Los Angeles (16 page)

“Sure,” I said, “on Sunset.”

“And you don’t even have to bring any money because Frank has taken care of everything.”

“Good old Frank.”

“You shouldn’t have any trouble getting in there, but if you do,” Annette said, “just call me.” She gave me a local number,
sucking on her cigarette between the area code and exchange. Annette’s voice was smooth and raspy, like a disc jockey on a
late-night jazz station. “Most likely, there will be a guy who answers. Just tell him that you’re Davidson and that you really
need to see Astrid.”

“Astrid?” This confused me. “I’m looking for Angela.”

“That’s just another name, dear. You’ll get the girl you want, I promise.”

I went to my computer so I could take all of this down. “Anything else?”

“You’ll need the code.”

“The code,” I repeated.

“Its Black Hole Sun.”

“What does that mean?”

“I have no idea, sweetie. I think it’s a song.”

“What happens then?”

“What happens then,” Annette said smilingly, “is that Astrid —”

“Angela.”

“Right.
Angela
should be over right away. If she can’t make it, someone will contact you. But Davidson is one of her best customers, one
of the best customers around, actually, and that hotel, and so forth.… Trust me, she’ll be there with bells on.”

“She’ll be expecting someone else,” I said nervously. “She’ll be expecting someone named Davidson.”

“What you do when she gets there is up to you.” Annette laughed, ignoring my concern. “As far as I know, you’re a filmmaker
looking for a particular type of… talent for your next project. I just put people together.”

“Of course,” I said.

“And tell Frank I said hello.”

______

A rectangular blue pool, pillows strewn here and there for the hipsters to lounge on like the nobles of the Roman court, the
Sky Bar at the Mondrian had been once upon a time Hollywood’s chicest meeting place. But now it was filled with second-rate
beautiful people, stars who had lost their sparkle, pornographers, one-hit wonders, commercial directors, and last year’s
rock stars. The interesting thing about it for me was that no one gave me any strange looks. In my black clothes and wraparound
shades, pale skin and metallic hair, I probably struck these people as an interesting affectation, just another deviation
in the endless variety of Hollywood jerks. If I was here, I must have a reason for being; I must be
someone.

The sun was piss yellow, beating down on the smattering of wannabes and onlookers who gloried in the vicious light, beads
of sweat forming on their gorgeous foreheads and sensuous lips. I was throbbing with confidence from the handful of Inderols
I had swallowed before leaving the apartment, not to mention my firm belief that Frank could take care of anything. I found
a seat at the bar and ordered a vodka and orange juice, Angela’s drink. Just to taste it reminded me of her, sweet and acidic,
cool and warm all at once. Facing the bartender, I shielded my eyes from the reflections that flashed off the array of liquor
bottles behind him and basked in my own source of illumination, medical courage, and some liquid courage, too, together forming
an artificial yet powerful self-possession.

I would see her, I told myself drunkenly. In a matter of hours I would see Angela again.

When the light finally collapsed, I went upstairs and punched in the number Annette had given me, repeating the code, “Black
Hole Sun,” and telling the man who answered that my name was Davidson. I didn’t know what I would do when she got there, but
I was certain that once Angela saw me again, she would explain, that everything would be revealed. I imagined her arms around
my shoulders, a rushed, embarrassed apology, her face pressed into the hollow of my collarbone. She would be so happy to see
me. She had been afraid to make contact, I told myself, for fear of implicating me in whatever trouble she had gotten herself
into. It was all so easy, so simple.

I waited, and at exactly ten o’clock there was a knock.

______

Observe. Hypothesize. Predict. Experiment.

This is the scientific method, by the way, the universally agreed-upon process of discovery designed to prevent our own thoughts
and beliefs from influencing our interpretation of the world around us.

I believed, for instance, that Frank Heile could do anything, that his power was absolute and that his knowledge was virtually
omniscient. I believed, therefore, that when I heard that knock at the door of my hotel room, I would discover Angela on the
other side of it.

