Born To Be Wild

THREE

The first soap: In 1930, Chicago radio station WGN started a fifteen-minute daily serialized drama set in the home of an Irish American widow and her young unmarried daughter.

UCLA Medical Clinic in Santa Monica

Mary Lisa sat on the edge of the stainless steel gurney, her sneakered feet dangling. She felt wonderfully loopy. She wiggled her hip. No pain, not a single zing. Drugs were magic. She started singing Lennon and McCartney’s “Yesterday.” It didn’t alarm her that she seemed to be watching herself from about three feet away, marveling at how silly she looked and how sweet her voice sounded, even though she wasn’t in the shower. She lifted the hideous open-backed blue paper sackcloth and gingerly eased down her panties to look at the continent of bruises spreading on her hip. A little bit like Australia, she decided. Perhaps by evening, at the rate it was growing, she’d be a billboard for India. She knew, objectively, that the bruise was going to make her whimper once the drugs wore off, but for now, she fancied the fast-spreading green splotches were mountains. Maybe there would be a yellow blob right in the middle for Ayers Rock.

At least she hadn’t needed stitches anywhere. But she could see the directors’ eyes rolling back in their heads when they saw the scrapes and bruises on her arms and neck. Because of the grinding schedule, there were four directors now on Born to Be Wild, each responsible for one or more hour of airtime a week. Mavis in wardrobe, who loved to turn Sunday out with lots of skin showing, wouldn’t be happy either. She studied the half dozen Band-Aids dotted here and there, and thought them very nicely designed.

Strange that they’d left her alone all of a sudden. They were probably waiting for the pain meds to kick in so they wouldn’t have to hear her whine. She hadn’t really whined much, she’d been pretty stoic, truth be told, only whimpered a bit.

She eased her panties back up and pulled the crinkly paper gown over her as best she could, not that she really cared. She threw back her head to finish giving her all to “Yesterday.” When she was four years old, she hadn’t understood it very well, but she’d had a great little memory.

A man stuck his head through the curtain, not a doctor, but a lovely slender man in a light sports coat and tan slacks. He was in his early thirties, black haired, with soft brown eyes that nonetheless looked quite shrewd. At the moment he also looked amused as he stood there politely, evidently waiting for her to finish the song. She grinned at him, cocked her head, and asked, “And you would be…?”

He stuck out his hand, gently took hers. “Hello, Ms. Beverly. I’m Detective Vasquez of the Lost Hills Station in Calabasas. We handle any problems in Malibu. Let me say that I like how you sing that song, as do most of the people in the waiting room. In fact there was a bit of a singalong happening. Sounds like you’re a happy camper.”

“Ain’t drugs great? And they’re legal so you can’t arrest me. Do you know what? I really like police officers.” She realized she was still holding his hand. She didn’t want to let go because his hand was big and warm. When he finally managed to get his hand back, he lightly patted her on the shoulder. “Hey, Deputy Lindstrom said you played kissyface with a car.”

“More like kissy-hip,” Mary Lisa said and touched her fingertips to her side. “I’m growing a bruise the size of a continent, Australia, most likely. It’s got mountains and valleys. Do you think it’d be okay if purple represented rivers?”

“Why not?” He stared at her, his eyes crinkling in amusement again, but his voice was quite serious. “The doctors say you were very lucky, that you’re not really hurt.” He smiled, showing white teeth and kindness. “You’re an actress, right?”

She nodded. “Much of the time, yeah.”

“There’s a photographer out there, a skinny guy with sharp eyes who made me as a cop. I got rid of him, but he’s probably a lurker. You know him?”

“His name’s Puker Hodges and you described him perfectly. He’s good at what he does. He can disappear behind a dead bush when he wants to. I saw him in Malibu today before that car hit me. The jerk snapped pictures of me when they were loading me into the ambulance. He must have followed the ambulance here. I wonder how long it will be before one of them shows up on the cover of the National Enquirer.”

“If you’re recognizable, not long at all, I would imagine. Puker?”

“That’s what I call him. I think his real name is Poker. That’s weird too, isn’t it?”

Detective Vasquez pulled out a small notebook and a pen. “I hear you’re a soap star.”

She nodded. “I play Sunday Cavendish on Born to Be Wild.”

He stared at her a moment, then grinned real big and shook her hand again. “A real pleasure, ma’am. I thought you looked familiar. Born to Be Wild is the soap of choice at the sheriff ’s department. We all get a kick out of the ‘jugular’ dialogue. You get amazing reactions. You’re everyone’s favorite.”

