Full of self-regard, Grace missed the tone of the exhalation. "Very well, young man. I'll try to stay on topic, though you know how flighty we starlets are. You could come back another time, of course. I'm always willing to talk to my fans."
It was fortunate he had put his cup of ginger ale down, as he might have had an embarrassing nasal incident at that moment.
Though Bruce suspected it had more to do with the oppressive heat in the curio-stuffed apartment (including among those objects a spittoon with an image of an Oscar statuette within) or the effects of the allergy medication he had taken to counteract the dander of Grace's Bichon Frises, James and Tallulah, it almost seemed as though the air rippled and dissolved around them.
I HAVE HEARD THE ALIENS SINGING
It was a typical Monday, in which Grace rose at two o'clock in the afternoon, stumbled out to the breakfast nook (which had not been used for that meal since time immemorial), read her fan letter (again), had a sort of improvised soup consisting of cigarettes and demitasses of espresso and decided to go out to Rodeo Drive for some window-shopping and ego massage. That famed street had seen better days, she often felt, immune to the irony of a sixtyish has-been holding that sentiment. It was particularly bad today, swamped with the nouveau riche and...No! This was too much to endure or tolerate! OLD TOURISTS, CLEARLY FROM THE MIDWEST!
Specifically, Grace noticed a group of elderly women, tall but stocky for their ilk, entering her favourite boutique just as she parked her Town Car across the street. She read them as being from the center of the country because they were wearing Hawaiian shirts, flip flops, huge Polaroid Instamatic cameras and fake pearl necklaces, not to mention sporting gigantic handbags with gold initials on them. Since there were no movie people around, this was NOT a scene from a John Waters movie (who, in any case, filmed in Baltimore - and the less said about THAT place the better, too...). However, they were too camp for words, and no-one was going to outdo Grace Fury for unintentional tackiness, at least not in HER town!
It took Grace five minutes to put her face together and recover from the fashion shock, then, swinging a shapely, if varicose-veined, leg out of her car, Grace clacked rapidly towards the doors, intent on engaging in clever, bitchy repartee that would rival The Women for cruelty and wit.
When she went, in however, she was not prepared for what she saw. Of course, few people ARE prepared for polyester Hawaiian shirts, flip flops, huge Polaroid Instamatic cameras and fake pearl necklaces, especially on women of a certain age (who should have graduated to a shoulder bag with the capacity for photo albums and adult diapers, instead of handbags with snaps and shiny monograms). That was not what shocked her.
No - it was the gore and disarray within. Armani suits ripped to shreds - overstuffed chairs revealing their excessive fluff - glass lying in pools of Perrier and the metal remains of cash registers scattered in all directions - and bodies in a state that even Brian DePalma would have found over-the-top and gruesome (though he would have photographed them in something more stark than track lighting).
Of the tourists themselves, there was no sign, though the fire exit swinging open at the back of the store gave some hint of their escape route.
And then one of those 'corpses' groaned. Alphonse! Her fan, and the man who always made sure her flaws were compensated for in the expensive outfits he sold her at his employee discount rate. They wore the same size, a coincidence upon which she preferred not to dwell.
"What happened, Alphonse?" she asked, kneeling near him, but not so close as to get blood on her suit.
Had he not been at the verge of death, he might have rolled his eyes and snapped something like: "Murder, girlfriend!"
"The horror! The horror!" he gasped. Grace assumed he was not referring to the clothing of the come-and-gone crones. "What WERE they!?" And then he was gone.
Grace picked her way through the chaos towards the back door and looked outside, trying to spot the perpetrators. Instead, what she saw out there were the shirts and polyester slacks and the scattered beads of those necklaces. Were the biddies wandering the streets naked? This rivaled the horror of their CLOTHED appearance.
In her shock over the situation, she barely noticed the saucer taking off from behind a row of trees a little bit down the drive. Oddly, there seemed to be no-one else as far as the eye could see that may have witnessed this - an anomaly that would not help her credibility a bit further down the line...
A PAUSE FOR STATED MYSTIFICATION
"What!?" Bruce said. "You actually saw a UFO as WELL as the aliens!?"
Grace arched an eyebrow. "Well, sweetheart, how else would you think they got to Earth!? LA Transit Authority?"
Bruce back-pedaled. "I just don't remember reading anything about this in the reports."
"Perhaps I failed to mention it," Grace deadpanned. "With all the murder and plots for world domination and the like, it may have slipped my mind."
"I'm sorry," Bruce retorted. "I just wanted a complete account of events."
"My goodness, Bruce!" Grace responded. "You ARE talking to an actress, and, according to some sources, not a very good one - how much thoroughness and objectivity were you EXPECTING!?"
"Point taken," he demurred.
"Thank you," Grace purred, pausing to take a drag from a long cigarette holder. "Now, where was I? Oh, yes..."
WALKING IN LA
It was not Grace's day, as she learned when she stumbled back through the debris to her car. In her brief absence, someone had flattened her tires and tagged her driver door (and not even one of the PRESTIGIOUS gangs, she noted disdainfully).
And the cell phone her past life therapist and astrologer had insisted she get in case an emergency or crisis should come up in which sound advice were required (into which that individual had programmed his own number)? Back home, no doubt not on the charger.
Well, she would have to locate a police station and make a report (later, nursing her blisters at home, she would wonder if her rule about refusing to frequent any boutique besides the scene of the crime should have been bent to the extent of asking to use a phone).
Had Grace been ten to fifteen years younger, the X song "Los Angeles" may have been running through her head after a few blocks, inasmuch as she was beginning to feel she had to leave that city to find even a policeman on patrol, let alone a station.
Finally, though, she recognized the familiar LAPD logo on a non-descript building and hobbled inside on her stilettos.
In some of the movies she made in Italy, she would have seen an attractive young cop who would have developed an infatuation with her and tossed aside all duties to cater to her needs, both legal and physical.
The woman who was there may have developed a crush on Joan Jett or Lesley Gore, but she had no idea who this crazed old woman was in front of her, and was not subsumed in lust at the sight of her.
"May I help you, ma'am?" she drawled (MIDWEST AGAIN!? WAS THERE NO ESCAPE!?).
"Murder! Murder!" Grace croaked in a tone that would have done Miss Marple proud.
Constable Califia rolled her eyes and began to wonder where the hidden camera was at that was filming this rather obvious prank.
Grace was not blind when it came to a gaze directed partially at her. "I saw that!" she snapped. "I fail to see how murder is funny, young, er, lady?"
Califia ran a hand through her crewcut and said wearily, "I'm sorry, ma'am. You're reporting a murder?"
"Yes, dear," Grace said. "Now would you be so good as to pay attention and write down what I'm saying?"
AND SO SHE CRIED - HAD TO BE COINCIDENCE
Grace usually prided herself on being a strong person, though many others would probably not attribute that quality to her. This was why it surprised her that she burst into tears at describing Alphonse's death, given that she did not really know him all that well.
Califia assumed that it was a product of the trauma of encountering a murder scene in real life, so did not think it all that odd.
