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The Little Old Man from Pasadena
I was going 100 as I rounded the curve near the end of the Pasadena Freeway when I had to quickly swerve right two lanes and then left again to avoid a Honda Civic and a Toyota Prius that seemed to be having a conversation at 50 mph. At least the Bentley had the decency to do his 60 in the slow lane.
The Pasadena Freeway is considered the World’s Most Dangerous Freeway by stupid Americans that have never been outside of the United States and who don’t know how to drive. It is, in fact, the most fun you can have in a car outside of a racetrack or having a girl giving you a blowjob while going 80 on the 105. That is, of course, assuming you are driving a sports car and not a Honda Civic.
It is also the only freeway in Los Angeles that is commonly referred to by a name rather than its number. Around San Pedro, it’s called the Harbor Freeway. North of DTLA, it’s the Pasadena Freeway. In Pasadena, it’s called the Arroyo Parkway. Only in South Central is it called the 110.
I was on my way up to one of the big houses on the south end of Pasadena for a meeting about a possible job. I guess you could call them mansions, but I am pretty sure those living in them don’t consider them that. The secretary had been purposefully vague and had only given me a day, a time, and an address. I asked if lunch would be served as I usually like to be fed during potential business meetings and who the fuck schedules a meeting at noon without at least an offer of a light snack? I was told there would be apéritifs and amuse-bouches. Luckily, I speak French.
I turned right at Blair High School and kept going right through one of those fake roundabouts that annoy me so much. Why would you put stop signs on a roundabout? That pretty much defeats the purpose, doesn’t it? Plus, no one in the US knows how to drive these things. At least they were on a relatively quiet side street and not a major thoroughfare.
A left, a right, and another left and a banked S curve and I was at the four-way stop where no one could go west. I chose 4:30 and went down the hill into what would later very much resemble the pit of hell.
***
The Pit of Hell had a very nicely manicured garden behind the solid oak portail d’entrée. There must have been a guard or someone with binoculars watching since the gate opened as soon as I started up the driveway. I parked my car, made sure my zipper was up, and walked up to the front door. You would be surprised at the things people notice.
The foyer had a semi-circular wooden table to the right with a wicker basket underneath and a large mirror above. The ceiling was two stories high and a large crystal chandelier hung precariously from it. It was too high to tell if the frame was completely gold and there was not a ladder handy.
A sharply dressed man in a servant’s uniform appeared from the doorway in front of me. He looked me up and down and then focused on my shoes. I instinctively looked down. They seemed alright to me. Maybe the heel was a little worn and maybe they weren’t the most stylish, but they were clean and black, and the laces were fine. He seemed to agree and asked me to follow him.
He led me into the study. It had a lot of books on the shelves, but the room was too small to be the library and the bulk of the books were fiction. Behind an old wooden desk and front-lit by a green lamp sat a white man in his early sixties. He was wearing a burgundy peignoir over a woolen sweater. It didn’t seem that cold, but who am I to judge. Plus, I had no idea what he was wearing under the desk.
“Please sit.” He waved over to a chair that had materialized in front of the desk. It’s really hard to get good help nowadays.
I sat down.
“What would you like to drink?”
I had thought about the answer to this question on the drive over. It was very important to get it right and make the right impression. As I drove up the driveway, the decision had been to go with a Kir. Can’t go wrong with a classic, right? However, as I weighed up the person in front of me, I called an audible.
“A Calvados would be parfait, s’il vous plait.”
I was fairly confident his bar would have it in stock. Of course, it did. The servant came back with two glasses. We raised them, said “Santé”, and took long meaningful sips. I let him break the ice.
“Thank you for coming. I have need for someone with your skills to resolve a problem for me.”
“I’m flattered. May I ask how you heard of me?”
“I was playing golf at my club in the Springs. One of my friend’s guests in the foursome made an innocuous remark about law enforcement. I was curious, so I pressed a few approaches, got a few birdies, and brought out the tequila for celebration. That loosened up his tongue and he eventually told me how you were able to assist him with a situation he had gotten involved in.”
That was pretty funny of Rölf to call it a “situation”, but hey he got me some possible work, so I can’t be mad at him.
“He also told me how you were discretion itself, so I figured you might be able to assist me in this matter. My assistant got your information easily enough and here we are.”
“Cool.” I didn’t know what else to say. I took another meaningful sip. I was running out of meaningful sips and was hoping the servant would notice. Instead, he did.
“Smithers, can you fetch the amuse-bouches? And another round, please.”
I was starting to like this guy. Not everyone says “please” to the help.
As Kinky would say, the amuse-bouches came faster than a nymphomaniac. They were delicious. Finally, we got down to business. I figured I would take the lead at last. I waited until the servant removed the dishes and left the room.
“These have been excellent, thank you. Now, in what way can I help you?”
He stood up, walked towards the door, and closed it. I noticed his bare legs and bare feet were tanned with no tan lines. I placed the over-under on the tan line at 3 inches below the buttocks. He went back to his chair, took a long sip of his drink, and began spilling.
“My daughter works at CalTech. She has noticed some weird goings-on and is afraid to say anything. However, she believes there may be some illegal activity happening and we, of course, want no part of it.”
“Illegal activity at CalTech? Like the regular everyday illegal activity at CalTech or something different?”
“We believe there is a serial killer on the loose that is providing dead bodies for human experiments.”
“Alrighty then. Slightly different it is.”
***
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