L.A. Mental by Neil McMahon Page A

of giant prawns, a dozen exotic side dishes; a steam table with grilled salmon, prime rib, and coq au vin; and a full bar with a wine selection that looked like it came from the Palms.
    Tempting as it was, the burger I’d wolfed a couple of hours ago was holding me fine. I wasn’t about to have a drink, either. Paul’s involvement with Cynthia was troubling enough, but the double whammy of that and Parallax, with the two deeply intertwined, raised a serious red flag. I wanted my radar as sharp and clear as I could keep it.
    Well, coming here had accomplished what I’d hoped for—taking my mind off Nick and Erica.

Thirteen
    I poured myself a glass of sparkling water and stayed at the fringes, in the kind of fly-on-the-wall observer role I’d often found useful in my work. What I gleaned was oddly comforting. None of the usual cult signs showed in any obvious way—no sense of passiveness, constraint to obedience, or a rigid moral code. Nobody approached me in that phony friendly way that was a lead-in to proselytizing. The conversations were bright-toned, the behavior energetic; alcohol flowed freely, and I suspected there were other party drugs around; and there was plenty of openly sexual flirting.
    If Parallax was a cult, there was probably a waiting list to get in.
    Then, after a few minutes, Lisa DiFurio came stalking through the door.
    Dustin, the outback-hatted man she’d been with, walked in behind her, but it was clear that they weren’t together; he had a sulky expression, and she was pointedly keeping her back to him. Apparently, the tone of their conversation had not improved. She didn’t waste any time getting to the bar and grabbing a glass of Pouilly-Fuissé.
    She wasn’t the prettiest face in the room—mouth a little wide, nose thin and aquiline, cheekbones almost harsh—but she had a sensuous quality that glowed like a fire in a roomful of fluorescent lamps. The other women knew it; I caught several cool sidelong glances at her as she passed. That was oddly comforting, too. The Parallax philosophy wasn’t putting any damper on plain old jealousy.
    Then Lisa did the last thing in the world I’d have expected—walked over to me.
    â€œI’m hoping you’re the one person here who won’t talk about film or art,” she said. “Or God forbid, film as art. Deal?”
    â€œThat’s easy. I don’t know anything about either one.”
    â€œ I do—he’s been lecturing me about it all morning. I feel like a torture victim. Every time he said the word nuance , it was like needles under my fingernails, and he said it a lot.”
    â€œI couldn’t help noticing that the two of you seemed to have a difference of opinion,” I said.
    â€œWe sure do. He thinks he’s going to get laid.” She sipped her wine, looking as nonchalant as if she’d just mentioned that she enjoyed sailing.
    Dustin had been watching us all this time; he was clear across the room, and he couldn’t have heard, but from his glowering face, he might as well have.
    â€œWho is he?” I said.
    â€œDustin Sperry—the director. I’m Lisa.”
    â€œI know. Tom Crandall.”
    â€œNice to meet you, but let’s go back to the ‘I know.’ Is it a good ‘I know’ or a bad ‘I know’?”
    â€œIt’s just from seeing your movies, and I confess I haven’t seen them all,” I said. “What I have seen, I liked a lot.”
    â€œThen you definitely haven’t seen them all—I believe you there. But we’re not going to talk about film, right?”
    â€œSorry. Short attention span.”
    â€œSo what did you like? About the ones you saw?”
    I grinned. “Mostly the nuances.”
    â€œPrick. I was just starting to trust you, and you twist the knife.” Then her gaze darted off to the side. “Heads up,” she whispered. “Here comes Chris,