Part 8 (2/2)

For what I had in mind, it wouldn't do for me to be there waiting, so I sent Vic in to loiter and let me know when Yuan showed up. He whined a little about his a.s.signment. ”What I'm gonna do all day just sitting there?”

”Do a crossword,” I said. ”It's good for you. It'll stretch your brain.” I gave him a copy of People People magazine (home of the world's most cretinous crossword), opened to the puzzle page. ”Here,” I said, ”I'll get you started. One across: five-letter word for Academy Award.” magazine (home of the world's most cretinous crossword), opened to the puzzle page. ”Here,” I said, ”I'll get you started. One across: five-letter word for Academy Award.”

He thought long and hard before barfing out, ”Statue?”

”How many letters in statue?”

He counted them on his fingers and concluded, ”Oh.”

”Yeah, oh. Try again.”

”Ah ... award?”

”Oscar, you nimrod. Look, just go in there, stay cool, lay low, and text me when Yuan rolls in.”

”What if he doesn't?”

”Then we'll come back tomorrow.”

”That could get old real fast.”

”You should've thought about that before you sold me out to the fibbies.”

Oddly, this got Mirplo's back up. ”Man, Radar,” he said, ”you're just gonna hafta get over that, you know? I didn't sell you out, I hooked you up, at least that's how it looked to me at the time. And if you want to kick my a.s.s, I wish you'd just kick it and get the kicking over with, but this pa.s.sive-aggressive resentment bulls.h.i.+t is p.i.s.sing me off, so just take it, and your c.r.a.ppy crossword puzzle”-he slapped the magazine against my chest-”and shove 'em up your a.s.s. Okay?” He spun on his heel and, with the hauteur of a dowager aunt, sailed off toward the Magoon.

”You sure you don't want the magazine?” I called after him.

Vic bellowed back in the third person as Uncle Joe. ”He'll watch Judge Judy!”

I sure as h.e.l.l wasn't going to watch Judge Judy. I killed my idle hours at a nearby bookstore, one of those giant ones with seventeen different histories of the Peloponnesian Wars and whole shelves devoted to the art of cooking with cheese. The bookstore is the library of the modern age, which you can tell just by looking around at the earnest students sitting cross-legged on the floor of the test prep section or the stinky homeless leafing through magazines and trying desperately not to fall asleep and, therefore, down.

I looked around for something to read up on, but I really couldn't concentrate. I kept thinking about how Allie and my alter ego Ryan Reed had supposedly met in a bookstore. I imagined it was one of those cute meets, where you stalk each other flirtily through the stacks, eventually simultaneously confronting each other with, ”Why are you following me?” and ”I wasn't following you, you were following me,” prelude to an exchange of random banter, then coffee, a leisurely stroll, and a good-night kiss.

I'm not that old. Actuarially speaking, I've got like three quarters of a century to go. But as I wandered around that bookstore, waxing nostalgic for a love affair that never existed except as a fleeting figment of Allie's and my coagent imagination, I felt prohibitively removed from the snowiness you need to just plunge yourself into another person's life. Had I ever been that unguarded, that free? I didn't think so, and in that moment I felt the loss, like if you had a major league fastball but never yanked yourself away from your studies long enough to try out for a team. That was me: so caught in the grift net that I let the best of my youth pa.s.s by. You could argue that I wasn't all that innocent to begin with, but I would argue back that even if you've never had innocence, you can lose it just the same. Let's call it the potential for innocence-in my case squandered on commerce. What was I doing when I should have been picking up girls in bookstores? Selling artificial gold. Lots of it, yay me. I typically had all the money I needed to take a nice lady out to lunch but, alas, no lady, no lunch.

I buried myself in a copy of Guns and Ammo Guns and Ammo magazine, read up on Finland's new Sako rifles, and tried to forget all about it, the Allie and the innocence and all. magazine, read up on Finland's new Sako rifles, and tried to forget all about it, the Allie and the innocence and all.

