Chapter 3

A Flight South and an Opening

June 17-22: Los Angeles

I caught the T train downtown the next morning and descended into the Embarcadero BART station against the flow of office workers heading to the financial district. What did they do in those skyscraper offices? Spreadsheets? I had so little experience with life in the straight world I couldn’t even begin to guess. Whatever it was, they were propping up society and keeping it going. I saluted their efforts.

The trip down the peninsula was quick. It took almost as long to travel the four miles from my house to downtown on the T as it did to cover the fifteen miles to SFO on the BART train. I arrived at my gate just as they were starting the boarding process, found my way to my seat, and settled in for the short flight. While the last stragglers boarded, I checked my email and found both car and hotel reservation confirmations. My hotel was The Miyako in little Tokyo—downtown, near the arts district where Valerie was opening her new space. I didn’t know the hotel but I assumed it would be fine. You could always count on Valerie to choose well when it came to wine, art, clothing, and hotels.

The plane taxied to the runway, the whine of the engines deepened and grew louder, and suddenly we were in the air. In that suspended moment of takeoff, pressed into my seat by the g-force, it occurred to me that Valerie must have some ulterior motive for luring me down to L.A. She had a vast network of friends and acquaintances, many of whom would be more qualified than I to help get her gallery ready to open. Her reality distortion field had sucked me in. There was something else going on. What it was, I would find out in time.

I hadn’t spent much time in Los Angeles but it had always struck me as a deeply weird city. I felt it as soon as I stepped off the plane and began making my way through the airport. It was a city of startling juxtapositions and without a unified identity. The sun baked blue collar suburbs to the east vs. the cool breezes and laid back vibe of the beach, the imposing architecture of downtown with warrens of homeless people inhabiting the liminal spaces vs. the illimitable miles of strip malls, bungalows, and brown lawns to the south and north—none of it could be easily quantified or pigeon-holed.

In the terminal I crossed the shiny floor, following the signs for ground transport, and passed through glass doors to the outside where a blast of heat, car exhaust, and cigarette smoke wrapped me like a dirty blanket. Across four lanes of traffic there was an island where busses and shuttles were staging a dangerous game of chicken. I saw a shuttle for my car rental company with its blinker on, waiting for an opening to merge into the flow. Not wanting to wait, I bolted across, dodging a Chevy Suburban with dark tinted windows, and rapped on the door. The shuttle driver reluctantly opened it and I jumped aboard, going from furnace to ice box in a matter of seconds as I climbed the two steps up into the vehicle.

An hour later, thoroughly aggravated by the rental car experience, I was on one of those L.A. streets that function like small freeways, heading toward the entrance to the vast river of humanity known as ‘the 405’. To call the 405 a freeway seemed reductive. It was the Ganges of Los Angeles. It needed a more transcendent term. Maybe something like a ‘mega-way’ or a ‘hyper-route’. My rental was a mid-size sedan. Blasting onto the freeway from the entrance ramp, I immediately felt like I should have upgraded to something larger. SUVs and trucks of every make and model surrounded me, towering over me on either side, tailgating me, merging in front of me with no warning or turn signal. The few drivers of smaller vehicles like mine seemed to believe they needed to be extra aggressive in their bobbing and weaving. At least the traffic was moving. We shot down the concrete funnel at full speed like ball bearings in a chute. I nearly missed the turnoff for the 10 but managed to merge at the last second. The downtown skyline grew closer, the cyclopean scale of it shimmering through heat waves. Abruptly, I was fed through a smooth interchange onto the 110 and found myself passing through a dark, canyon like stretch of concrete where high walls and buildings rose up on either side. Overpasses arched suddenly overhead, gray bars across the sapphire sky, and the traffic slowed until we were creeping along like beetles. Fortunately, I was not far from my exit and gladly ejected myself from the procession.

I decided to head straight to the gallery and scope out the situation before checking in to my hotel. The arts district, like my neighborhood in San Francisco, was comprised of blocks and blocks of warehouses that had been carved into artist spaces and funky little galleries by the first wave of gentrification. The second wave was now moving in. Giant condo developments, big name galleries, and restaurants run by celebrity chefs were beginning to sprout from the landscape, carving out space and pushing out the original, blue collar inhabitants along with the artists who couldn’t make the transition. It was always the artists who were good at networking, good at talking to rich people, and good at laying a layer of conceptual BS on top of their work who survived and flourished in this kind of milieu. Usually, but not always, they were the ones who came from more privileged backgrounds and knew how to work the system. I had seen it before and expected to see it in various places and iterations on into the foreseeable future.

I found parking half a block down from the new space and approached it warily. One third of an old brick warehouse, sand blasted clean and earthquake retrofitted, it loomed over the street. The roll up door and loading dock had been replaced with a wall of glass. A white cargo van was parked out front and a couple of guys in basketball shorts and baggy uniform polos were unloading carefully wrapped and crated art. I poked my head in the open door and saw Emilio directing traffic. The space was as immense and white and minimal as I had expected. A couple of drywall contractors were working in the back, finishing up a wall. An electrician on a high lift worked on installing lights. Emilio glanced over and saw me standing in the doorway.

“Justin! Thank God you’re here,” he called out and marched toward me across the stylishly stained concrete floor. “It’s never going to be done,” he said, panic rising in his voice. “Never. You have to help.”

“I’m here to help,” I said, trying to sound soothing. “Let’s start with a list, break it down, prioritize. Is there an office? We need to order some food. You look like you’re about to faint.”

