Perfect Sax (6 page)

I
considered my options.

I could walk all the way back to the Woodburn. I might still catch Wesley and Holly before they left for the night. But then…It could take me half an hour to toddle on over there in my wicked black satin sandals, probably longer. And what if I hiked all that way and they were gone, the lights were out, and the place was locked up for the night? I would be no better off than I was now. I considered the eerie ghost town of silent office towers, giant plazas, and public buildings all around me. Not that I was scared of being out alone at night. I could take care of myself. But I preferred to find the comfort of civilization, or what passes for it in Southern California.

L.A.’s downtown nightlife is spotty. Our party at the Tager Auditorium had been the liveliest thing going for blocks. And that was a couple of miles north and west. Now that the ball was over, there were few vehicles on the street. For instance, this section of Broadway was definitely not hopping. The once stately buildings here are old and decrepit. During the day, this street is jammed—a lively marketplace with a Hispanic flavor, crowded with shoppers—but now storefront upon storefront was locked down tight, metal security shutters covering all windows and doors for blocks.

I really half expected the Knights to return to their senses and come back for me. But as that was not panning out, I began walking as I continued considering my options. I wasn’t entirely enthusiastic about the option of ducking into any hole-in-the-wall bar, either, should I happen to stumble across one, because (a) it was too near closing time for comfort, and (b) we were a mere vagrant’s throw from the Nickel, the section of Fifth Street that has become L.A.’s skid row.

I could walk to one of the hotels downtown. I could explain my situation and ask to use a phone and call a friend and get saved. But I was more resourceful than that. This was my adopted city and I could take care of myself. And then the fog of possibilities began to clear. I actually said aloud, “The Red Line.”

Los Angeles has a rather new if admittedly limited subway system. The best part was, the track ran right under downtown and there was a stop at Hollywood and Highland, easy walking distance to my house. I suppose it is shameful that I hadn’t ridden public transportation since I’d moved to L.A., but just stop anyone here and ask if they even know what the Red Line
is
? Anyone except Wesley, I mean. Naturally, Wesley studied the plans, followed the morass of problems with its construction, and rode on the subway on its inaugural day. But that was Wes.

I was giving myself props because I knew all about it and I was just bursting with civic pride about the Red Line now. Simply bursting. And as I was practically on Seventh Street, I took a turn and began trotting toward Flower, where the Red Line station was waiting, saying a silent prayer of thanks to Wes for his long and at the time overly detailed reports. I had purpose in my step. I could take care of myself. I tried to keep my head-swiveling-to-check-if-I-was-being-followed-by-a-homicidal-stalker to a minimum.

Instead, I focused on not twisting an ankle in the enormous cracks in the sidewalk, on how resilient I was feeling about getting myself home in the big, bad city, and on just how I was going to come up with the dollar and change it would take to ride the Red Line train. I had hoped I’d find a few generous folks near the entrance to the metro station who might give a break to a young lady dressed in a thousand-dollar gown, even though I could hardly tell them I got it for 70 percent off. You know, depend on the kindness of strangers. But I began realizing it was pretty late for travelers. In fact, the entrance to the station, still about a block away, seemed fairly deserted.

Focused as I’d been on looking up ahead, scouting out late-night commuters from whom I might borrow the fare, I had not been paying close enough attention to my immediate surroundings. So I was startled—shocked, actually—by some nearby movement.

There, low in the shadows up against the building, something quite close to me had moved. My eyes readjusted to see into the recess of the building’s entrance.

It was a man. He appeared to be sitting on the sidewalk. Well, lying was closer to the truth of it. He was semipropped against the building, with a jar on the ground and a rather sweet, if filthy, shepherd mix asleep beside him. The dog looked up as my heels click-clacked closer.

I had the best idea. What if this man might want to lend me the fare? The dog kept his eyes on me, but didn’t move. I sort of hated the idea of waking the man, though. By his old clothes and the aroma of alcohol, I figured he could probably use all the sleep he could grab. And then I saw the quarters and dimes in the bottom of the jar.

It’s not that I believe in fate exactly, but what are the odds that a desperate woman is walking alone down an empty street in the wee hours of the morning with only one need—and
that would be exactly $1.35—and in almost the very next block she would come across a jar with change, just sitting there? Even I have to bow to a higher power, here.

