The Crime Writer

Preston's eyes flicked over to me. "I was giving you the benefit of the doubt." He finished his morning cup of rum, leaving it on the coffee table for the housekeeper I could no longer afford. He fanned himself dramatically with the manuscript pages, then cast them aside. "It's hot in here."

"You're menopausal."

He rose, took my pages from my hands, and flipped through them, failing to suppress a chuckle at one of his edits. He slapped the sheaf against an open palm. "There's gotta be a story that incorporates all these elements gracefully. We need a development meeting." He glanced at his watch. "I have a lunch reservation for three at Spago."

"Three?"

"I thought you might invite Cal Unger. We require him for brainstorming."

"You just wrote not to bother him unless I have a and I quote 'concrete goal.' "

"But this is social."

Preston had met Cal once at the book-launch party for my third Chainer novel.

"He's not gay, Preston."

"Of course not. Gay is a level of self-and political awareness. Which he lacks. He's just got tendencies."

Preston thinks everybody has. Which makes sense, since he works in publishing and splits his time between the Village and West Hollywood. When we would go out, we frequented West Hollywood restaurants, after which he'd drag me to one of those young West Hollywood plays by a nouveau-West Hollywood playwright featuring a troubled gay English-major protagonist where all the straight characters especially the football players wound up being gay after all, harboring secret, shameful crushes on our fragile yet intrepid hero.

"Whatever tendencies he's got, Herr Brokeback, they don't tend in your direction," I pressed. "I understand that your parents' naming you Preston Ashley Mills pretty much sealed your deal in one fell swoop, but, nature or nurture aside, the guy is named Cal Unger. I'd say that cuts the odds considerably that he smokes pole. Not to mention the fact that I need to wait for a more graceful reestablishment of diplomatic ties. I'll invite Chic instead."

"The ballplayer?" This last word he lent an intonation generally reserved for "chlamydia."

Preston had also met Chic at the book-launch party for my third Chainer novel.

Despite his objections, he headed for the phone. "I'll tell them we'll be running late. And I'll have them install a salt lick at the booth." He picked up the cordless. Stared at it.

"They're too busy providing excellent service to hook up my phone. Which apparently certain editors responsible for my mail didn't bother paying "

Disrupting the late-morning air, sailing over my fence, came sounds of the young trumpeter at practice.

I've got a CRUSH on YOU, sweetie-PIE.

Preston's eyebrows met. "The hell is that?"

"Gershwin, I think."

All the DAY and NIGHTtime, hear me SIGH.

Preston despaired. "We'll call from the car."

The woman with the custom license-plate frame in the Jag ahead of us had one thing to tell the world, and that was that she went zero to bitch in 2.7 seconds. We cruised down Canon, passing several hundred thousand dollars' worth of Bavarian engineering, long-legged women with boxy shopping bags, palm trees studded with rope lights. The rope lights served two purposes at once: They were pretty at night, and they were slick, slick being significant in that if squirrels tried to scale the trunks to nest in the fronds, they'd slip and crack their little squirrel skulls on the pavement below. That union of aesthetics and ferocity, if nothing else, defines Beverly Hills. The five-hundred-dollar porcelain curios, the reservation-only boutiques, the bejeweled cat collars.

As we coasted along, Preston pointed to a prominent window display of my books at Dutton's. At least when a bookstore cashed in on my infamy, I got a cut.

L.A., for the most part, is in on the joke that is itself. It's superficial as hell, sure, but it also knows how to enjoy it, unlike those Des Moines moms who read celebrity rags on their way to church so they can tut-tut and shake their heads, or those Ivy Leaguers who'd never admit they enjoy People more than Proust but who, while waiting for the dentist to mend a scrape in their enamel, will sneak a peek at the glossies to check out this singer's weight gain or where this royal couple honeymooned. Here, superficiality is our business, and we all all believe we're in on the show.

Some visitors find L.A. an insider's city. The contrary is in fact true. Anyone can get access. The only catch is that you have to bring something interesting to the table. That's the ticket of entry. It doesn't have to be depth, or conversational skills, or even necessarily talent. You can be the best hairdresser and sit down at a mogul's table between a Hollywood madam and an opera director. If you're the best hedge-fund manager on your Bel-Air block but a bore, fuck off with a smile, pal. Go back to Manhattan and complain about how shallow L.A. is.