bed.
He took over, while Fiorinda fought with a burst of kaleidoscope horrors. She had better get dressed. Sage is dead, Ax didn’t come home, I must get dressed.
When she returned, in sensible clothes, Ax was looking mystified.
‘That was the FBI. We’re to visit a crime scene. They’re sending a limo.’
Sage stirred and sat up. ‘A crime scene ? What the fuck time is this?’
‘Just after seven. Hey, don’t look at me, I haven’t a clue. I wanted Harry in the conversation, but the woman said no, not appropriate. I’m calling him now.’
Ax called Harry. Ominously he did not sound surprised. He apologised profusely, said he would sort this out. Shortly, he called back. Everything was fine. They should go downstairs and get in the limo, sorry for the inconvenience.
‘What’s going on, Mr Loman?’
‘I, er, I’ll talk to you in the car.’
‘I’m coming with you,’ said Sage. ‘No argument, I’m fine.
The limo waited with its doors open. Harry was in the back. The doors shut themselves, the car zoomed off. ‘Good of you to come along,’ said Ax, icily. ‘What crime scene is this? What does it have to do with us?’
‘It’s not my gig,’ said Harry. ‘I’m very, very sorry. It’s better if we just get there.’
They’d seen their A&R man in his glory last night. This morning he was a crushed, resentful errand boy, radiating indignation; and fear. They sat in silence. The English waited for Harry to speak to the driver, realised there was nobody in front, behind the opaque screen, and felt as if they’d just arrived from the rainforest. The limo sped for miles, into the city of the plain. Sage leaned back with his eyes closed in bruised pits of shadow, Fiorinda stared at the floor. Ax checked off roadsigns, trying to keep track. He hated not knowing where he was.
At last they left the freeway grid. The limo stopped beside a call point pillar, in a sector of the streaming galaxies which, in daylight and close up, resembled spaced-out, shabby English inner city: a children’s playground with faded murals, a flat-roofed, municipal-looking building; maybe a community centre. Little kids were running and playing. It might have been Brixton or Birmingham, except there was no city in England where you would look up and see such an expanse of sky. They’d been cocooned in aircon limos, hotel rooms, private shopping trips: they were about to step onto the surface of the alien planet.
A fit young white woman, in very clean jeans and a button-down shirt, opened the door before it could open itself. ‘Hi!’ she said, with the friendly ease of a certain kind of American functionary, which does not mean they are on your side. ‘I’m Agent Phillips. Thank you for your co-operation, Mr Preston, sir; Mr Pender, Ms Slater. I hope you had a smooth journey.’ She showed them her badge. ‘Hi Harry,’ she added, as to a colleague for whom she didn’t have a great deal of respect. ‘Phil’s down there. Sorry we had to drag you out of bed, after the big party and all.’
It was warm outdoors, warmer than was seasonable at this hour even in southern California. LA was having a spring heatwave. Agent Phillips led the way through a gap between the playground and another building (the children gathering to stare), along a path behind some warehouses in mid-conversion, and onto waste ground that stretched to the horizon: invaded by desert scrub, wrecked cars and dumped freezers. In the midst of the waste stood two long white vans, and unmarked cars that were not wrecks. A small crowd hovered at a police taped perimeter; otherwise the scene was strangely empty. No sign of the Scene of the Crime team, no familiar peripherals of disaster.
But they knew what they were going to see. Oh, we have been here before.
‘You guys are the experts from England, right?’ said their guide, conversationally.
Harry glared at her.
‘I’m not sure how to answer that,’ said Ax.
‘How d’you like LA? I love the
He took over, while Fiorinda fought with a burst of kaleidoscope horrors. She had better get dressed. Sage is dead, Ax didn’t come home, I must get dressed.
When she returned, in sensible clothes, Ax was looking mystified.
‘That was the FBI. We’re to visit a crime scene. They’re sending a limo.’
Sage stirred and sat up. ‘A crime scene ? What the fuck time is this?’
‘Just after seven. Hey, don’t look at me, I haven’t a clue. I wanted Harry in the conversation, but the woman said no, not appropriate. I’m calling him now.’
Ax called Harry. Ominously he did not sound surprised. He apologised profusely, said he would sort this out. Shortly, he called back. Everything was fine. They should go downstairs and get in the limo, sorry for the inconvenience.
‘What’s going on, Mr Loman?’
‘I, er, I’ll talk to you in the car.’
‘I’m coming with you,’ said Sage. ‘No argument, I’m fine.
The limo waited with its doors open. Harry was in the back. The doors shut themselves, the car zoomed off. ‘Good of you to come along,’ said Ax, icily. ‘What crime scene is this? What does it have to do with us?’
‘It’s not my gig,’ said Harry. ‘I’m very, very sorry. It’s better if we just get there.’
They’d seen their A&R man in his glory last night. This morning he was a crushed, resentful errand boy, radiating indignation; and fear. They sat in silence. The English waited for Harry to speak to the driver, realised there was nobody in front, behind the opaque screen, and felt as if they’d just arrived from the rainforest. The limo sped for miles, into the city of the plain. Sage leaned back with his eyes closed in bruised pits of shadow, Fiorinda stared at the floor. Ax checked off roadsigns, trying to keep track. He hated not knowing where he was.
At last they left the freeway grid. The limo stopped beside a call point pillar, in a sector of the streaming galaxies which, in daylight and close up, resembled spaced-out, shabby English inner city: a children’s playground with faded murals, a flat-roofed, municipal-looking building; maybe a community centre. Little kids were running and playing. It might have been Brixton or Birmingham, except there was no city in England where you would look up and see such an expanse of sky. They’d been cocooned in aircon limos, hotel rooms, private shopping trips: they were about to step onto the surface of the alien planet.
A fit young white woman, in very clean jeans and a button-down shirt, opened the door before it could open itself. ‘Hi!’ she said, with the friendly ease of a certain kind of American functionary, which does not mean they are on your side. ‘I’m Agent Phillips. Thank you for your co-operation, Mr Preston, sir; Mr Pender, Ms Slater. I hope you had a smooth journey.’ She showed them her badge. ‘Hi Harry,’ she added, as to a colleague for whom she didn’t have a great deal of respect. ‘Phil’s down there. Sorry we had to drag you out of bed, after the big party and all.’
It was warm outdoors, warmer than was seasonable at this hour even in southern California. LA was having a spring heatwave. Agent Phillips led the way through a gap between the playground and another building (the children gathering to stare), along a path behind some warehouses in mid-conversion, and onto waste ground that stretched to the horizon: invaded by desert scrub, wrecked cars and dumped freezers. In the midst of the waste stood two long white vans, and unmarked cars that were not wrecks. A small crowd hovered at a police taped perimeter; otherwise the scene was strangely empty. No sign of the Scene of the Crime team, no familiar peripherals of disaster.
But they knew what they were going to see. Oh, we have been here before.
‘You guys are the experts from England, right?’ said their guide, conversationally.
Harry glared at her.
‘I’m not sure how to answer that,’ said Ax.
‘How d’you like LA? I love the
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