Crashed

“Over here. God damn you, look over here.”

“Thistle-what about your mom? You talking to your mom yet?”

And then there was a blast of light to my right, and I saw the sun gun on top of the Entertainment World News camera, and the orange-faced woman pushed her way in with a concerned expression, glanced at the cameraman to make sure she was in the shot, leaned forward, and said, “Thistle. How do you feel about doing porno?”

Thistle shuddered against me and said, “Aaaahhhhh,” more a breath out than a word, and for a moment I thought she’d go limp. The woman worked her way closer and began to ask her question again, and I reached over Thistle, palm open, put my hand on the woman’s face, and shoved. She went straight back and then down, her cameraman backing up to follow her trajectory to the pavement. I said, “No comment.” There was another burst of flashbulbs, mostly aimed at the reporter on the asphalt, and we plowed on through the crowd. At some point, Doc fought his way over to us. “How’s she doing?” he asked me.

“Ask her.”

“Thistle. How are you?”

“Like a knife through butter.” She was pale, and her face shone with sweat, but her voice was steady. “But when we get inside,” she said, “you’re going to give me something.”

We made it through the gate, which slid closed behind us to shut out the horde, and Eduardo and the thugs led us to a door. One of them opened it and we went in, into a dark space, and then lights snapped on and something bright flew toward our faces, and Thistle screamed again and grabbed me. Then the bright mass broke apart into thousands of flower petals that fell around us, covering the floor at our feet.

23

My burglar

“Ms. Annunziato wants you,” Eduardo said.

“That’s very flattering, but not now.” I’d hustled Thistle into a makeup chair and grabbed her a cup of water. Tatiana and the makeup people had been huddled around the chair, waiting to soothe Thistle, but Doc had shooed them all out and now stood with his back to us, a needle inserted into an ampule.

Pale in the lights surrounding the makeup mirrors, Thistle watched his movements, her mouth slightly open. She’d been shaking, but the sight of Doc at work seemed to calm her.

“Now,” Eduardo said.

“Go away. I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

“Young man,” Doc said over his shoulder. “As this young woman’s physician, my medical opinion is that you should beat it. And Ms. Annunziato pays me big bucks for my expertise. Scram. Mosey along. There’s the door.”

“She’s not going to like this,” Eduardo said, but he turned to the door.

“It’s good for her,” I said. “It builds character.” Eduardo closed the door somewhat loudly behind him.

“A well-bred slam,” Doc said.

“Come on,” Thistle said. “My skin feels raw.”

“This one is on the light side,” Doc said, the needle vertical as he pushed out the last of the air. “After a few minutes, you’re going to get over the rush of that pack of wolves out there, and you’ll realize you’re still high from the first one. This is just a little booster.”

“What about the down button?”

“Percocet. Only one.”

I said, “You were great.”

Thistle rolled up the sleeve of her T-shirt. “You got me through it.”

Doc swabbed her arm and injected her, the process reflected in four makeup mirrors simultaneously. Thistle watched herself as though the person in the mirrors was a complete stranger. I wished she wasn’t wearing the dark glasses. I wanted to see her eyes. But then her chin dropped an inch or two, and she looked down at her lap. She dragged in a deep breath and blew it out.

“Listen,” I said, “I’m sorry about that woman-”

She brought the head up as though she was startled, but then she began to laugh. “You really did it, you know? World headlines. I might have been the third or fourth story of the night, but you decking Miss Entertainment World while I’m right next to you, that’s going to be the lead everywhere. We’ll be on the fucking BBC.” She laughed again, pitched a little too high, and took off the sunglasses and wiped her eyes. “Just walk, you tell me. Don’t descend to their level. Don’t give them anything. Show them some class.” She laughed again. “And then you paste that horrible bitch in front of every camera in Los Angeles. You know what? About six o’clock tonight, you’re going to be the most famous burglar in the world.”

“Yeah, well, I’m sorry.”

“Are you kidding? I haven’t seen anything that funny in years. That was Buster Keaton funny. My burglar. That’s going to be the title of a chapter in my autobiography.”

“How you feeling?” Doc said.

“Like a cloud of gnats. I feel like you can see through me. It’s okay, kind of a new place.”

“Good. One pill, coming up.”

The door to the dressing room opened, and Trey Annunziato came in. Today’s suit was a teal blue that, floating on a pond, would have attracted every female duck for miles. I guessed it at twelve hundred on special, and I doubted she’d bought it on special.

“I want you, and I want you now,” Trey said to me, and then her eyes slid past me and she smiled and said, “Hello, darling, don’t you look pretty today? So fresh and clear-eyed. Your lip is healing nicely.”

“This is really, really class dope,” Thistle said. “And what’s the title of this movie, Thistle’s Lip?” It’s all anybody talks about.” She glanced at herself in the mirror and tugged the lip down. “While we’re at it, don’t yell at my burglar.”

“Your-oh, you mean Mr. Bender here.”

“He got me in here,” Thistle said. “Don’t you forget it.”

Trey stepped forward, claiming the small room as hers. She was maintaining the smile, but it had very sharp corners. “Let’s all just modulate our tone. This is a big morning, and we don’t want to get off on the wrong foot.’

“We already have,” I said. “That mob scene outside-”

Trey held up a peremptory hand. “Thistle was told there would be reporters here,” she said. She leaned a little on the smile. “Weren’t you, dear?”

I turned to Thistle. She raised her shoulders to her ears, pulled down the corners of her mouth, and let her shoulders drop.

“Somebody should have told me,” I said.

“I can’t think of a single reason why,” Trey said in the brightly empty tone of someone who is determined to be pleasant no matter what.

“Because Thistle either wasn’t told or doesn’t remember. If she wasn’t told, I should have known about it. If she forgot, someone should have anticipated that she might, and told me. I was in charge of getting her here.”

“You put yourself in charge,” Trey said. “You put yourself in charge of her last night, too, but that didn’t keep her from doping herself into a coma, did it? Sorry to talk about you in the third person, darling.”

“You were there last night?” Thistle asked, her face screwed up. “I don’t remember you.”

“I wasn’t there. You and I need to talk,” I said to Trey.

“Yes, and I’ve been sending Eduardo to you all morning to tell you that,” she said. “But before we close the subject of the media, let’s make sure that Thistle hasn’t also forgotten the press conference that starts in”-she