinkler head. I was ten.”

We were in the emergency room of French Hospital, comparing scars. Paula was winning. She had shown me the war trophies on only one of her legs. I had nothing left to offer, except an episiotomy and the head gash Dr. Song was closing up.

“All finished.” Dr. Song made a few snips and laid his scissors and a roll of tape on the stainless steel tray Paula held for him.

“Nice job,” she said, leaning in for a close look. “You’ll have to part your hair on the other side, Mag, but the scar won’t be too noticeable, given time.”

“Good to know,” I said. “Thanks, Dr. Song.”

“You may need a little painkiller tonight,” he said. “How are you with codeine?”

“It makes me throw up.”

He pursed his lips thoughtfully. “I’ll see what I can find. Go ahead and get your things together. I’ll be right back.”

I got up from the table and tried not to look as wobbly as I felt. Paula didn’t seem so imposing when she had her muscles covered with street clothes. She was very nice, and very funny, but not what anyone would call sweet. I didn’t want to pass out on her. She had given up part of her afternoon off to bring me in for repairs. I didn’t want her to think it was effort wasted on a wuss – her word.

I went to the mirror over the doctor’s wash basin to look at my new stitches. There wasn’t much to see. The hair he hadn’t shaved off he had braided over his handiwork as a sort of home-grown bandage. The whole mess was covered with light gauze and taped down. I thanked God for giving us Novocain.

Dr. Song came back and handed me a small sealed envelope. “This is pretty mild stuff,” he said. “Take two when you get home. If your head starts to hurt after about four hours, take two more. Keep ice over the area. And don’t wash it for a couple of days.”

“But it’s gross now,” I protested.

“Sorry. The end of next week, have your own doctor look at it.” He held my arm and walked me toward the exit. Paula followed with the remains of my jacket rolled under her arm.

Outside, Dr. Song put a tentative arm around my shoulders. “I’ve been waiting for you to come in and say hello. I’m sorry it was under these circumstances.”

“This isn’t an easy place for me to come for a social call,” I said.

“I understand,” he said. “I spoke with Stanford this morning. Emily is hanging in.”

“Did they say anything about her prospects?”

He shook his head. “I hope this officer takes good care of you, Miss MacGowen. First Emily, now you…”

I reached for my jacket from Paula. “Thanks for everything, Dr. Song. If you send the bill to Emily’s address, Mrs. Lim will forward it.”

He raised his hands. “This hospital does not bill a Duchamps.

“Good-bye,” I said.

“Dang, you rate,” Paula said as we walked toward her 4-by-4 truck. “Where can I drop you?”

“What time is it?” I asked.

She checked her watch. “Two-fifteen.”

“Do you have plans for the next hour or so?”

“Nothing special.”

“You saw what happened to my car. I have no wheels. I really want to pay a quick visit to an old friend in Holmby Hills. She won’t come to the phone. Can I talk you into driving me?”

“After what just happened, you want to go see a friend? If you want to go visiting, let’s drop in on the coroner and see if he’s IDed the driver of the Volvo yet.”

“I’d rather go to Holmby Hills.”

“Must be some pretty good friend,” Paula said, sounding a lot like Mike. “Who is it?”

“Mrs. T. Rexford Smith.”

“Oh yeah?” Her expression told me I had just found a driver. “She’s some bitch.”

“Do you know her?”

“Just stories.” We had reached her shiny red truck.

“I have a few stories of my own,” I said. “You go first.”

Paula’s little truck was as cute as it could be, the ultimate in road toys. Sensaround CD, Posturepedic seats, tinted glass, whatever. It was still a truck. I felt every pothole like a knife through my head. Paula was a fearless driver and a great storyteller.

“Swear to God?” I said, as Paula came to the end of a long, lurid tale about Celeste.

“My partner rolled on the call,” she said. I trust it. This guy, the banker, had sucked his revolver. Brains everywhere. My partner read the note he left. The banker said he couldn’t take the pressure anymore. He’d covered some of Mr. Smith’s dirty dealings in exchange for a weekly blow job from Mrs. Smith. They’d got him into a deep hole, and when he asked them for a hand up, they threw him in a shovel. Symbolic end for the guy, don’t you think, his gun in his mouth?”

“Was this story in the papers?”

“Not the part about Mrs. Smith. I’ve heard other stories, how she invited a rookie cop up to the mansion and screwed her way out of a DUI rap, and how she got drug charges against her daughter dropped after an hour in private consultation in judge’s chambers.”

“You’re making this up,” I said.

“I’m not making it up. It’s what I heard. She’s a slut. A rich and powerful slut.”

The mansions of Holmby Hills may not be as showy as those in Bel-Air or Brentwood, but the wealth is there. The difference is old money versus Hollywood.

The Smith house was nice. About the size of a small European hotel. Vines clung to the faux stone facade. In the gathering afternoon, tiny white Christmas lights outlined the bow-front windows and the hipped roof and twined among the shrubs that lined the circular drive. The effect was antique doll house.

Paula pulled her truck into the porte cochere, and we walked around to the front.

“She’s expecting you?” Paula asked.