Coldheart Canyon (20 page)

When she was thinking clearly, she knew all this was romantic nonsense. She was a plain woman; and, even though she’d shed thirty-two pounds in the last two years, was still thirty overweight. How could she hope to compare with the glossy beauties Todd had romanced, both on screen and off ? Still she allowed herself the indulgence, once in a while. It made life in Sacramento a little more bearable to know that her secret glimpses of Todd were always there, hidden away, waiting for her. And best of all, nobody else had them. They were hers and hers alone.

There was one other wonderful thing about the fourteen pictures: they had been snapped in such quick succession that if she leafed through them fast enough she could almost create the illusion of movement. She did that now, while she thought about the way Maxine had talked to her on the phone. That nonsense about Todd going away to write his life-story, or whatever she’d said it was going to be; it didn’t ring true. It simply wasn’t like Todd to be so inaccessible. Every vacation he’d taken—in India, in New Guinea, in the Amazon, for God’s sake—he’d been spotted.

Somebody had had a camera, and he’d posed; smiled, waved, goofed around. It just wasn’t like him to disappear like this.

But what could she do about it? She wasn’t going to get any answers out of anybody close to Todd: they’d all trot out the same story. She’d already exhausted her contacts at the studios, all of whom claimed not to have seen Todd in a while. Even over at Paramount, where he was supposedly making his next picture, nobody had seen him in many months.

Nor, according to her most reliable source over there, the secretary to Sherry Lansing’s assistant, were there any meetings on the books, with CC[001-347] 9/10/01 2:26 PM Page 146

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either Todd or any of his production team. It was all very strange, and it made Tammy afraid for her man. Suppose they were covering something up? Suppose there’d been an accident, or an assault, and Todd had been hurt? Suppose he was in a hospital bed somewhere on life-support, his life slipping away, while all the sonsofbitches who’d made fortunes off his talent were lying to themselves and anyone who’d listen, pretending it was going to be okay? Things like that happened all the time; especially in Hollywood. Everyone lied there; it was a way of life.

Her thoughts circled on these terrible images for an hour or more, while she sat among her treasures. At last, she came to a momentous decision. She could do nothing to solve this mystery sitting here in Sacramento. She needed to go out to Los Angeles, and confront some of these people. It was easy to tell somebody a lie on the telephone. It was harder to do when you were face-to-face with someone; when you were looking into their eyes.

She took one last look through the sequence of photographs, lingering on the last of the fourteen, the one in which Todd’s gaze was closest to making contact with the camera. Another shot, and he would have been looking directly at her. Their eyes, as it were, would have met. She smiled at him, kissed his picture, then put the photographs away, tucked the box out of sight and went through to the kitchen to call Arnie at the airport, and tell him what she planned to do. He was in the middle of his shift, and couldn’t come to the phone. She left a message for him to call her; then she made a reservation on Southwest for the flight to Los Angeles, and booked a room in a little hotel on Wilshire Boulevard, which she’d stayed in once before when she’d come into LA for a Todd Pickett convention.

The flight was scheduled for 3:10 that afternoon, and was to get into Los Angeles at 4:15, but the departure was delayed for almost two hours, and then they circled over LAX for almost three quarters of an hour before they could land, so it wasn’t until half-past seven that she stepped out of the airport into the warm, sweet-smog air of her beloved’s city.

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brooding. She was closer to him, here, whatever Maxine Frizelle had said about him being off in some faraway place. That was a lie; Tammy knew it in her bones.
He was here
. And if he was in any trouble, then by God she would do her best to help him, because whatever anybody might say she knew one thing for certain: there wasn’t a soul on earth who cared for the well-being of Todd Pickett more than she. And somewhere, tucked away in a shameful corner of her head, she almost hoped that there was some conspiracy here; because that would give her a chance to come to his rescue; to save him from people like Frizelle, and make him understand who really cared about him. Oh, wouldn’t that be something! She didn’t dare think about it too much; it made her sick with guilt and anticipation. She shouldn’t be wishing anything but the best for her Todd. And yet the same thought kept creeping back: that somewhere in this city he was waiting for her—even if he didn’t know it yet; waiting to be saved and comforted.

