Down and Out in Beverly Heels

by Kathryn Leigh Scott

  Just as I’m wondering what in the world Doug and his wife were doing in this rundown area, I spot a sign painted on the side of a large brick building: CINEMA CITY—LIGHTS! CAMERAS! LARGE SELECTION USED/VINTAGE EQUIPMENT. Obviously Doug was down here doing more than just visiting his wife’s niece.

  At the next corner, across from another subdivision of single-family homes, a shopping strip comes into view, with a café that looks like the one Doug described.

  “Donna, pull in here, but park down a ways from that coffee shop.”

  “You got it.” The old Mercedes rocks to the left as Donna makes a sharp right into the narrow parking area and stops in front of a Laundromat. A run-down bar with a stucco-and-flagstone façade stands on the corner at the far end of the strip. A neon martini glass blinks sporadically on the weathered wall above a faded awning with the lettering: LUCK O’ LUCY. A nail salon and a pet supply, both with CLOSED signs in their windows, fill out the stand of storefronts.

  “What do you think? Should we get a cup of coffee?” Donna asks.

  “In a minute. I want to get the lay of the land first.” I swivel in my seat, my eyes fixing on a mustard-colored house on the corner across from the bar. Drapes are pulled across the front picture window. Shades are drawn on what appear to be kitchen windows. Blistered paint peels off the sagging gutters and trim. The house looks deserted, but I’m betting it’s occupied. The lawn is patchy and brown but not overgrown with weeds. No dried leaves or freebie ad circulars have piled up at the front door. The windows aren’t caked with dust, and the rusting air conditioner hanging out a side window is dripping water. Someone’s home.

  “Sure, let’s have coffee. I’m not quite ready to knock on any doors yet.” I reach into my shoulder bag for a pair of tinted eyeglasses, then tuck my hair into a cap, pulling the visor low on my forehead.

  “No mustache?”

  “This isn’t a disguise, Donna.”

  “Really.”

  “Really. I just don’t want to draw attention to myself.”

  “Works for me. Everyone’ll think you’re Madonna and leave you alone.”

  “Gimme a break, okay? If it takes Paul an extra minute or so to recognize me, it’s worth it.” I take another quick glance around before climbing out of the Mercedes. The street is empty, except for a boy on a bike. In the Laundromat, a Latina and her toddler look up as we pass by on our way to the coffee shop.

  The Eat ’n’ Run is everything you could ask of a neighborhood café. The air is heavy with the smoky smells of bacon and grilled onions. Well-worn red vinyl-covered stools ring the counter, with chipped chrome tables and chairs set against steamy walls. A plastic dome covers a platter of breakfast pastry. Slices of pie and cake glisten on plates inside a glass cabinet. It’s Dougie’s sort of place. I’m sure he and his wife stop here every time they’re in the vicinity.

  A scrawny waitress, who clearly doesn’t sample the carbs on display, looks up as we enter. “Sit wherever,” she says, her voice a dry bark. She pushes aside her newspaper and reaches for the Silex pot. “Coffee?”

  “Two—make mine decaf,” Donna says. “Thanks.” She slides into a chair at a table in the front window. I drop my shoulder bag on the other chair, realizing this must be the same table Dougie and his wife occupied.

  “Just coffee. Nothing else for me, thanks. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  I head toward the rear of the café. Following the signs, I locate the black-and-white tiled ladies’ room with its grimy chrome fixtures and cracked mirror. I wash my hands, then rub my cold, damp fingers across my taut neck muscles. The tension is only partly due to Donna’s diabolical driving.

  I glance at my image in the mirror, my face pale in the fluorescent light. My eyes are bright with the fever of too many adrenaline rushes on the road and too little sleep last night. This is the face Paul would see if I were to open the door right now and just happened to bump into him outside the men’s room… What if?

  I shake my head, smiling at the thought. What if Paul, the man who chartered helicopters and rode in limousines, was actually holed up in the teardown across the street and took his meals in this greasy spoon? The notion takes hold, no longer seeming preposterous. On impulse, I yank the ladies’ room door open, half-expecting to see Paul looming before me in the cramped entryway.

  Instead, I come face-to-face with startled kitchen help, a thickset, bearded Latino wearing a white apron and baseball cap. He turns abruptly and slips back through the swinging kitchen door.

