Chapter 1
Hand over lighter, instant ash once the first puff is inhaled. David Campos parks cars at the Hotel Bel Air. He had to use his twin brother’s identity to get the job, since he’s been caught boosting cars since he was twelve. He’s had his share of strikes. One more and he’ll find himself in lock-up for a long stretch. This keeps him on the straight and narrow. His partner this evening, James Powell’s tale is quite the opposite. He grew up in a poor black neighborhood, his father a bus driver and his mother an assistant at UCLA’s parking office. He never fell in with the wrong crowd.
David offers a cigarette; James declines. He speaks as he exhales a cloud of smoke, “I don’t know how you do it, college boy. School all day, standing here at night, studying between. I barely make it here for just this shit.”
James gestures excitedly with his hands as he talks. “Gotta grind. If parking these cars isn’t incentive enough to one day have one, I don’t know what is.”
David blows smoke out of the side of his mouth while shaking his head. “For you, maybe.”
A Mercedes CLS550 Coupe pulls up. James nods at David, “I got this one. You finish your smoke across the way.”
“Thanks bro.” David scurries off into the shadows.
The driver door pops open. Max is a beast of a man, with buzzed head and goatee, wearing a black T-shirt under a black suit. He hands the keys to James in exchange for a valet slip and opens the back door for his boss. Colin Graves, late thirties, handsome, dapper in his bespoke suit exits buttoning his jacket as he comes to full standing. He grabs the hand of his wife, Betty, as she floats out of the car. She’s angelic, with model-turned-movie-star looks and Colin treats her that way. They walk hand in hand towards the restaurant and Max follows behind as their car pulls away. He stands outside as they dine.
The restaurant attracts sophisticated and discerning customers. Solar systems have fewer stars than this eatery, both as an arbitrary means of measurement as well as celebrities who are regular patrons. The food is of superfine quality, exceptional appeal, and much too costly. The portions are microscopic and the prices are macroscopic. Most people hope to gain weight after a meal here. At least body fat is something tangible to justify the extraordinary price per mouthful.
The place is packed. The air is filled with the sound waves of casual conversations intermingling and bouncing off one another. Ornate molding frames the walls and the ceilings are coffered. Dark-grained wood and décor in black and white gives the place a noir feel. The only color comes from the strategically placed paintings of local LA Artist, Miles Regis, who must be more connected than the Prince of Darkness. The devil himself couldn’t get a painting hung in here if his bifurcated tail depended on it.
The maitre d’ seats Betty and Colin, pulling out her chair. Colin shakes his hand; this isn’t their first time here. While they are far from regulars, both are memorable – especially Betty. Her presence does to Colin almost what a pacemaker would to someone with a heart condition. She gives him an invincibility that’s almost dangerous. The waiter approaches and pours some water into each of their glasses. He pauses, then addresses them. “Are you ready or do you need a few moments?”
“We’ll each have a double-double animal style, one bloomin’ onion, and the unlimited salad and breadsticks.”
Betty interjects. “He’s joking, we need a second.”
The waiter bows, “Of course.” He walks away.
“A little pushy in this joint. I wasn’t even able to open my menu and, let’s face it, it’ll take a second to decide. I read on a fifth grade level with about sixty percent comprehension. You look great, by the way.”
Betty playfully gives him the middle finger. “Col, they want to subtly get us in and out. It’s just business. Capitalism at its finest.”
“Nice to meet you, Adam Smith. Care to give me an invisible hand job?”
Betty laughs. “Crude econ joke, eh? Would you rather be dining with Karl Marx?”
“Only if we order the Duck Soup.” He wiggles his eyebrows and pantomimes playing with his cigar a la Groucho Marx.
“You don’t have an off button, do you?” Her laughter lines have become more pronounced since they met.
“I hear it’s near my prostate?”
She cuts a piece of butter and places it on her bread. “This bread is lousy. Lukewarm bread and ice-cold butter. It is like trying to spread a brick on a foam cushion.”
“That’s it. I’m posting a review online. How do you spell abomination? You look great, by the way.”
Betty mouths ‘fuck off’. “I shouldn’t be filling up on bread anyway.”
“I don’t know; the portions are small. Maybe fill up on lousy bread? And water.” He pauses. “Wow, a hundred bucks a piece to eat like we’re in jail.”
“For an extra fifty they’ll shank you in the bathroom.”
“Oh nice.” He puts up his hand and she high fives him.
The waiter interrupts their conversation. “Excuse me. Are you ready to order?”
Betty clears her throat. “In a minute or two.”
The waiter politely bows. “Of course.”
She takes a sip of water. “This is a celebration, right?”
“Yes it is.” Colin places his hand up in the air. “At work we had a sexual harassment seminar and I’m the first in my family to pass.”
“Pass or make a pass?”
“You get slapped when you pass, right?”
Betty smirks and shakes her head.
Colin places his hands up. “Sonny is out and I am in.”
Betty’s eyes light up with excitement. “Finally!” She moves her hand across her neck, “I hope it was quick.”
“Like a band aid.” Colin takes a braggadocio tone. “He was clinging to what worked years ago, instead of adapting to what works now. Times have changed and with most things you have to evolve. Besides, he was a huge dick. And not in a good way.”