I had observed, among other things, that Angela was gone, that she was missing. I had formulated a hypothesis to explain it,
that she had probably gone into hiding and was afraid to contact me or go back to our building because she feared that her
stalker — the white man in the gray suit, no doubt, or whoever had written that note — would find her again. If this was true,
I told myself, she must be taking cover somewhere, most likely in some underworld hideout, where only a person like Annette
could find her. And here was the experiment, to see if she would really arrive.

But even as I heard the knock on the door, I could feel the twists and contortions of my logic. Even as I turned the handle,
I knew that my desire had overcome my sense of reason. Even as I opened the door, I could plainly imagine a chart outlining
the distortions and perversions of my thinking.

In short, my observations were inaccurate, my hypothesis was insane, my prediction was wrong, and my experiment was flawed.
I would be, I freely admit, the world’s worst scientist.

She was tall like Angela, with long straightened hair like Angela’s, but she had a different body type entirely. While Angela
was all skeleton, all bone and hair and teeth, this woman was all muscle, meat, and flesh. She was brown-skinned like Angela,
too, but much darker, almost purple. She wore a virtual rainbow of makeup, all the way to her brows, of pink, fuchsia, and
rose, beneath which were big, round eyes and long, thick lashes. Her lips were dark at the edges, light in the middle, three
gradations of red.

“You’re not Angela,” I informed her.

“You’re not Davidson,” she said back. She wore a full-length satin skirt, I noticed, the color of red wine, with matching
heels and a thin white sweater cut way too low.

“I don’t —,” I began. “I mean, it’s not personal.”

“Can I come inside, or are you going to leave me out here in the hall?”

I stepped aside.

“Fucking Frank,” I said, looking up at the ceiling. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.”

I detected an accent in her voice, the softest lilt, just from the way she said, “I’m starting to get used to people not being
Davidson.”

“Sometimes it’s really him?”

“Sometimes.”

West Indian, I thought. It was the way she held a split second too long on the vowels. She walked all the way into the suite
and looked around. She was planning her escape route, I imagined, locating the telephone, noting the emergency exit. She probably
thought this was some sort of trap. She was smiling, too, a courteous, empty smile, a
welcome-to-Burger-King-how-can-I-help-you
smile.

“I’m Destiny,” she said now. “But you can call me Angela if you want to.”

“Do you dance at the Velvet Mask?”

“Sometimes.”

That was why she was here, I realized. Annette had simply requested the black girl who danced at the Mask. “You don’t know
a girl named Angela who dances there?”

She shook her head.

“Cassandra?”

“No.”

“What about someone named Jessica Teagarden?”

Destiny studied me for a moment, taking me in. “I don’t know anyone with a name like that.”

“How much are you?”

“Pardon me?”

“How much did Frank pay for this?”

She sat down on the edge of the white couch. They had upgraded me to a suite, I think because they recognized my father’s
name, and right now we were in the living area, which contained a white couch, a white chair, a white desk, gray walls, light
gray carpeting, a film of white sheers covering the night-black windows and through which I could see the faint lights of
the city glimmering like slow-motion fireworks. It occurred to me that this room even contained a matching white man, an albino
all in black. “All I know is what
I
get,” Destiny said after a moment. “I don’t ask questions, and I don’t know anyone named Frank.”

“Fucking Frank,” I said.

Through the window, an enormous, building-high advertisement towered over Sunset Boulevard. It was for the new CD by that
band, ImmanuelKantLern. The name of the band itself was a portent for our times, I thought. Kant can’t learn. He can’t teach,
either. Whatever idealism had ever existed in the minds of our most brilliant philosophers has been forever obscured. The
name of their new CD was
Jokes On You,
and the members of the group towered over Los Angeles, staring insolently over the flickering city lights.

I wonder what Kant would have said about my reasoning.

Destiny used the slightest movement of her chin to indicate the minibar. “Do you mind if I have a drink?”

Without asking what she wanted, I poured another vodka and orange juice, using a tiny bottle of Absolut and an individual-size
Minute Maid. I dropped a handful of ice cubes into her glass, and it sounded like the beginning of a nursery song. “I’m sorry,”
I said. “You’re very… you’re beautiful. It’s just that I was expecting someone else.”

