Читать книгу The Tiger Catcher - Paullina Simons - Страница 19

AT NORMANDIE, JULIAN TOOK THE STAIRS TWO AT A TIME, though he still managed to glance at the maximum-security house across the street. It didn’t look right, even in daylight.

“Good morning, Julian,” Josephine said, opening the door. She’d just stepped out of the shower and was flimsily dressed in a tank and sleeping shorts. “Isn’t that what they say in Hollywood, no matter what time of day it is—good morning?”

“Yes,” he said, “but it’s actually morning.” They hid their smiles.

Zakiyyah’s apartment was small and clean—an open plan kitchen/living room with three half-open interior doors, one bathroom, two bedrooms. A small Formica round table, an old light beige sofa, a couple of bookshelves. A TV. A treadmill. A guitar in the corner. Magnets on the fridge, a stack of bills and magazines on the counter. The apartment of a working girl who was never home. It was sunny and quiet, except for the constant hum of the freeway.

“Who plays guitar?”

“Zakiyyah. I have a favor to ask you.” Josephine tilted her head.

Julian would’ve done it without the head tilt.

“So the good news is,” she said, “I got a callback for Dante. Shocking, I know, given yesterday’s Shakespearean debacle.” But the bad news was, the callback was for the part of the narrator, an old man in a historical wig and glasses.

“You’re an expert at the old man part,” Julian said. “Just channel your inner Housman.”

“It’s the wig that’s the problem. Callback’s at eleven. How do I become a gray-haired old dude in an hour?”

Looking over her pink scrubbed face, Julian agreed it was not the easiest of tasks.

She held out a can of aerosol. “Can you spray paint my hair?”

Shaking his head, he stepped back. He didn’t like to do things he’d never done.

“Come on, I need your help. You can do things other than sit in front of a computer, can’t you?”

“I do plenty of those.” He wished that hadn’t sounded as suggestive as it did.

“Is one of them color a girl’s hair?” She flung around her damp dark mane for him to see. It smelled of foamy coconut. “Do it, do it,” she said. “And afterward, I’ll take you to the top of the mountain to amaze the crap out of you.” Her body smelled freshly washed of foamy coconut, her arms and throat glistening with lotion. The muscles in Julian’s legs felt liquid.

He had another idea. “Why don’t we just get you a wig? Seems a lot simpler.”

“Audition’s in an hour.”

“I know a place.”

“I’m broke.”

“It’s free. Can you get dressed in five minutes?”

“What do you mean? I am dressed.”

No makeup, tiny shorts, ripped gray crop top, no bra (do not think about that) bare feet, hair all over the place. She looked dressed for after-sex waffles, not a callback. He said nothing.

“Okay, fine.” Two minutes later she emerged from door number two in denim shorts, boots, and a see-through white shirt over her crop top. Her bare stomach showed. “Better?”

He said nothing.

In the car as she did her makeup she told Julian Dante’s play paid real money! Rehearsals began in a few days. It ran a month. “Though I’ll have to memorize ninety-nine cantos. Doesn’t seem possible.”

“You can do it,” he said. “They’re such romantic cantos.”

She grunted. “Realms of the dead are romantic?”

“Sure,” Julian said. “Clad in weights, Dante searches for Beatrice in heaven and hell because he cannot find her here on earth. That’s not romantic?” He smiled.

“I dunno,” she said. “Does he find her? See, even Mr. Know-it-All is not sure. And the endlessly mutilated sowers of discord are definitely not dreamy. There’s a lot of damnation before Dante gets to Beatrice, is what I’m saying. Inferno, purgatorio. Why is it even called a comedy? How far’s the wig?”

“Almost there.” Magnolia Boulevard was just on the other side of Hollywood Hills.

“Magnolia … isn’t that where the vintage shops are?”

Julian pulled into a spot at the curb. “Yep. And here we are.”

They were parked in front of a large storefront whose cinnamon-colored awning read “THE TREASURE BOX.”

