Los Angeles (23 page)

He stepped out backward.

I dropped onto the bed, simultaneously pulling off my damp, sweaty clothes.

I thought of ImmanuelKantLern’s new CD.

Jokes On You.

I didn’t lie awake and listen to the South American waves, I didn’t dream, I didn’t get up once during the night to gulp water
from the faucet. I only slept.

I slept the black, pharmaceutical-free sleep of the completely defeated.

The joke was on me, all right.

______

I had spent the first part of my life in hotels like this one, enshrouded in the perfumed comforters, behind the heavy curtains.
I had lived in rooms like this all over the world, in fact, in Europe, New York, California, South America, the Caribbean.
Every Christmas growing up, I accompanied my parents to some new exotic destination…St. John, Bora-Bora, St.-Tropez, the Seychelles…,and
all I remember, of course, are the rooms, the pearl carpeting and faux-French furniture, the curtains drawn to protect me
from the sun, the candlelit restaurants at night, where I sat with a book while my parents ate in silence or my father entertained,
his voice booming. I have probably been to Paris twenty times, but I have never been up in the Eiffel Tower. I have been to
New York fifty times but have never walked through Times Square. There was a point in the middle of the night when I woke
up and felt that old familiarity of waking up in a hotel, the controlled atmosphere, the ambient hush of the carpeted halls
outside the door. I have been everywhere, is the truth, and nowhere.

When I woke up in the morning, I felt metallic, my limbs hanging like dumbbells from my body and my skin like aluminum foil.
The room was freezing, the air conditioner set to chill. I ordered a grapefruit and a pot of coffee from room service and
wrapped myself in one of the fluffy white robes I found hanging behind the bathroom door. I had strewn my clothes at the foot
of the bed and now, picking them up, noticed they were still damp from last night’s sweat and severely wrinkled from the million
hours on the plane.

I should have brought something to wear, I realized. A change of underwear, at least.

Eventually I got in the shower. The maid came in, and when she heard me in the bathroom, she must have turned around and left.
The first thing I did when I got out was check to see if the money was still in my wallet, having been told so often about
all the crime in South America.

But there it was. Thousands of dollars in crisp hundred-dollar bills. The note was in there, too, the blue letter I had found
on Angela’s doorstep.
Breathe because you breathe / You are the blood in my veins / air in my lungs / taste in my mouth / This is a threat / a promise
/ a warning.

I slipped into my wrinkled, dirty clothes and took the elevator downstairs.

In the hotel gift shop, I selected the items I would need: toothpaste, toothbrush, a clean shirt, underwear. I thumbed through
a meager rack of tropical shirts and swimming trunks and finally chose a solid red short-sleeved shirt. When I turned back
around, I saw a brown-eyed girl giving me a wide, easy smile. It wasn’t the plastic Los Angeles greeting I was so accustomed
to — this was open, direct.

She rang up the items and asked in a Portuguese accent if there was anything else I needed.

It was at that moment that I noticed the jewelry case. The thought jumped into my head that if I bought something for Angela,
it would mean we would be together again. It was magical thinking, an act of faith, of almost holy belief that she was waiting
for me, that the voice I had heard on the phone, whispering in the dark, would speak to me again, full of breath and light,
flesh and blood.

A gift would demonstrate my feelings for her, too, when I saw her again. It would show her how serious I really was.

The shop girl waited patiently behind the counter while I examined the jewelry. There were glowing garnets, flashing emeralds,
vulgar rubies.

I examined necklaces, bracelets, earrings…

I pointed to a diamond surrounded by deep blue sapphires on a platinum band.

“Oh —” The girl beamed from behind the counter. “The sapphires…they are so beautiful.”

I handed her my card, the one that worked.

Moments later, dressed in my new red shirt, the black velvet box containing Angela’s ring tucked snugly in the lower right
side pocket of my cargo pants, and my teeth freshly brushed, I approached the concierge, who was already reaching into a drawer.

“Your ticket, Mr. Veronchek.” He gave me an envelope, and I slipped it into the pocket next to the velvet box.

