Timothy Hallinan - Crashed

“None,” I said, “but that’s probably because I’m not the pool guy. Do you know where Thistle is?”

Luella Downing said, “Ahhhh, shit.” She pushed her chair back to look at me better. “She’s disappeared, right? What day of the week is it?”

“Tuesday,” said Thistle’s fictional father.

“I’m asking him,” Luella Downing said.

“Tuesday,” I said.

“Then she’s on schedule. She usually disappears for the first time every week on Tuesday. She’s busy on Monday, getting loaded enough not to be able to find her way home. She’ll wander in on Thursday and disappear again on Friday.”

“This is different,” I said.

“They’re all different,” Luella Downing said. “Every single one is a unique little human tragedy. You’re what? The latest masked man to ride down from the hills to try to rescue her, right? Well, let me give you some advice, masked man. Put that horse in reverse and leave her wherever the hell she is. Edith is like trouble in a concentrate, you know? Add a few drops to some water, you got gallons of it.”

“Edith?” I said.

“That’s her name. Edith. That’s the name me and her father gave her. I never heard the name Thistle until she tried out for that show. ‘What’s your name, sweetie?’ the casting guy said, and Edith said, ‘Thistle.’ Didn’t even look at me. What was I supposed to do, contradict her? Anyway, it’s her name, right? If she wants to call herself Clyde, she’s Clyde.”

“So you don’t know where she is.”

“What’s the current hot dope street in Hollywood? That’s where she is. Has to be cut-rate, though. She’s run through the money pretty good.”

“I notice you haven’t,” I said, just because she made me feel nasty.

“Honey, I earned every nickel of it. I know you probably think she’s the poster girl for victims everywhere, but let me tell you, she’s a fucking nightmare, and she’s been like that since she was thirteen. If it wasn’t for me, there wouldn’t have been a show. Who do you think got her out of the house every morning and onto the set? Who went and found her every time they needed her and dragged her out of her trailer? Who had to watch her go through a quarter-ounce of cocaine at lunch and then get her into some sort of shape to work for the afternoon?”

“When she could,” said her TV dad.

“Yeah, when she could. When she could still stand up, when she could hit her marks, when she could find the light, when she could say her lines, when she could remember not to look at the camera, when she didn’t decide to fuck up the take just for the fun of it, when she-”

“When she could keep everybody employed,” I said. “When she could lay the golden eggs for you to scramble.”

“Without me-” Luella Downing began.

“Got it,” I said. “You were the hero. And basically, you don’t give a shit.”

Luella Downing tapped her cigarette into an ashtray, amputating an inch of ash. “That’s about right,” she said. “If I got upset every time she decided to disappear-”

“It would wreck your card game,” I said. I turned to go. “By the way, Thistle’s pop there has a pair of aces in the hole. But what do you care? It’s Thistle’s money.”

A second after I slammed the door, hard enough to shake the frame, I heard glass break, and then I heard some more. The gold-veined glass squares, I figured, hitting the floor and taking all that grandeur with them.

Hidden Valley is tucked away in the mountains between LA and Van Nuys, reached by an anonymous-looking road that drops suddenly and steeply off of Coldwater Canyon. Once you’re down, you find yourself in a grassy expanse of eight million-dollar ranch-style houses, each on an acre or so of what I suppose the residents think of as ranch. Here and there you see a stable, nicer than lots of houses in the Valley, with horses looking over the doors of the stalls with that serious, dreamy expression that horses always wear.

I pulled into the driveway of Lissa Wellman’s house just as a silvery Lexus SUV started to back out. The woman driving it stopped, leaned out of the window, and looked back at me. Her hair in the sunlight was a rich coppery color found nowhere in nature, and bright enough to make me wince.

I got out and walked up to the driver’s door. The woman at the wheel wore big sunglasses that emphasized bold cheekbones and a jaw that was surprisingly square in a face so feminine. She was wearing the kind of makeup that was designed for the old Technicolor process-vivid, expert, and none too subtle.

“Oh, dear,” she said. “Are you going to rob me?”

“Not today, Miss Wellman. I need to talk to you about Thistle.”

“I don’t talk to the press,” she said. “Especially not about Thistle.”

“I’m a friend of hers. She’s disappeared.”

She shook her head slowly. “Oh, my. Still, that’s more or less the story, isn’t it? She’s been trying to disappear for years.”

“Well, there’s some question, in my mind at least, as to whether she disappeared on her own this time, or whether it was someone else’s idea.”

Lissa Wellman let out a sigh. “I hate to hear that, but I haven’t seen her.”

“I didn’t think you had. I’m just hoping for information. Something that might tell me where to look.”

She glanced in her rear-view mirror. “Move your car so I can get out, and come with me,” she said. “I’m on my way to see Henry.” She put the car back into reverse and said, “But we can talk in front of Henry with no problem. Henry’s dead.”

“My husband,” Lissa Wellman said, carefully negotiating a curve. She drove as though a fortune-teller had warned her about the day. “Nicest man I ever knew. Not necessarily the most exciting or the most amusing-actually, Paul Lynde was probably the most amusing-but Henry was nice all the way to his bone marrow. Niceness goes a long way.”

“It’s got staying power, too,” I said.

“You know something about it, don’t you? I’m afraid that puts you in the minority. It seems to me to be getting rarer and rarer. We value other things now. Intelligence, I guess, or wit, or the ability to stay half an hour ahead of what everyone else is thinking or doing. Or even wearing. But I’ll take niceness. I grew up in a small town in Kentucky. In a small town, it’s important to be nice because you see the same people every day. In LA, you can be all kinds of awful because people generally only go by once. I read somewhere that the act that tells you most about someone is how they look at themselves in a mirror, but I’d say it’s how nice they are to someone they know they’ll never see again.”

“How long were you and Henry married?”

“We’re still married. Just because he’s dead doesn’t mean we’re not married. But we were married in the flesh, so to speak, for thirty-three years.”

“What did he do?”

“Nothing much. Oh, he worked when I was getting started. Sold real estate. But then I began to make some money, and he decided to take care of me. He took what I made and invested it in property and built it all into a very tidy little empire, which he called LissaLand. Apartment houses and regular houses and acreage up north, some kind of shopping mall, and, oh, I don’t know, all sorts of places I never even saw. But they all brought in money every month. And a week after he died, I sold all of it, every square foot. I didn’t want to be a landlord, have all those people’s lives in my hands.” She turned on the indicator for a left. “So here I am, old, previously famous, and rich.”

“Not all that old,” I said.

“Keep it up, dear,” she said. “You’re doing very well for someone who’s not in show business.” The left led us up a gentle hill, and then under an archway, heavy with climbing roses, that said ROSEHAVEN on a large metal plaque.