I slowed and said, “Ahem.” The man didn’t budge. The dog raised his head and sort of smiled at me.

“Hi there, fella,” I said, in my friendly-to-kids-and-dogs voice. “Are you a happy dog or an angry dog?”

I got no response. “Here’s my problem,” I told the dog just as his companion let out a soft snore. “I need a little money to get on the train that will take me home. It’s called the Red Line, you know. We’re pretty dang proud of it here in downtown Los Angeles.”

The pooch stared at me.

“Well, anyway. I need a little money so I can buy a subway ticket, but the problem I was telling you about is, I lost my purse. Can you believe that? I know where it is, actually, but I can’t get to it right now. So, here’s my question.”

Another soft snore came from the man. The dog was calm, but looking a little bored.

“My question is, do you think I can borrow a dollar thirty-five? I will return it with interest. In fact, I’ll come back here tomorrow and give your master a ten-dollar reward for his help. What do you think?”

The dog didn’t seem too stressed by the idea. He laid his head back down and I took that to mean, “Go ahead, help yourself.”

It wasn’t really stealing if you planned all along to give the money back, was it? Under better circumstances, I would certainly have left him my business card, but of course I keep my cards in my purse. And at this precise moment, my purse was in a hundred-thousand-dollar armored vehicle, which, for all I knew, was ramming into a mansion in Pasadena while its crazed driver screamed for his lost Selmer Mark VI.

I reached down for the jar, keeping my eye on the dog.

“This is just a loan. I promise,” I promised the dog as I scooped out five quarters and a dime from the dirty glass jar that still had the Clausen’s Dill Pickle label semiattached.

I put the jar back quietly and shot a glance at the sleeping man. He hadn’t stirred. And, minding my manners, I said, “Thank you, doggy. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

I raced up the block to the Red Line station, feeling elated to be on my way home. This had been, admittedly, an odd evening. Not that there wasn’t something a little odd about most of the events that our company organizes—parties bring out the oddest behavior imaginable—but tonight was getting to be some kind of record. Not only had the live auction turned ugly, but a priceless saxophone had apparently been stolen. Add to that the bizarre chase scene in the streets between two crazed dads and the fact that I’d just had to roll a drunk to get enough money to take the subway home, and I think even Holly and Wes would agree, this evening deserved a special monument in hell all to itself.

And that was even before the sign on the entrance to the Red Line station had time to sink in.
THE LAST TRAIN LEAVES UNION STATION WESTBOUND TO NORTH HOLLYWOOD AT
11:33
P.M.
I looked at my watch: 1:38.

Well, no wonder, then, that the street outside the station had seemed so deserted. The last train had left over two hours ago. Damn the Red Line! Damn public transportation!

So okay, I may not know everything there is to know about train schedules, but there is something I do know about. I know every late-night restaurant there is in the 213 area code, and one of the oldest and coolest was just a block west and two blocks south of where I was standing.

It turns out our former Mayor Richard Riordan’s legacy wasn’t just the Democratic National Convention and the Walt Disney Concert Hall. It’s also the landmark diner he
owns, a twenty-four-hour T-bone-lover’s haven in downtown Los Angeles, the Original Pantry Café. They say it opened in 1924 and it’s never closed for an hour since, a legend in a town with less history to boast of than it likes.

I suddenly realized I was starving. It would be kind of nice to slip out of these shoes and order one of the Pantry’s famous breakfasts, the #4, which gets you ham, bacon, or sausage, one egg, two pancakes, potatoes, and a cup of joe for only $5.95. I was already humming to myself, my Red Line woes behind me, as I turned down Figueroa, deciding I could use the money I had “borrowed” from the wino to phone Wesley. I liked to be self-reliant, of that there’s no doubt. But I wasn’t going to make a religion out of it. Maybe Wes and Holly would join me for at the Pantry for breakfast. And bring cash.

