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bitch-on-wheels.
    The car – my car, turned out to be a flashy four-by-four… oh, sorry, SUV. The driver was a tall, thin black guy with hair graying at the temples. He was wearing a uniform. I mean seriously, jacket, peaked cap – the whole thing made me feel like an impostor. The driver gazed at me coolly when I automatically went to sit in the front passenger seat, and patiently held open one of the rear doors.
    “Perhaps you’d be more comfortable in the back, sir, where there’s more room.”
    Sir?!
    God, this was embarrassing.
    I slid into the back seat as he suggested – instructed – and stared out of the window. Nobody seemed to walk anywhere, and I realized that it was probably because there were hardly any pavements. I wasn’t used to being driven either. There wasn’t much point driving in London, in my opinion, what with the congestion charge, council permit parking fees, and the cost of petrol. I hadn’t even bothered to take my driving test – mostly because I couldn’t afford the lessons. At home I had an Oyster card for traveling on the Tube and buses or, if I wasn’t working, which was most of the time, I saved money by walking. You see a lot more of a city when you travel by foot, and I knew all the alleyways and shortcuts in London. Out here, I was lost. I had no sense of direction, no sense of how LA fit together as a city – it seemed all so strung out. A bit like the people.
    The buses even carried adverts for the latest must-have plastic surgery. What was this place?
    I was feeling tense again. I needed music but my iPod had died. Nervously, I glanced at the driver.
    “Er… would you mind putting the radio on, please?”
    “Yes, sir. What would you like to listen to? The news?”
    “No, not news. Music… are there any good jazz stations?”
    “You like jazz, sir?”
    I could guess what he was thinking: white boy likes jazz?
    “Yeah, I do.”
    “Hmm…”
    I watched him punch buttons on the car stereo.
    “Do you like jazz?”
    His eyes met mine in the rear view mirror.
    “Brought up with it. Ma daddy played with Chet Baker and Stan Getz.”
    No bleedin’ way! “You’re kidding!”
    “No, sir. ‘It could happen to you’.”
    “Wow!” This place was amazing! “Do you play?”
    “Naw. Talent skipped a generation. You?”
    “Alto sax. But I’m no Everette Harp.”
    He smiled at me and shook his head. “Bit on the pale side for that, son.”
    Then he pushed another button and the surround sound speakers bathed me in music. I recognized the tune: Brubeck’s ‘Take Five’. And I started to relax, my fingers drumming to the music. I opened my eyes and saw the driver watching me. His eyes crinkled slightly and I thought he was smiling. I smiled back and he turned up the volume.
    “Name’s Earl,” he said.
    “I’m Miles. Good to meet you, Earl.”
    “Miles, huh? That’s a fine name, boy.”
    “Thanks. Named after Miles Davis.”
    “You don’t say!” he laughed.
    Cocooned in the music, I leaned back. Maybe today wouldn’t be so bad.
    Or maybe it would be exactly as bad as I was expecting. The car pulled up in front of a swanky beauty salon. I stared at it in horror. Through the lightly tinted window I could see a row of helmet-haired women getting their claws filed. Surely this couldn’t be the place?!
    I realized Earl was watching me, his expression sympathetic.
    “Here?” I managed to croak.
    He nodded.
    “Oh, shit!”
    That made him smile broadly. “I’ll pick you up in two hours, sir.”
    Two hours?! What the fuck were they going to do to me for two whole hours?
    Earl started to get out of the car and I realized he was about to open the door for me. Hurriedly, I flung the door open and almost fell onto the street. I saw him cough and I knew he was trying not to laugh. I’d be laughing if I were him; but I was me, and my mouth was dry with terror.
    Earl watched as I walked slowly toward the salon’s entrance. Was this how prisoners felt, walking to