She sat there, sneakered feet dangling, and preened, but only for a moment. Then she gave a deep sigh. “That’s nice, thanks for telling me. Now, I don’t suppose you caught the jerk who hit me?”

“Not yet, and that’s why I’m here.”

He’d dropped his voice a half octave and he sounded dead serious again.

“Oh dear. You stopped smiling and my hip started throbbing at the same time. Bummer.”

Nurse Blenkens whisked back the flimsy curtain at the edge of the alcove and stopped short when she saw the man. “You must be the police officer, right?”

“Detective Vasquez, ma’am.”

Nurse Blenkens said, “You’ll have to leave for a moment. You can speak to her once I’ve helped her get dressed.” She pointed unceremoniously toward the hallway and started untying Mary Lisa’s gown.

“Sure thing. I’ll be outside in the waiting room, Ms. Beverly.” Bless her cop, he pulled the curtain closed on his way out.

When Mary Lisa was back in her clothes, Nurse Blenkens said, “I really like that T-shirt. There’s just a little smudge on it. You’re hurting again, aren’t you? It’s all right, I only gave you enough of the doctor’s order to take the edge off, to see how you’d react to it. Since you’re not driving, I can give you another shot before you leave, if you like.”

She was soon rubbing Mary Lisa’s arm where she’d pulled out the needle. “Now, here are the pain meds I promised you. You can take one every four hours. They should keep you singing-there was an old guy with a broken leg in the waiting room singing along with you. Nice. Now remember you promised to check with your doctor on Monday. Come back if you feel ill or the pain gets worse. There’s going to be a big bruise on your hip, nothing for it except maybe some ice. The doctors all say it’s superficial. You’ll have to wait for it to fade, I’m afraid, actress or not. I’m sure all your makeup people can cover the smaller bruises on your face and shoulders. Oh, yes, would you give me your autograph? It’s for my nephew, Tommy. He’s a grotty little thirteen-year-old, but an excellent snow-boarder. Makes his parents hopeful.”

Mary Lisa signed the back of a prescription form and slowly eased off the gurney. She was beginning to feel quite fine again. She touched her fingertips to the bruise on her hip. “Thanks for everything. Do you know, about my bruise, I’m now thinking India -lots of fine and varied topography,” She shook Nurse Blenken’s hand. “Have I told you how much I love drugs?”

“And they love you too. Just stay away from that stuff you shoot between your toes.”

“The only thing I put near my toes is nail polish. Usually a nice coral.”

Nurse Blenkens nodded, but without a hint of a smile. Mary Lisa wasn’t sure she’d believed her. “No, really, it’s usually coral, but I’m leaning toward French now, same as my fingernails. What do you think?” She thrust her dirty hand toward the nurse and wiggled her fingers.

Nurse Blenkens studied her nails. “You’re going to need some repair. Now, Ms. Beverly, you go home and take to your bed until tomorrow morning, all right? Since you’ve been so nice, maybe you could sign an autograph to Dr. Murray’s wife, Marge. He was too embarrassed to ask. He said she hates Sunday and tapes all your shows.”

“Sure,” Mary Lisa said and signed the back of another prescription form. “I’m always telling the writers not to redeem Sunday too often, my alter ego and I are having too much fun.”

Ten minutes later Detective Vasquez helped Mary Lisa into his brown Crown Victoria.

“Hey, I’ve never been in a slick before. This is very cool.”

He grinned at her. “You know the idiom. I don’t know where that name came from. My old boss always called the detectives’ cars ‘plain wrapped,’ since they’re always one solid color, usually boring. Okay, I don’t see Puker Hodges.”

As he maneuvered out of the parking lot, he said, “I’m a little surprised that you weren’t surrounded by people from the studio by now, your friends, your agent, people like that, insisting on taking you home.”

“Actually you saved me from all that, and I’m really glad to be getting out of there without any press showing up. I wouldn’t call the studio people unless I was on life support. As for my agent, thankfully, he’s in Istanbul, taking a long-overdue vacation. I’ll call my friends when my brain is less squirrelly.”

“What’s his name?”

“Marvin Leftwich, with Trident Media, in L.A. ”

He nodded and turned right onto the highway. He looked into his rearview mirror, frowned.

“What’s wrong? Do you see something?”