out of the way so I can get out of here, sweetie. Okay?”
Darren had said that he would pay, but I wanted to try something. At the front desk, I pulled the plastic wallet I’d found at Ginger’s out of my purse. I handed the billing secretary “my” American Express card. She swiped it through a scanner next to her computer. There was a short pause, during which I realized that I hadn’t put on deodorant after my shower that morning.
“Thank you, Ms. Cleary,” the woman said, glancing at me politely as she handed me back my card. “You have a nice day now.”
“I surely will,” I answered in my best California accent. Being in Orange County always did that to me. “Thank you so much.” And with that I walked out the emergency room door and into a cab someone was just getting out of. Good luck for me – taxis in Orange County are a rare occurrence. As I opened the back door of the car, I saw two cops enter the emergency room. I figured they might be looking for me.
I settled in, and sighed. A taxi. My home away from home.
“Can you take me to a bar, please?” I said to the driver. “Something within a couple of blocks of the Sunny Jim Motor Inn.” The driver looked at me in the rear view. So did I. I didn’t look all that bad, considering. Sleep and food on one side, getting conked on the head and throwing up on the other. It might have been a draw, but I think the sleep and food had won out.
We drove for about ten minutes, out of the stretch of office buildings where the hospital was located. I had no idea where we were. I had been down here more than a dozen times in the years Fred and Ginger had lived down here, but we didn’t tend to do the hospital tour.
Soon we were out of Newport, somewhere in Santa Ana, maybe. Definitely not as pricey as the palatial digs I had just left. More my territory, really. Small strip malls, all with adobe roofs. Lots of fast-food joints and Korean nail places. Target. K-Mart. 99 cent stores.
The sun was bright but not directly overhead. It was mid-afternoon by now, I guessed, but I didn’t wear a watch, and the taxi didn’t have a clock.
“How much further?” I asked the driver, just as he made a sharp right turn. We passed a bail bonds place, and for one of the first times in Orange County outside of a parking lot, I saw people on the street. Mexicans, mostly. A couple of girls who might have been hookers, fanning themselves, laughing, and pointing at something I couldn’t see down an alley.
“Here we are,” the driver said. He pulled up in front of the Sunny Jim without pulling in. “Lots of places to go around here.” He pointed up the street. “There is a nice place,” he said. “Have a sandwich and a
cerveza
, and nobody bother you there. You are a girl,” he said, looking worriedly in the rear view. I like people who state the obvious. Bless.
The fare was twenty-five bucks, and I gave him two of the twenties from the plastic wallet. Share the wealth and all that.
Noblesse oblige
.
“
Gracias
,” the driver said, when I indicated that I didn’t need change. “But, lady,” he said. “You sure you want me to leave you here? You meeting somebody? Your man?”
“Don’t you worry, Jorge,” I said, reading his name off his cabbie license. “I’m meeting my sister.”
* * *
I stood in front of the motel where my sister had died. Other than police tape over the door to one room, the Sunny Jim looked to be business as usual. I stopped at the office entrance for a second, considering taking a room, but I wasn’t ready for that. Not yet. First, I wanted to take in some of the local color.
If Ginger had died here, maybe she had hung out around here. I had drugs in my purse, and money to rent a room. I badly wanted to be high, to erase everything and watch sitcom reruns and drift away.
But here I was, and this was more important.
I walked in the direction Jorge had indicated. An old Mexican man stood on the street, cowboy hat shading his
Darren had said that he would pay, but I wanted to try something. At the front desk, I pulled the plastic wallet I’d found at Ginger’s out of my purse. I handed the billing secretary “my” American Express card. She swiped it through a scanner next to her computer. There was a short pause, during which I realized that I hadn’t put on deodorant after my shower that morning.
“Thank you, Ms. Cleary,” the woman said, glancing at me politely as she handed me back my card. “You have a nice day now.”
“I surely will,” I answered in my best California accent. Being in Orange County always did that to me. “Thank you so much.” And with that I walked out the emergency room door and into a cab someone was just getting out of. Good luck for me – taxis in Orange County are a rare occurrence. As I opened the back door of the car, I saw two cops enter the emergency room. I figured they might be looking for me.
I settled in, and sighed. A taxi. My home away from home.
“Can you take me to a bar, please?” I said to the driver. “Something within a couple of blocks of the Sunny Jim Motor Inn.” The driver looked at me in the rear view. So did I. I didn’t look all that bad, considering. Sleep and food on one side, getting conked on the head and throwing up on the other. It might have been a draw, but I think the sleep and food had won out.
We drove for about ten minutes, out of the stretch of office buildings where the hospital was located. I had no idea where we were. I had been down here more than a dozen times in the years Fred and Ginger had lived down here, but we didn’t tend to do the hospital tour.
Soon we were out of Newport, somewhere in Santa Ana, maybe. Definitely not as pricey as the palatial digs I had just left. More my territory, really. Small strip malls, all with adobe roofs. Lots of fast-food joints and Korean nail places. Target. K-Mart. 99 cent stores.
The sun was bright but not directly overhead. It was mid-afternoon by now, I guessed, but I didn’t wear a watch, and the taxi didn’t have a clock.
“How much further?” I asked the driver, just as he made a sharp right turn. We passed a bail bonds place, and for one of the first times in Orange County outside of a parking lot, I saw people on the street. Mexicans, mostly. A couple of girls who might have been hookers, fanning themselves, laughing, and pointing at something I couldn’t see down an alley.
“Here we are,” the driver said. He pulled up in front of the Sunny Jim without pulling in. “Lots of places to go around here.” He pointed up the street. “There is a nice place,” he said. “Have a sandwich and a
cerveza
, and nobody bother you there. You are a girl,” he said, looking worriedly in the rear view. I like people who state the obvious. Bless.
The fare was twenty-five bucks, and I gave him two of the twenties from the plastic wallet. Share the wealth and all that.
Noblesse oblige
.
“
Gracias
,” the driver said, when I indicated that I didn’t need change. “But, lady,” he said. “You sure you want me to leave you here? You meeting somebody? Your man?”
“Don’t you worry, Jorge,” I said, reading his name off his cabbie license. “I’m meeting my sister.”
* * *
I stood in front of the motel where my sister had died. Other than police tape over the door to one room, the Sunny Jim looked to be business as usual. I stopped at the office entrance for a second, considering taking a room, but I wasn’t ready for that. Not yet. First, I wanted to take in some of the local color.
If Ginger had died here, maybe she had hung out around here. I had drugs in my purse, and money to rent a room. I badly wanted to be high, to erase everything and watch sitcom reruns and drift away.
But here I was, and this was more important.
I walked in the direction Jorge had indicated. An old Mexican man stood on the street, cowboy hat shading his
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