Some indeterminate time later, my cell phone alerted me to an incoming text message: the pigeon p.o.o.p is on the winds.h.i.+eld What pa.s.sed for Mirplovian wit informing me that Yuan had arrived. It was time for me to get into character. I quick-scanned the shelves for the right props and found what I was looking for in A Guide to American Graduate Schools A Guide to American Graduate Schools and a laminated map of Los Angeles. I paid for these things, broke the spine of the book and riffled its pages to give it a thumbed feel, and headed out. and a laminated map of Los Angeles. I paid for these things, broke the spine of the book and riffled its pages to give it a thumbed feel, and headed out.

I was making much of this up as I went along, for I have found that my own gift for the grift is largely improvisational. When I grab a good idea and run with it, things usually work out, but when I try to over-solve the problem ... well, we've already seen how well that's that's gone. Anyway, in Yuan's case, I really didn't want to know too much, for when you ”meet” a well-researched mark, there's always the chance that some of your research will accidentally dribble out. gone. Anyway, in Yuan's case, I really didn't want to know too much, for when you ”meet” a well-researched mark, there's always the chance that some of your research will accidentally dribble out.

Twenty minutes later, I stood in the doorway of the Blue Magoon letting my eyes adjust to the gloom and my lungs to oxygen debt. The bartender squinted at me and gave the barest grunt of greeting. Mirplo had cleared out. Of the half-dozen people drinking their day away, the only Asian in the bar was not hard to spot. He occupied the last booth before the bathrooms, where he sat hunched over a newspaper. His lank black hair fell down over his eyes and he pushed it away at intervals, only to have it fall back down and occlude his vision once again.

I walked to the bar, spread out my laminated map, and asked the bartender, ”If I were UCLA, where would I be?”

”Nowhere near here,” he said.

”That's what I was afraid of,” I said. ”Did I make a wrong turn off Cahuenga?” I p.r.o.nounced it ka-HUN-guh.

”Man, that's the least of your wrong turns,” said the bartender. He took my map and traced a route with his finger. ”Go down to Holloway, shoot up to Sunset, and take that out to Westwood. UCLA's on your left.”

”Thanks,” I said. ”Mind if I use your can?”

”Knock yourself out.” I walked toward the bathroom. As I drew abreast of Yuan's booth, my cell phone rang. I broke stride to answer it.

”h.e.l.lo,” I said.

”It's me calling you,” said Mirplo. ”How's my timing?”

”Hi, Dad,” I said with an edge of irritation in my voice.

”Blee blee blah blah bloo bloo,” said Mirplo, carrying on his part of the conversation as he saw fit.

Now I really sounded irked. ”Dad, I told you, nothing's been decided yet. I'm just having a look around.”

”Ape ledger legions toothy flak offer hew knighted snakes over marigolds.”

”Yeah, well it's my money, isn't it?”

”Money schmoney, honey bunny.”

”Dad,” I said severely, ”I'm not having this conversation. That's why it's called a trust, remember? Because people trust you with it.”

”There once was a girl from Cadiz, whose hooters hung down to her knees. She spread her v.a.g.i.n.a from here to Regina ...”

”Nothing's been decided! I'll call you later.”

”... and b.u.t.tered her b.u.t.t crack with cheese.”

I closed the phone with an angry snap.

”Trouble?” asked Yuan, not looking up from the paper. I heard the flattened vowels of his Australian accent.

”Family,” I said with a shrug, and went into the can.

When I came back out, Yuan had changed position. He now leaned casually against the wall of the booth, his pipe-stem legs stretched out across the red vinyl bench. ”So,” he asked as I pa.s.sed, ”what do you want to study?”

”I'm sorry?” I said.

”Correct me if I'm wrong, but it seems you're scouting schools.”

”I am.” I let my voice betray my surprise. ”How did you know?”

He c.o.c.ked a slender finger at my book. ”Between that and ... 'Dad, it's my money,' I'd say ... gonna take a lark here ...” He furrowed his brow in ponder. ”Something impractical. Art?”

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