cryptic aphorisms, still swivelled like a periscope poking up from
“This place scares me, love.”
We were in a self-service near the station. She had found it, said it was safe.
“I’ve already seen two people mugged. In broad daylight.” I waited for this to take effect. Magda shrugged, Zole blew a bubble. “And some of the… girls seem as young as, well, Zole here. One solicited me on a tricycle.”
“I’ll take you round Hollywood and Vine. Some of them blocks beyond Sunset Boulevard you wouldn’t believe, Lovejoy. Two of your friends get themselves happy there.”
“They did?” I asked uneasily.
“Al and Shelt. That Kelly Palumba and her sheet.”
“She dumb. Her man pays dumb dollar.”
“Epsilon,” Magda translated. “Buys for her. She’s stoned.”
“Magda.” It was hard to start, even after a few goes. “Look, love. I’m really grateful…”
I hate saying things like this, especially to a bird, because they’re inclined to feel they have a right to you more than they have a right. If you follow. But when Magda and Zole had come into the station I’d almost fainted with relief. And when she told me she’d done as I’d asked I almost filled up.
“I found Revere Mount, Lovejoy. It’s Malibu.”
The self-service place was enormous. Two women in studs and black leather were jeering by the till, men round them whooping and cheering at sallies. A weathered, frayed old man was slumped at a table, head on his hands. Outside it was almost dark, traffic glaring and snorting for headway. Nobody seemed to be watching us.
“For the Game?”
“Uh huh. They staying every which way, Pasadena, Long Beach, Santa Monica.”
But Al and Shelt were Tye Dee’s two special goons. And Magda’d mentioned them practically with her hello. Which raised the small question of how she’d done so well.
“Where are the Aquilinas?”
“Beverly Hills. They got a house, a battalion of friends.” She told me an address in impossible numbers.
“You’ve done marvellously, love.”
Zole happened to be listening, picked up a vibe of doubt. He’d been strolling among tables, picking leftovers from plates. Habit of a lifetime, I supposed. There’s an old Polish millionaire I know in London does the same. Collects priceless porcelain, but once was a POW.
“Cost us plenny in calls, Lovejoy,” he put in. “And she done favours for free with a agency man, Boyle Heights.”
“Zole,” Magda said in her special tone. He shrugged, resumed his scavenge. “It’s known, Lovejoy. Society gossip on TV, convention talk.”
“They know to arrange what’s said, love. They own everything I’ve ever heard of. Can you give me names?”
“It was easy at first. That Palumba broad’d been on the movies once, turkeyed out. She was in the papers. Finding the hotel, getting to know waiters, the lounge hustlers, pretending I was looking for a sister.” She half smiled, grimaced slightly to warn there was no way to postpone bad news. “It’s tomorrow, Lovejoy. Big place. Movie people use it, studios, syndicates, you name it. Night, ten o’clock.”
“Where are you staying?” I’m pathetic sometimes. Had I never been in a strange city before? I sounded like a kid trying to join her team, let me play or I’ll tell.
She hesitated. “I got to pay this guy, Lovejoy. Another time?”
“Fine,” I said, my best smile on. “Look after Zole, eh?”
She shrugged. “It’s what I do, Lovejoy.”
We agreed to part without thinking further, the station to be our meeting place, day after next. After that would be straw guessing. I tried to find something warm and grateful to say. She seemed to wait in expectation, finally collected Zole. We parted. She didn’t wish me luck. And with Zole on hand she’d not need any.
I remember her squaring up to walk to the taxi rank. Loveliness is sometimes in the eye of the beholder. Sometimes it’s just better than beauty, and that’s that.
I REGISTERED at a downtown hotel which had an armed night guard on the door. I gave complicated instructions about being roused the instant my missing luggage arrived from some mythical but erratic airline, and slept fitfully dreaming of gamblers with knives for fingers.
The sun dawned me on streets gaunt without people. The area seemed oddly vacant, a studio oddly empty. Windows seemed shuttered from perversity rather than need. The few shops which had opened were scored with graffiti, abusive and delirious. L.A. clocked early didn’t look a going concern. It looked raddled, sickening for something yet feverishly determined to conquer. The walls of buildings were pockmarked, as if firing squads had lately been about their business. Vacant ground wore skeletalized cars lying lopsided with one cheek into the ground. I walked enough to be pervaded by the sense of Los Angeles, which is action deflected beyond control, omnipotence revealing its secret neuroses. Then I went and earned the reproaches of the desk clerk for having actually walked instead of travelling by gunship, and booked out, ostensibly for the airport.
Working out my gelt, I had enough left to put me in some sort of social order, and to get me to Revere Mount Mansions. Time was already spinning L.A. faster than I wanted. Revere Mount was a play on words—wasn’t he the patriot who’d ridden to warn of an invasion? More importantly, he was a fabulous silversmith whose work I’ve
