As we drove up Laurel Canyon Boulevard on our way to Caruso’s elderly parents who lived in West Hollywood, he sketched for me the sordid background of his latest misadventure. It involved Marina’s married daughter who’d had a big fight with her husband and also was mad at Marina for some real or imagined act of parental injustice. The daughter’s idea of a double revenge was to visit Marina’s house at a time she knew her mother would be busy at work and Caruso would be sunbathing by the pool after his late morning workout at the gym. Like many short men with time on their hands Caruso invested a great deal of it in pumping iron.
While Caruso contemplated my counterfactual scenario, we crossed Mulholland Drive and began the long descent into Hollywood. I caught a glimpse of the early moon behind a line of trees. Pasty and bloated, it was peeking into the windows of houses on the canyon slope like some obese pervert on a nightly prowl through the Hollywood Hills.
Caruso answered with disarming honesty, “I was hit by a drunk woman.”