“The Treasure Box?” she said. “What kind of store is that?”

“The kind where you might find what you’re looking for. It’s Ashton’s. Well, mine and Ashton’s. But he does most of the work. I just count the money.”

“He’s got a wig?”

“He’s got a lot of things.” Julian switched off the engine.

“Really? Like what?”

“Anything. Everything.” He watched her apply red gloss to her lips. “About Ashton …”

“I need to be prepped before meeting him? Why, is he super cute?” She grinned.

“That’s not it.” How to explain Ashton to this innocent? “He likes to tease. A bit like you. Remember that and ignore him.”

“Like you ignore me?”

“Just like that.”

Ashton was on the phone behind the register. He had showered and shaved and was wearing pressed black jeans and a white shirt open at the collar. His leather shoes were buffed. The doorbell trilled as they walked in, and Ashton raised his head. He couldn’t drop his call when he saw Julian with Josephine but, by the expression on his face, really wanted to.

Josephine’s mouth dropped open, too. Even a grizzled cynic would have a hard time not fawning over the cornucopia of baubles and beads that was housed under Ashton’s expansive roof.

Real and fake furs, old lamps, figurines, designer bags, red carpet dresses, tuxedoes, movie memorabilia of all kinds were on sale and display. From Casablanca (the bar glasses) to Back to the Future (Marty’s Hoverboard), incredible real artifacts from imaginary places abounded. Ashtrays from Chinatown, a replica (not actual-size) of the Starship Enterprise, an actual-size Han Solo frozen in carbonite, Halloween costumes, shoes and hats, and all the bling in between, including signed framed photographs of the stars, including Ashton’s treasured possession, a poster of a joyous Bob Marley from 1981, signed by the man himself a few months before he died. There were albums, playbills, scarves, a wall of arcade games from PacMan to Donkey Kong, a wall of original art by local artists, and next to it a table with brushes, paints, and blank canvases for sale. There was a display of vital herbs and vitamins, a nod to the health-obsessed Riley. There was a red door bathed in black light and a neon sign above it that read, “Haunted House this way.” Yes, there was even a Haunted House, which ran year-round, and all the zombies and ghouls inside it were for sale. Ashton replaced them with new ghouls and zombies as needed. The Treasure Box was a store that no one but the treasure-hunting, adventure-seeking Ashton could’ve devised or imagined. Everything he was and everything he loved was in that store.

“This is the most amazing place I’ve ever seen!” Josephine said in a thrilled whisper. “Can we come back?”

“Maybe. Follow me.” Julian popped into one of the narrow side rooms and was relieved when he quickly found what he was looking for: a long-haired 18th-century wig made with real gray hair.

“Perfect,” she said. “This is fantastic, oh!—but expensive.”

Julian put a finger to his lips and sighed, hoping he could sneak her out before Ashton got off the phone. Alas.

Ashton barricaded the door to the small room, blocking the daylight with his tall frame. “Hey, Jules. Whatcha up to?”

“Not much,” Julian said. “We’re in a hurry.”

“Hurry? But you just got here. And who’s we?”

“Oh, sorry. Ashton, Josephine; Josephine, Ashton.”

“Nice to meet you, Ashton,” Josephine said, smiling over Julian’s shoulder.

“Yeah, you, too.”

“You have an incredible place here.”

“Thanks.” He stared at her and then blinklessly at Julian, who rolled his eyes, mouthing stop it. The three of them stepped out into the main area, where there was sunlight and windows and space to put between one another.

“Where do you get this stuff from?” Josephine asked, walking around, touching the dresses and the silk scarves.

“Here, there,” Ashton said. “Hot sets mostly. Before they shut production on a show, Julian and I walk the soundstages, mark what we want, and after they wrap, we return with my truck.”

“You take the furniture, too?”

“Why, do you need some furniture? A couch? A bed?”

“No, just curious.” She didn’t blink.

