Los Angeles by Peter Moore Smith Page A

announced. “They’ve got a new CD coming out.”
    “Immanuel —”
    “— KantLern,” she finished. “They run it all together in one word, isn’t it funny? Immanuel Kant was a philosopher who —”
    “I’ve heard of the philosopher.” I laughed. “It’s the rock group I’m not so familiar with.”
    She leaned toward me, whispering conspiratorially,
“I slept with the bass player.”
    “You —”
    “Joey. I met him at a party after they played at the El Rey.” She raised her eyebrows.
    I had to ask: “Are you his girlfriend?”
    “Are you jealous?”
    I felt a sharp prick of anger, a sensation I wasn’t accustomed to, so I changed the subject, indicating the giant man in the
     silvery tie sitting beneath the exit sign. “Who’s that?”
    She laughed. “That’s Lester. He looks mean, but he’s sweet.”
    “He works here?”
    A shrug. “He’s the bouncer.”
    “Why is he dressed like a henchman from an old James Bond movie?”
    “During the day he’s a driver for a funeral parlor.”
    “Ladies and gentlemen,” a loud voice said over the sound system, “coming to the stage of the Velvet Mask All Nude Gentlemen’s
     Cabaret is the beautiful Gigi and the seductive…
Cassandra.
”
    “Oh shit.” Angela leapt up. “That’s me.”
    ______
    “Hello?” a voice said. There was a knock, a hard rap against hollow wood.
    There was another voice, saying, “He said his name is Angel. I think he’s an albino.”
    I heard the first voice, now shrill.
“Are you Angel? Is your name Angel?”
    I lifted my head.
    Oh shit. Oh Christ. I was sitting on a toilet in the bathroom of a stranger’s house.
    “Yes,” I said, rubbing a hand over my mouth. “Yes, I’m Angel. I’m so sorry. I must’ve fallen —”
    The door opened, and when my eyes adjusted, I could see the round, flat face of that ten-year-old kid and what must have been
     his mother, a woman in her thirties with the same strangely concave face, standing in the hallway.
    “I must have fallen asleep,” I explained.
    She was in the middle of a panic. “What were you doing in there?” Her voice was sharp. “Do you have any idea how long you
     were —”
    “I’m so —”
    “— in there?”
    “— sorry.”
    “Are you taking drugs?”
    “No, no, absolutely not. I was, I had a migraine. I must’ve —”
    “He was in there for, like, two hours.” Victor’s laughter was spiky, high-pitched.
    “— lost consciousness.” I was up now, and I would have moved into the hallway except that the two of them were blocking the
     way.
    Victor’s mother had her hands on her hips. Worry lines rippled across her forehead.
    Victor just kept laughing.
    “Please,” I said. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean…”
    She gave me a hard look. “Well,” she said, still unsure, “you certainly don’t look dangerous.”
    “I’m so not dangerous,” I told her, “believe me.” I realized I still had the damp washcloth stuck to my forehead. “I’m the
     most un-dangerous person you will ever —”
    She sighed, lips pursed, softening.
    “— encounter,” I said, rinsing it under the tap. “I know it must seem strange, finding me here like that. But I was… I was
     having a migraine, and your son, Victor… he was nice enough to let me use your bathroom, and I just… and I guess I passed
     out.”
    Victor’s mom must have decided that a character as preposterous as me couldn’t be telling her anything but the truth. “Well,”
     she said, “are you all right now?”
    “Absolutely, I’m fine, thank you.”
    She had light brown hair, straight, shoulder length. She had pink lips and sympathetic eyes. For some reason, I assumed she
     was a nurse.
    I knew what I looked like: blue skin, pink eyes, white hair, wearing a puke-streaked shirt. I was a vampire, a mutant, and
     a grown man alone in the house with her ten-year-old son, maybe a child molester, possibly a drug addict, probably a criminal.
     I was lucky she hadn’t called the