  I lean against a bulletin board tacked to the wall, surprised to feel so let down. My eyes travel through the hodgepodge of ads and leaflets: MOTORCYCLE FOR SALE. ROOM FOR LET. KARAOKE NITE AT LUCK O’ LUCY. SPORTFISHING RENTALS. BABYSITTING “ALL HOURS”—with a telephone number printed on a fringe of pull-off tabs. FURNITURE MOVING—“CHEAP, FRIENDLY SERVICE.” LOST DOG. What did I hope to find down here? I glance back into the restaurant and see Donna peering anxiously for me.

  By the time I return to the table, the waitress has already poured Donna a refill. “What happened to you? Your coffee’s cold by now. You want a fresh cup?”

  I glance at the waitress, hand on hip. She clearly has no intention of making such an offer. “I’m fine.”

  “No sign of anyone over there,” Donna whispers, nodding in the direction of the house on the corner. She reaches for the straps of her handbag and brushes past me. “Okay, back in a jiffy.”

  I stare at the house across the street, hoping someone will open the front door or pull the blinds open. It’s hard to imagine Paul stepping onto the cracked sidewalk wearing one of his custom-tailored suits and French-cuff shirts. Would he see me in the café window? Ridiculous! Get it together. I pull my cap farther down on my forehead.

  The waitress clears her throat. “You waitin’ for someone?”

  “No, that’ll be all.”

  She nods gloomily and pulls her check pad from her waistband. I glance at the nameplate on her breast pocket and flash her a suck-up smile. “Jeri, I’m kind of sorry we’re not stopping for lunch. A friend said the food’s really good.”

  “Yeah?” The waitress looks around as though searching for the idiot who could have made such a claim. She shrugs, her eyes resting on the lone diner, an elderly man sitting at the far end of the counter. “We don’t get much of a crowd on Sundays, but it’s pretty lively during the week.”

  “Regulars, I’ll bet. Neighborhood people.”

  “Some. Why?” She sniffs and shifts her gaze out the window. “It must be Lucinda over there you’ve been talking to. Your friend kept looking across the street. You know Lucy?”

  “You mean the corner house? Actually, I think she’s a friend of someone I know. She’s in here a lot?”

  “You kidding me?” The waitress shifts her weight and hooks her hand on her hip bone. “Sorry, thought you knew her.”

  “Not really, but I was going to look her up because of my friend. I hate to barge in on her, but I don’t have a phone number. You think she’s home today?”

  “See for yourself.” She nods toward the window. I look across the street. A tall woman with yellow hair, the same hot-dog-mustard color as the house, is locking the front door. “Lucy gets all her meals here. She’s not much for cooking, I guess. ’Scuse me, I gotta get her lunch all packed up.”

  I stare at the woman with the yellow hair and try to imagine what connection she could possibly have to Paul. Dangling a cigarette between her fingers, she adjusts oversized sunglasses on her face without setting her hair ablaze. Somehow, even in high-heeled sandals, she manages to speed-walk across the scraggly lawn. Busty and broad-shouldered, she’s wearing what looks like a stretchy velour top, studded with beads that glint in the sun, over a minuscule leather skirt. Her legs, long and bare, are showgirl-shapely.

  And she knows it. Before stepping off the curb, she lifts her foot in a ballet turnout and places it on the pavement as though strutting onto a catwalk. She pauses, takes another long drag on her cigaret
te, then sprints across the street. At a guess, I’d peg her age in the mid-forties range.

  I lose sight of her for a moment, and crane my head against the plate glass. Suddenly she pulls up in front of the restaurant window and stares straight at me, her gold earrings winking in the sunlight. I freeze, cursing my luck. She pulls her sunglasses down her nose with her right index finger. Her lips curl into a smile. She takes another drag on her cigarette, drops it on the sidewalk, and grinds it out with a flourish of her foot. She glances at me once again and continues on.

  My eyes flick back to the house on the corner. She locked the door, which means no one else is home. Paul is not there. I take a deep breath when I hear the door of the restaurant whoosh open behind me.

  “You!” the woman says in a girly voice somewhere behind me. I turn slightly, but she’s already reached my table. “You. How do I know you?” She whips her sunglasses off and smiles, as though all will now be revealed.

  “I have no idea,” I say, looking into her eyes, as blue and bright as the San Diego sky. Her skin is clear, lightly tanned. I immediately shave a couple of years off her age. “I don’t think we’ve met before.”

