My immediate need for income and a cheap apartment led me to consider — briefly — a stint as an escort. But I wasn’t getting any younger, and time would quickly take its toll, as it had on my starstruck dreams, so I settled on a bartending gig to get back on my feet. When I took the job, the manager said, “We already have a Danny.” He rummaged through a drawer and pulled out a name tag. “Here you go: Dante.”
The job lasted only five months, but the name stuck, trailing me as I sniffed around for more durable employment. And that’s when a friend tipped me off to a vacation-rental agency that had an immediate opening for a field inspector. I landed the job, which involved checking the condition of properties before guests arrived and after they left. My duties also included occasional VIP check-ins and minor service calls during their stay.
“Yes?” crackled the intercom after I rang the doorbell.
“Dante from Sunny Junket.”
A befuddled pause. “What?”
“My name’s Dante. I’m from Sunny Junket Vacation Rentals.”
“Oh. Just a minute.”
This was one of our premier properties, up in the Little Tuscany neighborhood, where the bohemian feel of steep, winding streets gave no hint of the million-dollar views enjoyed by residents behind their walled courtyards. In the gravel parking court on that rare cloudy afternoon in February, my battered Camry looked especially pathetic — huddled next to an elegant champagne-colored SUV. When did Bentley start making those?
The party of two was registered under the name Edison Quesada Reál, booked for eleven nights, the entire duration of Modernism Week. It was a prime booking in high season, costing north of a thousand a day. The office said the guy was a bigwig art dealer from LA, and they wanted him happy, so they sent me out for the VIP treatment.
I intended to greet them when they arrived at the house, but they’d driven over early, letting themselves in with the keypad code we provided. The front door now rattled as someone fussed with the lock from inside. I waited with my slim folder of paperwork, standing under the cantilevered roof of the boulder-lined entryway. A small peeping bird flitted from the top of a barrel cactus and darted into the darkening sky when the door swung open.
“Well, hello.” His Asian eyes widened with interest as he sized me up.
I grinned, returning the once-over. He didn’t fit my picture of anyone named Edison Quesada Reál. And he was too young for a titan of the art world, maybe in his thirties. He had delicate features and a prettiness about him, like a twink who’d grown up, but he’d also hit the gym and was pleasingly buff, for a short guy. I’ve always had a thing for short guys.
I reached to shake hands. “I’m Dante. Welcome.”
“And I’m Clarence Kwon. Friends call me Clark.”
“Hi there” — I smiled — “Clark.”
“C’mon in,” he said, stepping aside and closing the door after me. He was dressed with the casual sophistication of moneyed LA — wispy calfskin loafers, tailored slacks, and a clingy cream-colored cashmere sweater with its arms shoved up to his elbows. Nice pecs. Good guns.
By contrast, I looked dorky in dad jeans and a yellow polo shirt embroidered with the Sunny Junket logo. Gesturing to myself, I told Clark, “They make me wear this.”
He laughed. “You look great.” And I half believed him as he wagged me along, leading me toward the back of the house.
As we entered the main room, the view opened up from a wall of glass. Although I had seen it many times, the elevated vista never failed to stop me cold. Even on that gloomy day, I caught my breath as the city spread out below, peeking through the crowns of distant palms. Sloping down from one side, granite mountains muscled into the scene to wrap around the city. Above, in a vast gray sky, clouds slowly roiled, snagged on the barren shards of the horizon.
“Edison,” said Clark, “the guy from the agency is here.”
Seated at the center of the huge window, facing out, mere inches from the glass, a man in a wheelchair remained dead still for a moment. Then he grasped both wheels. The rings adorning his hands clanged the chrome rims as he turned the chair to face me.
I stepped toward him.
“Stop,” he said sharply. “Let me get a look at you.”
I waited. He was older than me, well into his seventies, and way too heavy to be healthy. Though stuck in a wheelchair, he was smartly dressed — to the point of flamboyance — with a silk scarf of peacock blue around his neck. I shot him a smile.
“Forgive me if I don’t get up,” he said. “If I could, I’d kiss you.” He spoke with a worldly refinement and the trace of a Castilian lisp.
I moved to the wheelchair. “But I hardly know you.”
He grinned as we shook hands. “You’re quite the cheeky little cabbage, aren’t you?”
“I’ve been called many things, Mr. Quesada Reál. But never a cabbage.”
He let out a feeble roar of a laugh. “Please, please — it’s Edison.”
“And I’m Dante.”
“Of course you are.” His tone sounded almost suspicious. Had he seen through my act, the stagey name, the swarthy tan?
Clark moved to the far end of the room, near the long dining table, where he fussed with several piles of art prints, all of them protected by plastic sleeves. While arranging them vertically in wood-slatted browsing racks, he called over to me, “Did you bring us something to sign?”
“No, actually, that was handled online. I just need to snap a picture of the credit card you’ll use for payment — and a driver’s license to verify the name.”
Edison noted, “I don’t drive. You’ll need to handle this, precious.”
The younger man stopped his sorting. With an impatient sigh, he pulled his wallet from a pocket, slid out his license and an AmEx, and plopped them on the table. “This what you need?”
“You bet.” I went over and took pictures of the cards with my phone. I noticed that Clarence Kwon was thirty-four, which could not have been half Edison’s age. I assumed they were a couple; even though their rental was one of our most expensive properties, it had only one bedroom. I explained, “For these pedigreed houses, we run the charges every other day.”
Clark shrugged. “Whatever.”
“Perfectly understandable,” said Edison, wheeling himself in our direction. “You know I’m good for it, precious.”
Clark said nothing as he resumed sorting the artwork.
Edison continued, “Truth be told, no price would be too high for this.” He flung both arms, a gesture that embraced the whole house. Then he leaned forward, beading me with a milky stare. “Do you know who designed this, Dante?”
“Umm, I’ve heard, but...”
Edison sat back, twining the plump fingers of both hands. “Alva Kessler designed and built this house for himself shortly before he died in the late fifties. He envisioned it as a pure, modernist vacation ‘cabin’ — a sleek exercise in glass and steel. Truly magnificent, yes? In its sheer minimalism, it’s every bit as fresh and avant-garde as it was sixty years ago. And now, for a while, it’s all mine.” Edison paused, turning his head toward Clark. “I mean, it’s all ours.”
“Right,” said Clark, looking peeved. “Ours, when I’m not at the convention center.”
I asked, “The art sale? I know it’s a big deal during Modernism. I went once.”
“Once” — Edison sniffed — “is enough.”
Clark added, “If you’ve seen one lava lamp, or one Noguchi table, you’ve seen’m all.”