“You’re allowed one minor comment on my appearance as long as it’s positive. Cut the shit though and get down to business. Tell me everything.” Ashna had left for a vacation in Bermuda shortly after we completed the job for Ortoli so this was our first chance to discuss it in person.
“Everything everything?”
“Yes. Every detail.”
“Okay. Well, it started when I met Gabrielle’s father. He had a friend with a missing piece of art.”
By the time I finished telling the story we had eaten our meal and were drinking Colheita port for desert at Ashna’s suggestion. Port was her new passion. We ordered two different vintages so she could compare.
“You should have talked to me first. We’re supposed to be partners. I could have helped plan. I want to help with the planning.” She looked a little peeved.
“I know. Sorry. I just woke up one day and needed to do something right away. I needed to break out. I won’t do it again. Anyway, Ortoli insisted on paying me a sizable amount and it wouldn’t have happened without your help. I have your half of the fee in my backpack.”
“I only did a little hacking.”
“I know but it was invaluable. You got me into Ortoli’s house. I want to ask you about something else though. I need relationship advice.”
“Oh shit, Justin. You not serious are you? Relationship advice from me? When have I ever had a relationship worth emulating?”
“I thought you were getting serious with that paleo blogger guy. Didn’t you just go on vacation with him?”
“Don’t talk to me about that asshole. I kicked him out of the hotel room after one day of listening to him record and re-record and re-record his fucking podcast over and over. We were in Bermuda! I haven’t seen him since.”
“I guess you’re not the right person to ask.”
“You should have stayed with Valerie in my opinion. She has nice abs.” Ashna put her chin in her hand and stared up at the fairy lights strung across the courtyard between us and the rapidly darkening sky. “I think I’ll go back to girls for a while.”
Chapter 3
A Flight South and an Opening
June 17-22: Los Angeles
I caught the T train downtown the next morning and descended into the Embarcadero BART station against the flow of office workers heading to the financial district. What did they do in those skyscraper offices? Spreadsheets? I had so little experience with life in the straight world I couldn’t even begin to guess. Whatever it was, they were propping up society and keeping it going. I saluted their efforts.
The trip down the peninsula was quick. It took almost as long to travel the four miles from my house to downtown on the T as it did to cover the fifteen miles to SFO on the BART train. I arrived at my gate just as they were starting the boarding process, found my way to my seat, and settled in for the short flight. While the last stragglers boarded, I checked my email and found both car and hotel reservation confirmations. My hotel was The Miyako in little Tokyo—downtown, near the arts district where Valerie was opening her new space. I didn’t know the hotel but I assumed it would be fine. You could always count on Valerie to choose well when it came to wine, art, clothing, and hotels.
The plane taxied to the runway, the whine of the engines deepened and grew louder, and suddenly we were in the air. In that suspended moment of takeoff, pressed into my seat by the g-force, it occurred to me that Valerie must have some ulterior motive for luring me down to L.A. She had a vast network of friends and acquaintances, many of whom would be more qualified than I to help get her gallery ready to open. Her reality distortion field had sucked me in. There was something else going on. What it was, I would find out in time.
I hadn’t spent much time in Los Angeles but it had always struck me as a deeply weird city. I felt it as soon as I stepped off the plane and began making my way through the airport. It was a city of startling juxtapositions and without a unified identity. The sun baked blue collar suburbs to the east vs. the cool breezes and laid back vibe of the beach, the imposing architecture of downtown with warrens of homeless people inhabiting the liminal spaces vs. the illimitable miles of strip malls, bungalows, and brown lawns to the south and north—none of it could be easily quantified or pigeon-holed.
In the terminal I crossed the shiny floor, following the signs for ground transport, and passed through glass doors to the outside where a blast of heat, car exhaust, and cigarette smoke wrapped me like a dirty blanket. Across four lanes of traffic there was an island where busses and shuttles were staging a dangerous game of chicken. I saw a shuttle for my car rental company with its blinker on, waiting for an opening to merge into the flow. Not wanting to wait, I bolted across, dodging a Chevy Suburban with dark tinted windows, and rapped on the door. The shuttle driver reluctantly opened it and I jumped aboard, going from furnace to ice box in a matter of seconds as I climbed the two steps up into the vehicle.
An hour later, thoroughly aggravated by the rental car experience, I was on one of those L.A. streets that function like small freeways, heading toward the entrance to the vast river of humanity known as ‘the 405’. To call the 405 a freeway seemed reductive. It was