  “I coulda sworn,” she says. “Hmmmmm.” She tips her head to one side, then the other, and bites her lip. “Oh, gosh, don’t tell me… Wait a sec—Las Vegas? You weren’t in the line at the Stardust with me, were you? Or maybe a cocktail waitress?”

  I smile and shake my head, wondering what she’s up to. “Sorry, no, but I’m flattered.” Over the woman’s shoulder, I spot Donna returning from the ladies’ room.

  The woman looks at me again, pursing her lips. “I know you from somewhere. The cruise ship? You worked the casino?”

  I laugh. “Nope, I don’t think so.” Thankfully, Donna slips into her seat at the table. “This is my friend Donna. We just stopped for a cup of coffee.”

  The woman smiles at Donna. “Hi. Wow, okay, this is really weird because I never forget a face. Wait, it’ll come to me—”

  “She’s Meg Barnes,” Donna says. “You’ve probably seen her on TV. She’s been in a ton of stuff. Remember Holiday?”

  If I could have kicked Donna, I would have. But it’s too late now.

  The woman blinks, then stares at me. “Omigod, you’re Meg Barnes!” She claps her hands around both of mine. “What an idiot I am. Sorry, I’m Lucy Delano. You know, Luck o’ Lucy’s on the corner. Pleased to meet you.”

  “Pleased to meet you, too. So that’s your bar?”

  “Yeah. I’m just about to open. Say, you wouldn’t give me a signed picture of yourself for the wall, would you?”

  “Be happy to, but I’ll have to mail one to you.”

  “Great.” She looks back toward the counter. “Hey, Jeri, you got my order ready? I gotta buzz.”

  “You bet.” The waitress picks up a brown bag and hands it across the counter. “Here you go.” She turns to me. “So you’re Meg Barnes? I thought you looked familiar. Didn’t you say you knew a friend of Lucy’s?”

  “Yeah?” Lucy looks at me expectantly.

  I flash her a smile, marveling at her ability to keep up the game. “Paul. Aren’t you a friend of Paul’s?”

  She blinks at me again. “You’re kidding me? You know Paul?” She slaps her hand on mine again. “I don’t believe this. How is he?”

  “Great… I guess. Actually, I haven’t seen him in ages.” Out of the corner of my eye, I see Donna raise her eyes to the ceiling.

  “Can you believe this?” Lucy says. “This is so amazing. Imagine you knowing Paul. He’s such a character. Listen, I gotta open up. You want to come over? C’mon.”

  “Sure. Let me settle up here.”

  “I got it,” Donna says, handing a couple of bills to the waitress. “Let’s go.”

  Lucy pushes her sunglasses back on her face, and we follow her out the door, past the Laundromat, pet supply, and nail salon, to Luck o’ Lucy’s. With a ring of keys jingling in her manicured hand, Lucy unlocks the door and pushes it open. She reaches inside the gloomy entrance and flicks on a light switch.

  Low wattage bulbs in ’50s-era Atomic Age wall sconces dispel some of the murkiness. A metal mop tub on rollers leans against the triangular-shaped bar. The pervasive odor is a sickening meld of stale beer, cigarettes, and bubblegum-smelling disinfectant.

  “You shoulda seen this place when I moved in,” Lucy says with a sigh. “It was a real dump, you know? Hang on a sec.” She grabs a pole next to the door and bangs it sharply on the floor several times. “Mice. God, I hate mice. I just like to let them know I’m coming in, you know?” She bangs the pole again. “Scram, you suckers!”

  She reaches up with the pole to open the skylight and several windows along the top of the outer wall. Shafts of daylight splinter the darkness. Dust motes dance like jazzed confetti against the black matte walls.

  “Air. A little air and this place’ll be fine. The A/C packed in yesterday, and I can’t get it fixed until tomorrow. The joys of ownership, you know?”

  I laugh, but my eyes scan the pockmarked linoleum floor for scurrying mice. Donna is at my elbow, both of us still hanging back at the door. “How long have you had this place?” I ask.

  “Just over a year. I always wanted my own joint, but I was thinking maybe Newport Beach or Laguna. I’d been saving up for years, and then this sort of fell in my lap. You gotta start somewhere. I know it doesn’t look like much, but I put a lot into it. I got a band in on weekends,” she says, waving her hand toward a black-draped dais in the back corner. “This whole area is turning around. I’m trying for a sleek, retro look to pull in a young crowd. Trouble is, people are really hard on a place. Things go missing. Stuff gets spilled. You want something to drink? A beer?”