There was a whole different vibe on Fig. For one thing, there was some light traffic passing by, which made the scene instantly appear a lot less Twilight Zone surreal. For another, I could see the lit-up Pantry off another block. Dwarfed as it was by the skyscraper office towers around it, it still had the comforting aura of hot food and warm folks inside. In fact, there was actually a line of waiting-to-be-seated patrons coming out the door. At 1:30
A.M.
on a Sunday morning. Hot dog! I hurried along, tying my shawl to keep it from flapping.

Just then, I noticed a sporty little car, a dark BMW something, slowing down, pacing me. I hurried some more and the car matched my pace. Good grief. I was so close to people and safety and food!

There was a lone guy inside and in that instant I got it. Look at me. I was wearing a low-cut black gown with a slit up to there and what used to be some pretty spectacular high heels. His window lowered and he said, “Hey, hello.”

I probably shouldn’t have looked over at him, but I was
curious. And then surprised. He was a nice-looking guy. Quite nice-looking. I kept walking.

“Hi,” he said, stopping his car a few feet from me.

I remembered the first time I watched
Pretty Woman
and smiled to myself. This guy wasn’t Richard Gere, but he did have an aura of wealth, not to mention amazing great wavy hair, a lean, worked-out kind of body, and great, intelligent eyes. “Sorry,” I said, still walking swiftly. I was close enough to the Pantry to yell for help if I had to. “I’m not the kind of girl you’re looking for.”

“Don’t be so sure,” the guy in the car said, again keeping pace with me, driving slow.

“Sorry,” I said, noticing his hands on the steering wheel, strong hands, and the dimple in his cheek. “You’re not my type.”

“I can change,” he offered. Again, the dimple. Now, what was this fairly cool guy with a laid-back sense of humor doing cruising around downtown at this hour? Didn’t he know most of the hookers hung out in Hollywood?

Ever helpful to handsome tourists, I stopped right outside the Pantry and kept talking. “You know, you should try Santa Monica Boulevard, west of Highland.”

“Can’t do that,” he said, smiling up at me. “I’m going to take you home.”

The two guys at the tail end of the waiting customer line outside the Pantry turned to listen to our conversation. As I joined the line, my admirer kept his car idling next to the sidewalk.

“And what,” I asked, with exaggerated force, perhaps inspired by the fact that I was defending my honor in front of a little audience, “makes you think I would ever put one foot in your car?”

“Well, I’m making the assumption here that you are
Madeline Bean. And if you are, my sister Zenya sent me to take you home. I’ve been driving all over the upper-class-forsaken streets of this city for at least forty minutes just looking for you.”

I stared at him. “What?”

“You must be tired. Want to get in and I’ll drive you home?”

“You’re
Zenya’s
brother?”

“All my life.”

“Prove it.”

“She’s a sweetheart. She’s blond.”

He had dark blond hair, cut kind of long. I kept looking at him.

“You want more? She’s married to a jerk named Bill Knight. I’ve got a cool nephew named Kirby.”

Ah, well. Look here. I was being minded by Zenya’s brother.

On the downside, it appeared that my slit skirt hadn’t attracted some adorable, random, night-cruising scum. On the bright side, it appeared I hadn’t been abandoned after all. Zenya wasn’t going to let me wander helplessly in the streets. While that husband of hers might have been out of his gourd with battle-tank fantasies of revenge, still, leave it to Zenya to call her brother and send him out to find me. “What instrument does Kirby play?” I asked.

“Kirby plays the sax,” the man said, smiling. “Tenor sax. He’s pretty good, too.”

“Damn. I thought you were trying to buy my favors,” I said.

The two guys who had been openly eavesdropping were told by the Pantry’s host to move forward, and they went reluctantly in the door and to their table.

“Want to hop in?” the man asked, gesturing to his passenger seat.

“I don’t even know your name. What if you are an extremely clever liar?”

“My name is Dexter Delano Wyatt.” He looked out at me from the window of his neat little Z4. “You are something else, Madeline. I’ve come to rescue you and you won’t let me.”

Wasn’t that about the story of my life? “Well, you look suspicious,” I said coyly.

“You are even more paranoid and delusional than the girls I normally date. Which, if you only knew me better, you would find remarkable.”

The Pantry’s host opened the door once more and this time looked at me. “One?” he asked, brisk and efficient.