“Elvis never played D’Angelicos,” I said.
“That should be the worst of it. This guy’s got a tin ear.” A peck on the cheek—hard, maybe dismissive—and she was off.
By noon I was jumping out of my skin.
At twelve-eighteen I gave up and drove away.
West. Toward Santa Monica. The ocean. Figuring I’d just cruise by Ben Bugger’s high-rise, then take a nice, relaxed drive north on Ocean Front, down the ramp to Pacific Coast Highway.
Malibu. Day at the beach. Nothing to do with Lauren, because Lauren had left no clues in Malibu, and why should I avoid an entire coastline?
I could be as Californian as anyone.
But when I passed the building, Dugger was standing out in front, and I reduced my speed to a crawl. Standing alone. Checking his watch. Looking rumpled and tense in a tan corduroy sport coat, white shirt, gray slacks. Flicking his wrist again. Glancing at the ramp of the underground parking garage.
Circling the block, I returned, cruising as slowly as I could without drawing the ire of other motorists. That left me mere seconds to stare, but it was enough to catch a glimpse of a green-jacketed figure— the diminutive Gerald—pulling up in Bugger’s old white Volvo, getting out, saluting, opening the door for Bugger.
Bugger gave him a tip and got in.
I drove fifty feet, veered to the curb, parked in front of a hydrant, waited until the Volvo chugged by. Allowing three cars to get between us, I began the tail, knowing this time I couldn’t risk discovery. Figuring I could pull it off. No reason for him to suspect.
He turned right onto Wilshire, headed east to Lincoln, picked up the 10 east freeway and transferred to the 405 south. The route to Newport Beach. Probably just checking out the office; soon the Seville and I would be several dozen miles older with nothing to show.
It beat sitting around the house working at mellow.
But instead of continuing to Orange County, he exited at Century Boulevard and continued west.
LAX signs all over. Flying somewhere? I hadn’t seen luggage, but perhaps the car was already packed.
He headed into the airport. Maintaining the three-car shield, I stayed with him as he entered a parking lot opposite Terminal 4. Several airlines shared the lot, most prominently American. The driver in front of me had trouble figuring out how to take the ticket from the machine, and by the time I got inside the Volvo was nowhere in sight.
No parking spaces on ground level, and I took the ramp down, hoping Bugger had done the same. Sure enough, I spotted the Volvo’s square back just as Bugger nosed into a corner space between two SUVs. He got out and alarm-locked the car, carried no luggage as he headed for the elevators. I chanced parking the Seville in an illegal space and hurried after him.
I hid behind a concrete pylon as he stepped into the lift. Ran over in time to read the illuminated numbers. Two flights up. The footbridge to American Airlines. Vaulting up the stairs, I cracked the stairwell door andsaw him lope past. But he didn’t take the right turn toward the escalator that led down to the ticket gates. Continuing straight toward the army of phony nuns and preachers hawking for nonexistent charities, he dropped a coin in a cup and walked hurriedly to the metal detectors.
Long queue of travelers at the single device in service and one sleepy-looking security attendant, so no problem putting space between us there. I watched Dugger place his wallet and keys in a plastic dish and keep his eyes on them as he sailed through. But the two people in front of me set off the machine, and I was forced to cool my heels as Dugger disappeared around a bend.
Finally, I got through and walked briskly through hordes of travelers and loved ones, flight attendants and pilots. No sign of Dugger. During the moments I’d lost sight of him he could’ve gone anywhere—the men’s room, a shop, any of the gates.
I strolled up the corridor trying to look casual, searching for a flash of tan jacket. Then I came to an elevator that led to the private lounge—the Admirals Club. Members Only. A woman sat behind a counter to the right, busy at her computer.