  “No, thanks,” Donna and I chorus. I pick up a couple of leaflets from stacks on a shelf, one of them advertising karaoke, another the Shreak Wizards, which I assume is the band.

  “C’mon, guys. On the house.” She moves easily behind the bar, unlocking several cabinets and flipping on a switch that illuminates the glass shelving. “I’m telling you, everything I learned about running this place I picked up in Vegas working as a cocktail hostess. Look at this,” she says, laying one glass ashtray on top of another, carrying them to a bin. “My bar staff always caps an ashtray. Keeps ash from flying in everyone’s drink. And man, am I strict about the bar tabs. You gotta keep your eye on every damn thing.”

  “You can smoke in bars down here?” Donna asks.

  “Gimme a break. Nobody’s busted me yet.” She laughs. “So, what’s the deal, Meg? How do you know Paul?”

  “I ran into him a couple of years ago up in L.A.,” I say, climbing onto a black vinyl-covered bar stool. “We used to go sailing a lot. But I lost touch with him a while back. I heard he was down here somewhere.”

  “Really? So you thought you’d look him up.” She flops a bar cloth on the counter and begins wiping. “Wish I knew myself. He’s quite a guy”—she winks knowingly at me—“but you can’t pin down someone like that. Last I saw him was five, six weeks ago. He came through here pulling a U-Haul, and I put him up for a couple of nights.”

  Five weeks ago? That would have been around the time Dougie and his wife bumped into Paul at the café. My tongue is suddenly thick as a sausage. I can barely get the question out. “How’d you meet him?”

  “A little over a year ago, down in Ensenada. I was with a girlfriend, and we ran into him in Hussong’s Cantina. You know how it goes. One margarita leads to another, and pretty soon, hey.” She shrugs. “I mean, you know right away he’s trouble, but what the hell? We shacked up on his boat for a while, who knows how long.” She laughs. “He can con anyone, right? He had me believing he was this big shot, but it didn’t take me long to see through his cover. I met his kind before—all show, no dough. How ’bout you?”

  I nod. “Same. Didn’t take long.”

  She nods. “But hey, I can’t complain. He put me in touch with some people who knew about this place. So I figured
I owed him. Then, a few months after we met, I get a call. Middle of the night, could I pick him up south of the border somewhere. ‘You kidding me?’ I say. But I owe him, you know? So I get in my car and race down there. Man, he was a mess.”

  “He was hurt?”

  “Oh, yeah, real bad. Someone had kicked the shit out of him.” She opens up the brown bag on the bar and unwraps a sandwich. A whiff of tuna fish fights its way through the smell of disinfectant. “Want some?” she mumbles through a mouthful of sandwich.

  “No, thanks. So this was a year ago?”

  She nods, biting into the sandwich again. “At least.” She guns a spurt of soda water into a glass and drinks thirstily. “Gotta be a year. But I’ll say this for him, the man cleans up nicely. A week later he looked good as new. All he wanted was to get back on his boat. That was the last I saw of him until a month ago. He rolls in here like he’d been gone a week. He just wanted to pick up some stuff he’d stashed in a closet.”

  “He took everything?”

  She nods. “Everything.” She pulls a chunk of tuna bulging from a corner of the bread and drops it into her mouth, watching me. “You gotta love a guy like that, don’t you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Her eyes flicker. I wait for the other shoe. She knows Paul. She has to know my relationship to him. How long can she keep this up?

  She takes another swig of seltzer and looks at Donna, still standing at the door, before her eyes rake back to me. “So. You’re Meg, huh?” she says, her voice dropping. “Yeah, I figured it out as soon as I heard your name. You look different from your picture in the paper. Anyway, I gotta ask. How’d you find me?”

  “Sheer luck.” I try for a smile, keeping my voice level. “Obviously my husband never mentioned you.”

  “Yeah, what can I say? Guys cheat. This surprises you?” She shakes her hair off her shoulders and juts her chin. “But I gotta know, okay? How did you find me?”

  “Why would I be looking for you? I didn’t even know about you.” I shrug. “What are you worried about? Is someone trying to find you? Or Paul?”