Ashton, stop it.

“We get the larger items for free,” Ashton said, “because that’s first to be hauled to the dumpster. Basically we sell other people’s trash.”

Julian wanted to knock his friend on the head. “Josephine, we have to go.”

“A teacher, a writer, and a small business owner?” Josephine said to Julian. “You sure wear a lot of hats, Jules.”

“Oh, you have no idea,” Ashton said, mouthing Jules? to Julian.

“I’m not a teacher,” Julian muttered. “Not really.”

“And people pay you guys money even for the big stuff?” she asked.

“Yes, in our business, trash is a collector’s item,” Ashton replied. “We have an entire room next to the Haunted House of sofas and tables from the sets of I Dream of Jeannie, Bewitched, Mork and Mindy, that sort of thing.”

“How fantastic! Can I see? After the Haunted House, of course. That’s first.”

“Another time,” Julian said, trying to shepherd her out. “Or you’ll be late.” It was like shepherding out water. Josephine was studying the props as if she couldn’t care less about the callback.

“Excuse me,” Ashton said to her, “but have we met before?”

“I don’t think so.”

“I could swear I’ve seen you somewhere. I never forget a face …” He tapped the counter. “New York! A few weeks ago. The Invention of Love. Weren’t you the understudy?” He peered at her.

“Yes! Oh wow! You were there, too?”

“Yes,” Ashton replied. “I was there, too.” Even his small smile vanished.

“Did you enjoy it?”

“Yes. Not as much as Julian—obviously—but I enjoyed it. It was out of the ordinary.”

“But not extraordinary?” Josephine grinned amiably as if she couldn’t care less whether Ashton liked the play or not.

Mutely Ashton stared at Julian, who was signing out the wig and wouldn’t return his friend’s pointed gaze.

“Ready to go, Josephine?” Julian said.

She didn’t reply, her eye spying something hanging on the wall behind Julian. “What’s that?” she exclaimed. It was a lambskin dark red beret. She pried it off the hook, turned it over once or twice, and put it on her head, stepping into the center of the store and smiling at both men. “What do you think, guys?”

One man suppressed a smile, the other had no hint of it on his somber face. Julian didn’t understand why Ashton was being so unfriendly. He elbowed Ashton, who did not elbow back.

“This thing’s fresh to death,” Josephine said, gazing in the mirror with approval at her own reflection. “Is it expensive?”

“No, it’s not expensive,” Ashton said. “It’s priceless. It’s vintage Gucci. From the forties. But it’s not for sale. It’s Julian’s. It’s his lucky hat.”

“It is?” Josephine stared in the beveled mirror. “Jules, where did you get this marvelous thing?”

“Yes, Jules,” Ashton said, “where’d you get it? Tell the girl.”

“I don’t remember,” Julian said.

“There you go,” Ashton said. “He doesn’t remember. So what do you say? Can she have the red beret you found somewhere and haven’t parted with in a decade?”

Like it was even a question.

Josephine nearly skipped in place. With a grateful smile, her adorned head tilted, her fingers splayed, she did a two-step, a shim-sham, twirled around, swiveled her hips, and sang a few lines of the chorus of “Who’s Got the Pain” from Damn Yankees.

Ashton, his light blue eyes dipped in indigo, gave Julian a long anxious stare soaked with question, unease, and, for some reason, despair.

“Let’s go,” Julian said, grabbing his keys.

Josephine looked Julian over as they got ready to walk out, at his starched gray-check shirt, gray khakis, black suede Mephistos, tailored greige sports jacket. “Julian, we’re going into the mountains after my callback.”

“Yes, so?”

“Well, you’ve put on your teacher uniform again, not your mountain climbing gear.”

“Oh, you’re adorable, Josephine, to think that’s a uniform,” Ashton said, stepping between her and Julian. Forcefully he shook his head to underscore his words. “That’s not a uniform, dear girl. It’s a costume.”