Page 82

“I’ll be here.”

The end of Flesh for Frankenstein is playing on the big screen. I watch for a while as Udo Kier chews the scenery just right as the doctor.

“I love that guy.”

Flicker blows another smoke ring.

She says, “He’s even better as Dracula. I’m telling you, you ought to stick around.”

“Some other night when you hav

e something soothing, like werewolves or zombies.”

“It’s James Whale’s birthday soon. We’re having a festival. Frankenstein. Bride of Frankenstein. The Old Dark House and some others.”

“I’ll be here.”

“Bring Candy.”

I hesitate.

“We’ll see.”

“Oooh. That sounds interesting.”

“I’ll tell you about it tomorrow.”

“Sunset. See you then.”

I head back home and write down what Gentry told me. I’ve got a date with a real estate agent tomorrow, only she doesn’t know it yet.

In the afternoon I meet with Avani Chanchala. At least that’s the name she goes by. I checked her out online but couldn’t find out much more than a business address. That means Chanchala might be her real name, but it might not. Real estate in Hollywood is just an extension of show business. Real estate isn’t just land, it’s dreams. Sell the image. Not the dirt. It’s liable to have a few bodies buried in it, but that possibility just makes it more charming and colorful—and expensive. People here change their names and appearance all the time, depending on the audience. Chanchala could be legit, but there’s every chance she’s really Susie Smith from Glendale.

The front door to Chanchala Abodes is locked, so I go in through a shadow. There’s a reception area but no secretary. It’s like they’re begging me to loot this place. I go to the big office and open the door.

“Knock knock.”

The office is nice but spare. It reminds me of pictures Candy showed me of Tokyo work spaces. All very pretty. Uncluttered. Lots of dark wood and light. But that kind of thing feels different in L.A. Less like an elegant Japanese aesthetic than someone ready to change with the times at a moment’s notice or just grab what little there is and head for the hills.

Chanchala is looking over some papers. She takes off her glasses and says, “Well, you’re certainly not Mr. Block.”

I sit on a cushy chair by her desk.

“A client?”

“My two o’clock.”

“Then I’ll get right to the point. I want to talk about Chris Stein.”

She cocks her head.

“And who are you again?”

“I work for Thomas Abbot. You know who that is?”

She sits back and looks uncomfortable.

“I’ve heard the name.”