“That’s gross. You’re the new blood?”
“In with the new blood, like a lifesaving transfusion. Remind
me of this conversation thirty years from now when I’ll need to adapt or retire.” He holds out his hand and she grabs his pinky with hers.
“Will do.” Betty picks up her water glass and clinks it against his. Colin scans the room in a panic. “Where’s that waiter, I’m
starving. You look great, by the way.”
She shakes her head, her big eyes gazing at him.
The two starry-eyed sweethearts, deeply in love, enjoy a blissful dinner. Course after course, they never have to share silence. Colin leans in, “You know how I know that I love you?”
“Say that three times fast,” Betty purses her lips. “No, how?”
“You sing a song only I can hear.”
Betty squints. “That sounds familiar. You come up with that?”
“Not exactly, and you could google it. Go on the line as the kids
call it, but it articulates perfectly how I feel so I stole it.”
“It’s beautiful, and I love you too.”
As their meal ends, Colin places his napkin on his plate and arches his back with satisfaction, while Betty reapplies her lipstick using her compact.
Colin notices another table eavesdropping, “So I say, Rosa, I know you’re trying to find a new home for Luc, your six-year-old daughter, but the dark web is so sketchy. Not all those guys actually have that Jared from Subway money.”
Betty leans in, “You’re terrible.”
“How many people in here are wondering how much you’re costing me, do you think?”
“I’d say a few.”
“How much are you costing me?”
“Cost. Past tense. One used purse.”
“That’s right. I made out like a bandit.”
“Yeah you did.”
When the bill comes, Colin pays. “Shall we?”
Betty nods affirmatively. Colin stands up and places his hand out, helping her out of her seat. He sweetly sneaks a kiss as she rises. The two walk arm in arm towards the exit. As they approach the door, Colin’s driver waits awkwardly with their coats.
“Boss,” Max whispers.
“Max. What’s up?”
“I need to use the bathroom before we head home.”
Colin smiles. “Jeez, big guy, you could’ve gone any time in the last hour.” Max freezes. “I’m busting your chops. I think we can get the car without incident.” Max hands him the valet ticket stub and they exit.
Max enters the bathroom as two patrons shuffle out, chatting as they pass him. There are mirrors above the sink. The tiles, from floor to ceiling, are black and white, with a shine that’s almost blinding. This bathroom has an attendant who is old and frail. He has gray hair and shakes a little as he stands at his post. Max makes eye contact, nods at him, and hustles towards a urinal that is filled with ice. Max looks up as he urinates, finishes, and zips up with some difficulty, as the zipper refuses to cooperate. He heads over to the sink to wash up. The attendant walks over to help him.
“Thanks. I got it though.” Max attends to someone day to day, and simply can’t accept the pampering.
The attendant attempts to assuage Max’s unwillingness to let him do his job. “Just trying to make a living.” Max reaches into his pocket and pulls out some money. The attendant places his hand up, halting the transaction. “I’m old school, my friend. A penny earned. And, I didn’t earn that money. Thank you, but my pride won’t let me take handouts. I’m no beggar.”
“I didn’t mean any disrespect, sir. I didn’t imply that you were. Why don’t you just give me a hand?” The attendant turns the faucet on. He squirts soap on Max’s hands and when Max is done rinsing off, the attendant hands him paper towels. Max places the money in the straw basket.
Colin stands with his arm around Betty while they wait for the car. She rests her head on his chest. Colin looks up, “It feels like it’s about to rain, yeah?”
“I heard it was going to be a beautiful night.”
“From some sort of authority or some dipshit?”
“The KTLA weather guy.”
“Oh, the latter then. I don’t trust that guy. His fake tan is too dark and his bleached teeth are too white. Besides, weathermen are like slot machines. The one time they pay off only makes up for the thousand times they don’t.”
Betty nods. “Like most people.”
“Yep, like most people. Predicting the unpredictable is a fool’s endeavor. The future is meant to be unknown and ever changing. If fortune cookies were right on the money, I’d never eat Chinese.” Colin pats his pockets, “Shit, I think I left my wallet on the table. I’ll be right back.”
Before he can even finish the sentence, a white van with blacked out windows comes to a screeching halt in front of them. The couple is jarred from their previously romantic pose. Colin steps in front of Betty like a mama bear protecting her cub. His brow furrows. “What the fuck?”
The door slides open violently. Overlapping heartbeats get louder and faster. Two men in ski masks jump out, one punches Colin in the stomach. Doubled over, he searches the deepest recesses of his lungs for whatever breath he can muster. He tastes the cigarette he tried when he was fifteen. The other masked man grabs Betty; she flails and screams but cannot overpower her kidnapper. He throws her into the belly of the van. The two men then drag her winded husband into the darkness, like demons pulling a soul into hell.
The gas pedal is slammed to the floor; the rear tires smoke, and take a second to grip the road. The van fishtails, causing the side door to slide shut, before tearing off into the night.
Max, on the scene seconds too late, is washed over with panic. His heart rate instantly skyrockets. He gets the license plate number of the van as it speeds off. “No. No. No. Fuck! Fuck me!” His shaking hands can barely handle his phone.