A bellman stepped forward. “May I call a taxi for you?”

I pulled my asshole sunglasses down over my eyes and followed him outside.

The sky was a plush shade of blue, with clouds scattered across it like white scraps of paper strewn over an open field. The
beach was carpet beige, a tasteful hue from an expensive set design, and the water that had been so black in the moonlight
glowed emerald where the waves absorbed the rays of the sun. As the eye traveled out to sea, the waves turned to cool aqua
and finally became a glittering silver. An orb of liquid fire, high in the sky, dripped through the air. It painted the modern
high-rise buildings yellow-white, splashed against the street, and bled onto the mosaic tiles of the sidewalks.

A taxi appeared in front of me as if on cue, and I slipped inside. I had told the bellman I wanted to go to the concert hall
where ImmanuelKantLern was playing. He repeated the address to the driver, and we pulled onto the wide black-and-white-tiled
street.

On the beach, teenage boys gathered in groups, kicking soccer balls. There were girls out there, too, hundreds, wearing the
smallest bikinis, with gleaming black hair and, even from here, flashing white teeth. We drove beyond the beach and into the
city, weaving swiftly through concentrated but quick-moving traffic until we finally stopped in front of the huge concrete
edifice where I had tried to get in last night, a bland, unadorned expanse of office gray, so different in the light of day.

The taxi driver pointed to the glass entrance.

I gave him one of the hundreds and waved away his astonished response.

She was here, I thought. I could feel her. She was somewhere nearby.

“Angel,” I imagined her saying, smiling hugely, the way she had smiled for me that night at the Mask, “you found me…”

The concert wouldn’t start for hours, but I planned to take in the layout during the day, find out where the back entrances
were, discover where the equipment trucks were loaded, maybe even locate Angela before the show.

I stepped around to the front of the building, passing the row of double glass doors, and noticed a wall lined with parking
spaces.

I walked around to the back, to the loading zone. There were already a couple of trucks parked there, as well as a huge tour
bus. I looked up at the windows, which were dark and reflective, so I couldn’t see anything inside it, but I heard some music
emanating, a familiar dirty pulse.

I walked to the front of the bus and lifted my hand to knock on the door.

“Hey, hey, hey, hey, hey.” It was a voice coming from behind me. “You again?”

I turned around and saw that American with long gray hair falling out of a white Panama hat. This was the same guy from last
night, the one who had told me about the invitation-only party.

“I heard music,” I said. “I thought —”

“You thought, you thought. What do you want?”

I took a risk. “I’m looking for someone.”

“Who?”

“I’m looking for a girl named Jessica Teagarden. Sometimes she calls herself Cassandra.”

The man stepped forward. “Why would I know her?”

“She’s the girlfriend of…of one of the guys in the band.”

“I’m the road manager.” He laughed and lifted his hat, revealing a shining bald head fringed by long gray hair. He ran his
fingers over his scalp and placed the hat back down. It reminded me of Mike, that cop who had come to my apartment the night
after Angela disappeared. He actually seemed like the same actor playing a new role. “And there aren’t any girlfriends on
the road with the band. Believe me, I would know.”

“I really need to find her, and I think…I think she may be here. I came all the way…all the way from Los Angeles.” The guy
wasn’t reacting, so I reached into my pocket and pulled out my wallet. “It’s very important. It’s actually a matter of life
and death.”

Slowly, I counted out five hundred-dollar bills.

“Well”—he started looking around guiltily—“the band’s doing a radio interview at the moment, and they won’t be back for quite
some time.”

I counted out a couple more and held them out, offering an encouraging look. “Will you help me?”

“You a freak?” he asked, taking the money. “A weirdo? You gonna make a fool of me?”

“I just want to find —”

He cut me off, pocketing the cash. “Joey’s been kind of paranoid lately, but I’ll see what I can do.” The road manager pulled
a cell phone from his pocket and punched in a number. He walked away and started speaking quietly into the phone. I even thought
I heard him say the name Cassandra, but I couldn’t be sure. I also noticed that the noise coming from inside the bus had momentarily
stopped. He paced back and forth, speaking quietly for several minutes, then clicked off and turned around. “The guys are
coming back about an hour before the concert. He’ll meet you around nine. Is that all right?”

