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the blue white flickering walls. I do not speak. Largo does not speak. The doors swish open automatically. Largo blips the doors on the rental.
    We get inside. Largo hits the AC. He speaks.
    You buy any of that crap?
    Not a word.
    You got any idea what that was about?
    Not yet. But I get the impression someone wants me dead in California.
    Why here?
    To be honest, I don't think they give a shit where it is as long as it's not Chicago. It's not easy to pull someone out of their home turf. Taking this kind of action, this kind of move. Nothing else could happen ... a lot of people get hurt.
    I felt weary. Exhausted. I needed to think. Re-group. Feel. Get back my edge. Time seemed to be slowing down. My life seemed to have a vanishing point. I always thought my day would come with a cold hard wind and rainy chill. Now, it's coming with a warm sea breeze and blue blue sky.
    Largo takes me to a Mexican joint. I drink a lot of JD and Coke. I eat quesadilla with fries on the side. It's hot and good. Largo drives back to the hotel. He parks while I wait for him in the lobby.
    Danger feels close. My eyes are wide open. It's irrational. I am irrational. I'm prepared. I'm professional. I wait. I wait too long. The danger I now feel is out there.
    The lobby is bright and cool. The young girl behind the check-in is reading something on her computer screen. She ignores my presence. I can see the darkness outside through the archway of the entrance. I move to the right hand wall and press myself against it. The adobe stucco block outside is still and quiet. A black Escalade with tinted windows slides across the entrance to the hotel. The rear passenger blacked out window rolls down, Dallas is sat in the back, I can see the curly wired earpiece. He is wearing sunglasses. He says something to the people inside the truck. Largo appears, bending forward so I can see him. His nose is bloodied. Dallas throws the keys to the rental onto the sidewalk.
    Mister Yama will see you tomorrow for lunch. Let's call it noon.
    I present myself so I am clear to see. I nod. Dallas nods. The window rolls up. The Escalade rolls forward and merges into the cars moving along Del Mar Street. It stops at the traffic signal then turns right. I move with care to the sidewalk, scan the ground with my eyes in the dim light while keeping my mind on the piece shoved into the back of my slacks. I see the key to the rental and pick it up.

JENNIFERS BODY
     
    I've decided this much: I fucking hate California. It's blue blue sky, it's sea breeze, it's green ocean, it's persistent sun. All of this I can take it. I can leave it. But the people, I can't call them Californians because no one here is from California, they are all full of shit. Everyone I talk to is on the hustle. They're actors, screenwriters, designers, faggots. Then how come you're serving me fries? Oh, I'm between "projects" one major league ass hole actually put the inverted commas in with his fingers. What the fuck!
    Driving to see Jennifer Gerbershaden I realize that nothing here is black and white. In Chicago I could go somewhere, I could get information. I could take what I needed. Here. Who the fuck knows anything. Nothing here is black and white. But everything is tanned for sure.
    I drive the rental onto the street where my sister was murdered. I park the car 200 yards from the Gerbershaden residence. I pull on the handbrake hard, lock the door, and stroll down the sidewalk. Today I am sporting a printed shirt. Blends in with the locals. I look like a prick and fit right in. I am invisible.
    I stop at the Gerbershaden house. I stare down at the spot. A small mark that seems to have been scrubbed leaves a stain. I feel nothing. I feel no grief. No anger. Nothing here is black and white.
    I walk up the pathway. I smell beautiful flowers that have a strong scent, eucalyptus, and press the doorbell. I turn until my back faces the door behind me. Nothing happens. I press the bell again. And one more time. A