Yes, she dared think it: perhaps even loved.

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Todd and Marco had settled into life at the Hideaway in the Canyon quite easily. Todd occupied the enormous master bedroom which had (as Maxine had boasted) an extraordinary view down the Canyon. On clear days, of which there were many in that early March, Todd could sit at his window and watch the ocean, glittering beyond the towers of Century City. On exceptional days, he could even make out the misty shape of Catalina Island.

Marco had taken a much smaller bedroom on the floor below, with an adjacent sitting room, and did much as he had in the Bel Air home: that is, served with uncanny prescience the needs of his boss, and having provided such services as were required, then retreated into near-invisibility.

The area was much quieter than Bel Air. There seemed to be no through traffic on the single road that wound up through the Canyon, so apart from the occasional sound of a police helicopter passing over, or a siren drifting up from Sunset, Todd heard nothing from the city that lay such a short distance below. What he did hear, at night, were coyotes, who seemed to haunt the slopes of the Canyon in significant numbers. On some nights, standing on one of the many balconies of his new mansion nursing a drink and a cigarette, he would hear a lone animal begin its urgent yapping on the opposite slope of the Canyon, only to hear its call answered from another spot, then another, the din rising into a whooping chorus from the darkness all around him, so that it seemed the entire Canyon was alive with them. They’d had coyotes up in Bel Air too, of course. Their proximity to the house would always send Dempsey into a CC[001-347] 9/10/01 2:26 PM Page 149

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frenzy of deep-chest barking, as though to announce that the dog of the house was much larger than he was, in reality.

“I’m surprised we’ve got so many coyotes up here,” Marco said, after one particularly noisy night. “You’d think they’d go somewhere with a lot more garbage. I mean, they’re scavengers, right?”

“Maybe they like it here,” Todd observed.

“Yeah, I guess.”

“There’s no people to fuck with them.”

“Except us.”

“We won’t be here long,” Todd said.

“You don’t sound too happy about that.”

“Well I guess I could get used to it here.”

“Have you been up on the ridge yet?”

“No. I haven’t had the energy.”

“You should go up there. Take a look. There’s quite a view.”

The exchange, brief as it was, put the thought of a trip up the hill into Todd’s head. He needed to start exercising again, as Maxine had pointed out, or he was going to find that his face was all nicely healed up and his body had gone to fat. He didn’t believe for a minute that his face was anywhere near being healed, but he took her point. He was drinking too much and eating too many Elvis Midnight Specials (peanut butter, jelly, crispy bacon and sliced banana on Wonder Bread sandwiches, deep fried in butter) for the good of his waistline. His pants were feeling tight, and his ass—when he glimpsed it in the mirror—was looking fleshy.

In a while he’d have to get back to some serious training: start running every morning; maybe have his gym equipment brought over from the Bel Air house and installed in the guest-house. But in the meantime he’d ease back into the swing of things with a few exploratory walks: one of which, he promised himself, would be up to the top of the hill, to see what the view was like when you got to the end of the road.

Burrows and Nurse Karyn came every other day to change the dressings and assess the condition of his face. Though Burrows claimed that the CC[001-347] 9/10/01 2:26 PM Page 150

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healing process was going well, his manner remained subdued and cautious: it was clear that the whole sorry business had taken a toll upon his confidence. His sun-bed tan could not conceal a certain sickliness in his pallor; and the skin around his eyes and mouth, taut from a series of tucks and tightenings, had an unnatural rigidity to it, like a teak mask under which another, more fragile, man was trapped. Superficially, he remained unfailingly optimistic about Todd’s prognosis; he was certain there would be no permanent scarring. Indeed he was even willing to chance the opinion that things were going to work out “as planned,” and that Todd was going to emerge from the whole experience looking ten years younger.

“So how long is it going to be before I can take off the bandages?”

“Another week, I’d say.”

“And after that . . . how long before I’m back to normal again?”

“I don’t want to make any promises,” Burrows said, “but inside a month. Is there some great urgency here?”

