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.While Ben was waiting he used the manager’s phone.“Information, what city?”But after some key-tapping she told him, “No listing in the greater Los Angeles area.”He hung up to find the dealership manager looking apologetic and a little frightened.“Let me guess,” Ben said.“You need a part.”The manager nodded.“If you’d like, you can take the car today and drop it off again later.We should have the part by tomorrow.”“No, take it.Keep it.Call me when it’s ready.If I’m not dead, I’ll come get it.”* * *At seven, the squat buildings and square bungalows of Melrose blazed metallic in the low light, and the temperature still hung in the high nineties.Ben phoned Chloe, left a message, could she drive tonight?Nobody threatening had shown up at Busta’ Guts, and Ben had spent the night on Heather’s couch.He considered asking Chloe to pick him up from the club, but he needed a shower, change of clothes and the tickets for the art show, which he hoped he remembered correctly as being tacked to his bulletin board.Back at his little house, nothing seemed amiss, making him wonder if conspiracy theories had finally taken over his better judgment.He heard the phone ring from the shower and found Chloe’s voice on his machine when he got out.“My AC and stereo are broken, too.How weird is that? But my car is not in the shop, so yes, I can drive if you want.”At nine precisely, Chloe pulled up in her yellow Volkswagen Groundhog, wearing a mint green slipdress, a black feather boa and black vinyl platforms.The stereo seemed healthy enough to Ben, blasting 80’s favorites loud enough to rattle his front windows.But he had more pressing things weighing on his mind.“Listen!” he hollered over a Duran Duran tune he was embarrassed to admit still made him choke up if he paid attention.“I hope you didn’t split the other night because of Lana!”Chloe shook her head, made a right onto Melrose.“Or Josie!”She shook her head again.“Can I turn this down!”“It doesn’t turn down!”Very funny, Ben thought.If she was pissed at him, why hadn’t she said so earlier? He punched the down arrow, incensed.There was no way he was showing up at his friend’s art show opening with some chick who—it didn’t turn down.It also didn’t turn off, and the next song was Led Zeppelin, which probably ranked as Ben’s most hated band ever, but he couldn’t change the station either.“Your radio’s broken!”“I told you that! I also have to turn the heat on now, or the engine’s going to overheat!”Ben trusted things could only get better.His friend’s opening ran out of a one-room independent gallery in Studio City, in the Valley.Chloe found a parking space in the bank lot across the street.When she turned the engine off, and the full-blast heater and killer radio with it, Ben stumbled out of the car into the comparatively cool air and pretended to kiss the ground.Chloe stood, arms crossed.“You can take a taxi home.”“I think it might be worth it.How can you drive that thing?”“It’s been broken forever, I’m used to it.Besides, how else were we supposed to get here?”Ben stood, dipped his head.“Point taken.”“Can we go see some art now, please?”“Well, I can’t promise you that.” He took her arm and led her across Ventura Boulevard to Gallery AnArtChy.Music poured from inside the bright storefront gallery.“Sounds like they hired the Flintstones band to play,” Ben said.“I like it.That’s a marimba.The marimba is a great instrument because it can be simultaneously spooky and whimsical.Unlike the poor Theremin, which is always associated with monsters around the corner.”“Thank you, professor.”“Don’t mention it.”Inside, amidst the brilliant lights and dazzling paintings, Ben found his friend, the artist, Alrik.Despite the man’s Scandinavian name, he stood less than six feet, talked like a surfer, and had trim, dark hair that would have looked absurd underneath a Viking helmet.His paintings, too, were quintessentially American, a high-energy blend of comic book and graffiti art.Not “moving” or poignant perhaps, but an awful lot of fun.Chloe assembled a cheese and fruit plate for them to share, and Alrik pressed plastic goblets of wine into both their hands.But he pulled Ben aside, “There was a guy here asking about you, man.I mean he was looking for somebody else, but kinda asked about you.You know some guy name a’ Blood…something?”Ben’s stomach tightened.“Was this guy in a leather coat?”“Naw, business clothes.Blonde hair, goatee.He left a card.”“Did he say what he wanted?”Alrik shook his head.“Something about owing him money.”He handed Ben a card, which Ben surreptitiously pocketed.“Did he seem…dangerous?”His friend shrugged.“It’s hard to seem dangerous in a Hugo Boss suit.” He sent Ben to view the show.Ben gulped his wine, snagged another glass.He scrutinized the other visitors.They seemed divided between hip kids and Euro-trash.The kids were skinny, had spiky hair bleached at the tips or shaved heads and goatees.They wore Glitter Baby and Rock Star Arsenal gear, greeted the artist with congratulatory hugs, wolfed cheese, shied away from the wine.The others—older, darker—frowned at them.Frowned at the art.They leaned into each other to whisper in foreign snatches, broke apart in nasty laughter.“Know any of those clowns?” Chloe asked.“They look like they got lost on their way to Tattoo.”“Listen, I hope you didn’t split on Sunday because of that woman at the bar.Or the chick in the cat suit.”“None of the above.One of those guys? 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