keep her fuckin’ hands to herself. You’re mine.”
I close the door carefully, nod to A.J., and we head for her car.
“Colleen not coming?” she asks.
I point to the barely light sky. “Too early for her.”
A.J. signals just coming out of the driveway. We make our way down Mission, past the park, with its spotless playground. Parents pay big bucks to live someplace they can take the kids to a teeter-totter and a sandbox and not have to worry too much.
“Grandma says for you to tell your mom she’ll call her about the Congo.” And Colleen says for you to keep your f**king hands to yourself. What would A.J. say if I tacked that on? Laugh, probably. But what would I do if she didn’t keep her hands to herself?
We cruise through the first two stoplights, but not the next one. Ten feet away, at a local nursery, a Hispanic guy in thrashed blue Dickies trundles two or three flats of pansies toward a big SUV with its back standing open like Moby Dick’s jaws. The driver, who’s pretty and clearly super-rich — since I’ve never seen the nursery open so early — is standing off to the side in a sun hat and dainty leather gloves.
I ask, “Do you want to be rich?”
She takes her eyes off the road just long enough to glance at me. “When I grow up?”
“You know what I mean.”
She oozes around an Escalade waiting to park in three or four compact-car spaces. I notice she’s dressed for the racetrack. Not the jeans. Everybody wears jeans, even me. But boots and a shirt with snaps. I wonder if she’s got a cowboy hat in the back.
“I either want to go to the International Film School in Paris or to the New York Film Academy. I’d work if I had to. Be a waitress or something.”
“When we were talking down at that gallery, you said USC.”
“I know, but my mom and I were online, poking into things, and Paris or New York sounds better.”
“Then what?”
“Make more movies. Better ones. And my father knows the Coppolas.”
“Colleen doesn’t know where she’ll be sleeping two days from now.”
“Are you worried about her?”
“Sure. Wouldn’t you be?”
We wind through the wide streets of San Marino. Shiny cars in a few of the driveways. A gardener or two. Huge homes, the kind my grandma would call “tasteful,” compared to the McMansions springing up in Monterey Park and Alhambra.
The lawns are beautiful and huge. And there’s usually a pool with turquoise water that nobody but the grandkids use and when they’re grown, nobody at all.
I tell A.J., “I’ve been in a lot of these houses. Grandma used to bring me along when she had meetings and park me in the den with the TV. Every now and then a maid would ghost in and ask me if I wanted anything.”
A.J. asks, “Have you guys got a maid?”
I shake my head.
“Do you have somebody who comes in and cleans?”
“Yeah, but I never see them. They do it while I’m at school.”
“My mom works at JPL and cleans our whole house, too. Can you believe that? She’s really picky. If Merry Maids or one of those services comes in, it’s never good enough for her. So she just does it herself.”
Huntington Drive is pretty much the main drag of San Marino. It’s named for Henry Huntington, a megarich guy whose name is everywhere in L.A. Like Huntington Beach and Huntington Hospital.
The street runs east and west and eventually right into a mall. Just northeast of that a little is the racetrack. A.J. turns in and zips across an empty parking lot, scattering seagulls. She pulls up beside a guard shack on the west side of the huge, deco-green grandstand.
While she talks, I look out the window. A few guys who are too big to be jockeys ride along a dirt path. Their horses look healthy and sleek and relaxed. The riders’ feet dangle out of the stirrups. They talk to each other and laugh under their breath. Off to the east, the sky is Technicolor red.
Everything is muffled and low-key. Probably not like later on, when they run the
I close the door carefully, nod to A.J., and we head for her car.
“Colleen not coming?” she asks.
I point to the barely light sky. “Too early for her.”
A.J. signals just coming out of the driveway. We make our way down Mission, past the park, with its spotless playground. Parents pay big bucks to live someplace they can take the kids to a teeter-totter and a sandbox and not have to worry too much.
“Grandma says for you to tell your mom she’ll call her about the Congo.” And Colleen says for you to keep your f**king hands to yourself. What would A.J. say if I tacked that on? Laugh, probably. But what would I do if she didn’t keep her hands to herself?
We cruise through the first two stoplights, but not the next one. Ten feet away, at a local nursery, a Hispanic guy in thrashed blue Dickies trundles two or three flats of pansies toward a big SUV with its back standing open like Moby Dick’s jaws. The driver, who’s pretty and clearly super-rich — since I’ve never seen the nursery open so early — is standing off to the side in a sun hat and dainty leather gloves.
I ask, “Do you want to be rich?”
She takes her eyes off the road just long enough to glance at me. “When I grow up?”
“You know what I mean.”
She oozes around an Escalade waiting to park in three or four compact-car spaces. I notice she’s dressed for the racetrack. Not the jeans. Everybody wears jeans, even me. But boots and a shirt with snaps. I wonder if she’s got a cowboy hat in the back.
“I either want to go to the International Film School in Paris or to the New York Film Academy. I’d work if I had to. Be a waitress or something.”
“When we were talking down at that gallery, you said USC.”
“I know, but my mom and I were online, poking into things, and Paris or New York sounds better.”
“Then what?”
“Make more movies. Better ones. And my father knows the Coppolas.”
“Colleen doesn’t know where she’ll be sleeping two days from now.”
“Are you worried about her?”
“Sure. Wouldn’t you be?”
We wind through the wide streets of San Marino. Shiny cars in a few of the driveways. A gardener or two. Huge homes, the kind my grandma would call “tasteful,” compared to the McMansions springing up in Monterey Park and Alhambra.
The lawns are beautiful and huge. And there’s usually a pool with turquoise water that nobody but the grandkids use and when they’re grown, nobody at all.
I tell A.J., “I’ve been in a lot of these houses. Grandma used to bring me along when she had meetings and park me in the den with the TV. Every now and then a maid would ghost in and ask me if I wanted anything.”
A.J. asks, “Have you guys got a maid?”
I shake my head.
“Do you have somebody who comes in and cleans?”
“Yeah, but I never see them. They do it while I’m at school.”
“My mom works at JPL and cleans our whole house, too. Can you believe that? She’s really picky. If Merry Maids or one of those services comes in, it’s never good enough for her. So she just does it herself.”
Huntington Drive is pretty much the main drag of San Marino. It’s named for Henry Huntington, a megarich guy whose name is everywhere in L.A. Like Huntington Beach and Huntington Hospital.
The street runs east and west and eventually right into a mall. Just northeast of that a little is the racetrack. A.J. turns in and zips across an empty parking lot, scattering seagulls. She pulls up beside a guard shack on the west side of the huge, deco-green grandstand.
While she talks, I look out the window. A few guys who are too big to be jockeys ride along a dirt path. Their horses look healthy and sleek and relaxed. The riders’ feet dangle out of the stirrups. They talk to each other and laugh under their breath. Off to the east, the sky is Technicolor red.
Everything is muffled and low-key. Probably not like later on, when they run the
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