“Yeah, I want people to see me. I want them to know I’m not
dead
.”

“Surely nobody believes
that
,” Burrows said.

Todd summoned Marco. “Where are those tabloids you brought in?”

he asked. “The doctor’s not been reading the trash in his waiting-room recently.”

Marco left the room and reappeared with five magazines, dropping them on the table beside Burrows. The top one had a blurred, black-and-white photograph of a burial procession, obviously taken with an extremely long-distance lens. The headline read:
Superstar Todd Pickett
Buried in Secret Ceremony
. The magazine beneath had an unsmiling picture of Todd’s ex-girlfriend, Wilhemina Bosch, and announced, as though from her grieving lips: “
I never even had a chance to tell him good-bye.
” And underneath, a third magazine boasted that it contained
Todd Pickett’s Last
Words! “I saw Christ standing at his death-bed, claims nurse.
” Burrows didn’t bother with the others.

“Who starts bullshit like this?”

“You tell me,” Todd replied.

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“I hope you’re not implying that it was somebody in my surgery, because I
assure
you we’ve been vigorous—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” Todd said. “You’re not responsible for anything. I know. See? I
finally
got smart. I read the small print.”

“Frankly, I don’t see where your problem lies. All you’d have to do is make one call, tell them who you are, and the rumors would be laid to rest.”

“And what would he say?” Marco asked.

“It’s obvious. He’d say: I’m Todd Pickett and I’m alive and well, thank you very much.”

“And
then what
?” Todd said. “When they want to come to take a photograph to confirm that everything’s fine? Or they want an interview, face-to-face. Face. To. Face. With
this
?”

His face was presently unbandaged. He stood up and went to the mirror. “I look like I went ten rounds with a heavyweight.”

“I can only assure you that the swelling is definitely going down. It’s just going to take time. And the quality of the new epidermis is first-rate.

I believe you’re going to be
very
pleased at the end of everything.”

Todd said nothing for a moment. Then, with a kind of simple sincerity he’d seldom—if ever—achieved in front of a camera, he turned and said to Burrows: “You know what I wish?” Burrows shook his head. “I wish I’d never laid eyes on you, you dickhead.”

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N I N E

Tammy knew only a very few people in Los Angeles, all of them members of the Appreciation Society, but she decided not to alert anybody to the fact that she’d come into town. They’d all want to help her with her investigations, and this was something she preferred to do alone, at least at the outset.

She checked herself into the little hotel on Wilshire Boulevard, within a few hundred yards of the Westwood Memorial Park, where a host of stars and almost-stars were buried or interred. She’d made her rounds of the famous who rested there on her last visit. Donna Reed and Natalie Wood were among them, so was Darryl F. Zanuck and Oscar Levant. But the Park’s real claim to fame—the presence that brought sightseers from all over the world—was Marilyn Monroe, who was laid to rest in a bland concrete crypt distinguished only by the number of floral tributes it attracted. The crypt beside it was still empty, kept—so it was said—for the mortal remains of Hugh Hefner.

Tammy had not much enjoyed her visit to the Park. In fact it had depressed her a little. She certainly had no intention of going back this time. It was the living she was concerned with on this visit, not the dead.

When she was settled in she called Arnie, gave him her room number in case of emergency, and told him she’d be back in a couple of days at most. She heard him pop a can of beer while she was talking—not, to judge by his slightly slurred speech, his first of the night. He’d be fine without her, she thought. Probably happier.

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She ordered up some room-service food, and then sat plotting how she’d proceed the next day. Her first line of inquiry would be the most direct: she’d go up to Todd’s home in Bel Air and try to find out whether or not he was there. His address was no secret. In fact she had pictures of every room in the house, including the en suite bathroom with the sunken tub, taken by the realtor when the house was still on the market, though of course it had been remodeled since and its layout had probably changed. She knew that her chances of even getting to the front door—much less of seeing him—were remote. But it would be foolish of her not to try. Maybe she’d catch him going out for a jog, or spot him standing at a window. Then all her concerns would be laid to rest and she would be able to go back to Sacramento happy, knowing that he was alive and well.