Part 12 (1/2)

The eerie, wavering pitch of her voice unnerves me. s.h.i.+very like a zither in a monster movie. She sounds as if she can scarcely hold on to the phone, barely make the words come out of her mouth.

”Is there anything I can do, Lois?” I find myself asking.

”Sleep tight, baby. Sleep.tight, let's call it a day,” she murmurs, half-singing.

”What were you calling Alice for?” I say. ”Did you need some help? Is everything okay?”

There is a pause, a faint sound of contorted humming, then a clicking sound, like a drawer sliding on its runners, open and shut.

”Lois?”

I clutch the receiver as my stomach rises anxiously into my chest. I get a sudden feeling of monumentality. I whisper one more time, hardly a whisper even, ”Lois, are you there?”

”Yeah?” she says at last. I take a breath.

”Lois, why don't you tell me where you are and I can come get you and bring you over here?” I can't believe I'm saying it. But if not me, who would go? Who would go?

”Me? I'm on a fast track to nowhere, baby,” she says, then laughs lightly. Then, suddenly, ”Would you come by? Would you?”

Then, ”G.o.d's honest, I'm afraid he's gonna come back, and he said if he did he'd bring the pliers this time.”

The car keys I've unconsciously palmed drop to the floor with a clatter and I nearly lose the phone. Breathing deeply, I force out, ”Tell me where you are, please. Please tell me”-and I am suddenly half out of breath-”where you are.”

The Rest E-Z Motel in Culver City. I drive by it three times, hands tight on the steering wheel, trying to steel myself. On the phone, Lois said she didn't know what room she was in. She said she couldn't get up to look at the door. I will have to try to find her by talking to the clerk.

The place looks about as I had guessed when she told me its name. The s.h.a.ggy carport leading to the lobby hanging so low it seems nearly to hit the tops of the stray cars that move underneath. Gray s.h.i.+ngles cracked in the sun, and bloodred trim caked around each window and awning of the dozen or so rooms.

My legs shake as I walk across the parking lot. It doesn't strike me until that moment that there is every reason to believe this sort of thing happens to Lois five times a week and she emerges each time with only her usual number of scratches.

The clerk, a Mexican with a cigarillo and a bowling s.h.i.+rt, looks me over dubiously from behind a grimy counter. He scratches the back of his neck.

”h.e.l.lo. I'm looking for a friend. She called me from here, but she was ill and wasn't sure which room she was in.”

He blinks slowly and raps his fingers on the counter.

”She's small, maybe five feet two or so, with dark hair.” I gesture with my hand.

His lips twist around the cigarillo. His fingers rap more slowly, and he shakes his head.

I open my purse, hands shaking slightly. ”I'd be so grateful for any help you can give.” He shakes his head again, raising his hand to me.

”Really.” I slide ten dollars across the counter, Mike Standish style, not knowing if it is what Lois might call a b.u.m amount or the real deal.

He sighs, rubbing his hand along the bristle on his chin, then takes the bill, slipping it into the waistband of his pants as he steps from behind the counter. I jump back with a start, but he is only gesturing for me to follow him. We walk out the gla.s.s door and across the flyspecked parking lot, over to Room 12.

He knocks once on the mud-colored paint of the door. No sound.

He looks to me expectantly.

I knock this time. ”Lois? Are you there, Lois?”

No response.

”Look”-I turn to the man-”she's really sick, can you-” He pulls a pa.s.skey out of his pocket and unlocks the particleboard door.

My eyes adjust to the dark room, with its nubby curtains pulled tight across the bulging screen of the window to block out the late-afternoon light.

Mounds of sheets piled on the bed, a faint red-brown spatter curled into one of the rivulets.

”Lois,” I blurt, unable to make it past the threshold. The clerk begins muttering loudly in Spanish.

Abruptly, amid the piles of sheets, a torn-stockinged leg surfaces. ”Whossit?” I push past the clerk and move quickly to the bed. Lois is huddled in one corner, locks of hair matted to her face and clotted in a thin sheen of dried blood.

”Are you all right? G.o.d, Lois.”

Her dark-ridged eyelids slide open, and a sheet-creased breast slides out from under the covers.

”Alice?” She squints.

”It's Lora. Lora King,” I say. I turn to the clerk. ”Thank you.”

He pauses a long second, deciding something, probably about whether or not to call the police. Then he points a finger at me, turns, and leaves, closing the door behind him.

The room is in near darkness again, a dusty, heavy kind of late-afternoon dark. Street noises radiate in and out, carried by the hot winds.

I sit down on the edge of the bed, next to her.

”Lois, let's go. Let's get you your clothes on and I'll take you over to Alice and Bill's. Or to my place. Your pick.”

She puts a hand over her eyes and says nothing.

”We can call a doctor from there,” I add, trying desperately to see the source of the blood in the darkness. ”No doctors, sugar pie.” She rolls over and tries to prop herself up a bit.

I reach across to the bedside lamp and switch it on.

Lois rubs her eyes and manages one of her crooked smiles. A cigarette burn snarls from her collarbone.

”Oh, Lois!”

Her eyes widen a bit, then she looks down at the burn. She smiles.

”Oh, no, that's old, honey. It got infected, never healed right.” She struggles a blue-veined, dimpled leg out from under the sheet. A garter hangs loosely atop her thigh.

”Now that's new.” She smirks, pointing to a long, crimson strand down the inside of her upper thigh.

”Lois,” I murmur, feeling dizzy and sick, suddenly aware of the smells of the room, the bed, a fulsome mix of bodies, drink, the slime of a lost evening and half day.

”Ah, it ain't so bad. You should have seen the other guy.” She chuckles wryly, tiredly, and gestures to the spray of dried blood. ”Busted his nose.”