When I turned around, Destiny was sitting on the couch just as she had been a moment before, only she had taken off her skirt
and top, which she had laid neatly over the arm of the white chair. She wore a bright red thong and three gold chains, one
around her neck, one around her ankle, and one around her waist. Her breasts were a half shade lighter than the rest of her,
but still fantastically dark. “Whatever it is Angela does for you,” she said quietly, “I can do it, too.”

“That’s not the point.”

“Just tell me what it is.”

“This was Frank’s idea.” I handed Destiny the drink. “That you’re here, I mean. This is because he thinks it’s possible to
replace one person with another, like a new actor playing someone else’s role.” I tried to think of all the sequels Frank
and my father had made.

“In tonight’s production, the part of Angela,” she said, smiling, “will be played by Destiny.”

“Exactly.”

“I’m a very good actress.”

Earlier, I had placed my things on the counter of the kitchenette. Right now, I found the photograph of Angela and held it
up for her. “This is Angela. This is who you’re supposed to be.”

“Hmm,” was all she said, taking the picture and placing it on the coffee table. Then, “Why don’t you come sit by me? Forget
about this other girl, and come over here.” Without looking at the glass, she brought her drink to her waxy lips. When she
sipped it, her eyes didn’t lower at all.

I made myself a vodka and orange juice, too, and sat down next to her, awkwardly holding the drink between my legs.

“What is your name, anyway?”

“Angel,” I confessed.

“Angel was expecting Angela?”

“It’s just a coincidence.”

She shook her head. “I don’t believe in coincidences.”

“With a name like Destiny,” I said, smiling, “I guess you wouldn’t.”

“I have never seen anyone as white as you, Angel.” She looked me over. “Are you an albino?”

I nodded.

She glanced down at her drink. “What did Angela do for you?”

I thought for a second. “She talked.”’

“What did she talk about?” Destiny edged closer.

“Destiny,” I said, “that isn’t your real name.”

“No.” She laughed. “Of course it isn’t.”

“Where are you from?”

“You can hear my accent?” She sighed. “I try to hide it, but I’m not doing a very good job.” She let it get thicker. “I’m
from Barbados. Have you been there?”

“Maybe when I was little, I think, a million years ago.”

“It isn’t fair,” she said.

“What’s that?”

“That you’re wearing clothes and I’m not. Do you think that’s fair, Angel?”

“I don’t really think I should, you know —”

“Why not?”

“You’re not the right girl.”

It had something to do with all the meds I had been taking, not to mention the drinks I’d had at the bar, not to mention my
disappointment at Destiny for not being Angela — or, I should say, at Angela for not being my destiny — but I set my glass
on the coffee table and removed my cargo pants and long-sleeved shirt, placing them on a small marble-topped table behind
the white couch. Now I wore only a pair of baggy gray boxers.

“She gave me a lap dance,” I said, sitting back down, this time closer.

Destiny smiled. “I thought you said she only talked.”

“Talking,” I said, “was her principal, was her primary —”

Destiny leaned all the way into me and cupped her left hand over the front of my shorts. She put her lips against the skin
of my cheek, right next to my ear, and said, “I don’t want to hear any more about this girl named Angela.” She found my erection
beneath the fabric. Angela had done precisely the same thing, I remembered. Do they all do this? “This will be covered,” Destiny
said, “all right?”

“Covered?” For a second I thought she meant insurance. I imagined forms to fill out in triplicate, envelopes to find stamps
for, a bristly haired man in pinstripes offering me a handshake and an expensive pen to sign with.

But then, like a magician producing a coin from the air, Destiny revealed a square of silver with a flourish of her hand,
a round shape inside it.

“Oh,” I said.

She tore the little packet open and unveiled a blue prophylactic. She tugged with one hand on the elastic of my boxers. “Take
these off.”

I slipped them off and placed them on top of my other clothes. As usual, I was surprised at my hard-on. What had produced
it? The vodka? The memory of Angela? Hormones? She reached forward and placed a hand over my testicles. She used her thumb
and forefinger of her other hand to make a circle and then slid the blue condom on, leaning forward and simultaneously taking
my now-blue-latex-covered penis into her mouth. She reached up and touched my chest with her sharp, pink fingernails, pushing
me back onto the cushions. “Relax,” Destiny said, releasing her lips.