****

The week went by quickly. I spent fourteen hour days at the gallery helping Emilio check items off the punch list we drew up together. I ordered and set up an internet connection and WiFi network, helped paint, hung art on the walls, consulted on placement of sculptural pieces, supervised contractors and cleaners, contacted an old art school friend who did graffiti murals and convinced him to do a piece outside the front door, organized catering and valet services for the opening, set up spreadsheets to track invitations and RSVPs, helped interview and hire a gallery attendant, and generally took care of every small detail I could think of. By Saturday afternoon everything was ready. Emilio and I were just going over the list one last time when a giant, deep burgundy SUV pulled up outside the front doors and Valerie emerged from its plush depths, phone glued to her ear. We watched her silently issue a command, end the call, then turn to her new gallery and take in the scene. Her eyes roved over the front of the building. She gave a sharp nod of approval, then her gaze shot back to the new mural to the right of the doors. My muralist friend was fascinated by underground pipes and conduits and sewer systems. He worked with spray paint, building up intricately detailed scenes of the city infrastructure below the streets. He had just finished the piece that morning. Valerie stood for a moment transfixed, then turned and entered. Her heels on the concrete echoed in the cavernous space.

“That mural was your work Justin,” she stated.

“Yeah,” I answered. “He’s hot right now with people who know street art. I was lucky to get him. Old friend. The exterior was boring. You needed some cred.”

“Well now we have it.” She cracked a small smile. “I hope you got the friends and family rate. How’s everything else?”

****

Voices raised in a cacophony of conversation, bottles sliding in and out of ice buckets, minimalist piano music, white teeth of the haute bourgeoisie flashing, men in blazers over T-shirts, women in severe, all black outfits—the opening was going splendidly. I was ready to slip out the back door and retreat to my hotel but wanted one last look at the prize of the show: the Olafur Eliasson sculpture. It was one of his wall mounted assemblages, built up out of layers of mirrored glass, hand formed into a rippled surface and covered with a kind of coppery film that dimmed and distorted the light from the room. I rocked from one foot to the other, watching the dark reflection change, when Valerie’s vise like grip clamped down on my forearm and she appeared at my side. Her other hand gripped the arm of a man who looked seriously out of place. He was tall and skinny with wisps of white hair, gold rimmed glasses, a brown corduroy blazer over an Eddie Bauer button up, and those hiking pants with zip off legs and crotch gussets. I took him for mid-sixties. Maybe a college professor in the social sciences or a French horn player in a symphony orchestra. He looked around the gallery in a furtive way, clearly uncomfortable.

“Justin,” Valerie nearly yelled, “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. I wanted you to meet an old friend of my family. This is Julian Wolhardt. Julian, Justin.”

“Nice to meet you,” I said, extending a hand. His handshake was not limp but not strong either. He barely met my eyes.

“Nice to meet you too.”

“Julian had a question for you,” Valerie said, grinning. “I was hoping you could find somewhere quiet to talk.”

I looked at Valerie, trying to convey irritation without making it obvious to Julian Wolhardt. What was this? Some kind of setup? Is this why she asked me to come to LA? Or maybe part of it? Emilio had legitimately needed help but Valerie never wasted a stone on only one bird.

“Okay,” I answered hesitantly. “Would you like to step into the office for a moment Mr. Wolhardt? It’s quieter there.”

“Just Julian, please,” He answered. “Yes, quiet would be good. I’m afraid I don’t do very well in noisy environments.”

I looked around for Valerie but she had faded back into the crowd so I gave up and led him to the office near the back of the gallery. It was just a square of floor space that had been framed in and walled off from the rest of the open area. We had set up a cheap folding table, a couple of chairs and laptops, a printer and a file cabinet. I gestured to one of the chairs and sat in the other. Julian Wolhardt lowered himself slowly and sighed.

“Bad back,” he said, “been standing too long. Thanks for taking a moment to speak with me.”

“No problem. What’s this about?”

“I have a small problem.” He took off his glasses and wiped them with a handkerchief as he spoke. “Valerie’s father was a good friend. He was a fan of my work. Not many of those! I believe he made her promise to check in on me occasionally before he passed away. She called me out of the blue two weeks ago just to say hello. The problem I mentioned had just occurred. I’m afraid I monopolized the conversation and might have sounded a bit unhinged. Anyway, when I explained the issue to her she immediately told me she had an acquaintance who might be able to help.”

“Me?”

“Yes.”

“What kind of work do you do?”

“I’m mostly retired now but I wrote music for films.”

“I see. I imagine you must have lost something of value?”

“Yes, in a manner of speaking. Valerie said you specialize in recovering things for people.”

“I do.” I paused for a moment, calculating. I didn’t really want to get involved in another project at the moment but it couldn’t hurt to hear him out. I could always say no. I was exhausted though and needed to sleep. My mind wandered down random paths like it does when I’m overtired. “I’m wrecked right now,” I continued. “It’s been a long week. I need to go back to my hotel and sleep for about ten hours. Can we talk in the morning?”

“Yes. And if you could come to my house it would help. There’s a lot of material for me to show you that will help explain the situation.”

“Fine. I’m leaving tomorrow but my flight’s in the evening. That should work. What time? Ten AM maybe?”

Wolhardt nodded and pulled a business card and a pen out of the inside pocket of his blazer. I watched him write an address on the card. He handed it to me. “Ten is good. I’ll plan on seeing you then. Thanks again for considering this. Valerie said you’re very good at what you do.”

“I can’t guarantee I’ll be able to help. I’m willing to listen and think about it though.”

“Well, I can’t ask for more than that,” he said standing and offering his hand again. “Now I just need to see if I can find where I parked. Never come downtown anymore and it’s changed so much I barely recognize it.”