“Does Joey know where she is?”

He screwed up his face. “I didn’t get into all that.”

“Okay,” I said. “But exactly where should I meet him?”

He reached into his shoulder bag and pulled out a shimmering rectangle of plastic. “This is a backstage pass.” He presented
it like a mayor offering me the key to the city. “Just come around here at nine.” He pointed to a gray metal door. “And the
guard will let you in.”

“One hour before they go on?”

“One hour.”

“Nine o’clock?” I didn’t want to get anything wrong.

“Exactly at nine.”

I imagined walking up to a door and before I even lifted my hand to knock, she was opening it. I thought of her face, the
tiny wrinkles at the corners of her eyes, that look of understanding…

“Thank you,” I said, backing away. “Thank you so much.” I walked back around to the front of the concert hall and found myself
crossing the busy four-lane avenue.

There was a little park across the street that I thought might be a good place to wait. I found a spot in the shade of an
old magnolia and sat down on the damp, tropical grass. I wrapped my arms around my legs and propped my chin on my knees, staring
out at the flashing sea. I could see the water, the sandy beach, kids kicking soccer balls, girls frolicking in the sun. I
was buoyant, ecstatic, waiting and watching the light ripple and shimmer off the surface of the water. It was already almost
three in the afternoon, and the sun was a furious, raging ball of flames. From behind me came the heavy sounds of traffic,
the whine and roar of engines that seemed different somehow, higher-pitched, than the automobile engines in L.A.

“Angel?” a distant voice said.

I looked up.

“Angel?”

I couldn’t fucking believe it. It was that junior lawyer, the one who had been with Frank back in L.A.

Marcel.

“Angel?” He was coming toward me, about thirty yards away now, wearing khaki pants, a pink golf shirt, a blue blazer. Even
in South America he was wearing expensive, entertainment-lawyer-on-his-day-off clothes.

I jumped up and took off, running across the small expanse of park through the waxy magnolias directly into the oncoming traffic.

I didn’t look back to see if he was following me — I just ran, my legs practically breaking beneath me, and almost caused
a major accident.

When I finally turned around, I was blocks into the city, breathing hard, my ankles sharp with pain, and dripping with sweat.

What the fuck was
he
doing here?

Frank must have sent that prick down to get me. He had probably come on the next fucking plane.

I kept walking, looking furtively behind me, until I came to a cafe. I slipped inside and moved all the way to the back, taking
a seat in the most shadowy part of the room. Even though I was sweating like an animal, I ordered a cappuccino from the waitress,
and drinking it, minutes later, watched the young lawyer slink by the window. He even came to the door and looked around inside.

I put my head down and tried to stay out of sight. He didn’t see me, luckily, and eventually turned around and disappeared.
I imagined the conversation Frank and my father must have had when they discovered I was in South America. I had paid for
the concert ticket with my hotel bill, so it probably wasn’t listed on the credit card. No. The concierge must have told him
about the concert, and Frank’s assistant must have come here after speaking to him, then simply walked around the perimeter
of the concert hall and spotted me below the magnolia in the little park.

I sipped my steaming coffee and slowly chewed through the two dry cookies that had come with it. The cafe was ancient, with
small, round, marble-topped tables and molded cane chairs. There was a dark wooden bar, lacquered a million times over, and
a hissing espresso machine. The tile floor had been worn through to the concrete beneath. It was crowded at the moment, which
was fortunate, and which was why Frank’s assistant hadn’t been able to see me. He was on the phone by now, I imagined, notifying
Frank that he had found and then lost me, that I had run away, but that he was hot on my trail.

I finished my coffee, left another one of those hundreds on the table and stepped outside, careful to look around the corner.
Marcel would be waiting at the concert hall by now. I only hoped he wouldn’t find out about my backstage pass, and that I
could locate Joey — and Angela — before the concert.

I walked through the labyrinthine streets, careful to watch for Frank’s creepy assistant, and finally made my way back.