Connor smiled. "It looks like Trader Vic's after a bomb went off, doesn't it? Stop staring. Don't they let you out enough?"
"No, they don't," I said. Connor turned to speak to the Eurasian hostess. I looked at the bar, where two women kissed briefly on the lips. Farther down, a Japanese man in a leather bomber jacket had his arm around a huge blonde. They were both listening to a man with thinning hair and a pugnacious manner whom I recognized as the director of—
"Come on," Connor said to me. "Let's go."
"What?"
"Eddie's not here."
"Where is he?"
"At a party in the hills. Let's go."
¤
The address was on a winding road in the hills above Sunset Boulevard. We would have had a good view of the city up here, but the mist had closed in. As we approached, the street was lined on both sides with luxury cars: mostly Lexus sedans, with a few Mercedes convertibles and Bentleys. The parking attendants looked surprised as we pulled up in our Chevy sedan, and headed up to the house.
Like other residences on the street, the house was surrounded by a three-meter wall, the driveway closed off with a remote-controlled steel gate. There was a security camera mounted above the gate, and another at the path leading up to the house itself. A private security guard stood by the path and checked our badges.
I said, "Whose house is this?"
Ten years ago, the only people in Los Angeles who maintained such elaborate security were either Mafioso, or stars like Stallone whose violent roles attracted violent attention. But lately it seemed everybody in wealthy residential areas had security. It was expected, almost fashionable. We walked up steps through a cactus garden toward the house, which was modern, concrete, and fortresslike. Loud music played.
"This house belongs to the man who owns Maxim Noir." He must have seen my blank look. "It's an expensive clothing store famous for its snotty salespeople. Jack Nicholson and Cher shop there."
"Jack Nicholson and Cher," I said, shaking my head. "How do you know about it?"
"Many Japanese shop at Maxim Noir now. It's like most expensive American stores – it'd go out of business without visitors from Tokyo. It's dependent on the Japanese."
As we approached the front door a large man in a sport coat appeared. He had a clipboard with names. "I'm sorry. It's by invitation only, gentlemen."
Connor flashed his badge. "We'd like to speak to one of your guests," he said.
"Which guest is that, sir?"
"Mr. Sakamura."
He didn't look happy. "Wait here, please."
From the entryway, we could see into the living room. It was crowded with party-goers, who at a quick glance seemed to be many of the same people who had been at the Nakamoto reception. As in the restaurant, almost everyone was wearing black. But the room itself caught my attention: it was stark white, entirely unadorned. No pictures on the wall. No furniture. Just bare white walls and a bare carpet. The guests looked uncomfortable. They were holding cocktail napkins and drinks, looking around for someplace to put them.
A couple passed us on their way to the dining room. "Rod always knows what to do," she said.
"Yes," he said. "So elegantly minimalist. The detailin executing that room. I don't know how he ever got that paint job. It's absolutely perfect. Not a brush stroke, not a blemish. A perfect surface."
"Well, it has to be," she said. "It's integral to his whole conception."
"It's really quite daring," the man said.
"Daring?" I said. "What are they talking about? It's just an empty room."
Connor smiled. "I call it faux zen. Style without substance."
I scanned the crowd.
"Senator Morton's here." He was standing in the corner, holding forth. Looking very much like a presidential candidate.
"So he is."
The guard hadn't returned, so we stepped a few feet into the room. As I approached Senator Morton, I heard him say, "Yes, I can tell you exactly why I'm disturbed about the extent of Japanese ownership of American industry. If we lose the ability to make our own products, we lose control over our destiny. It's that simple. For example, back in 1987 we learned that Toshiba sold the Russians critical technology that allowed the Soviets to silence their submarine propellers. Russian nuclear subs now sit right off the coast and we can't track them, because they got technology from Japan. Congress was furious, and the American people were up in arms. And rightly so, it was outrageous. Congress planned economic retaliation against Toshiba. But the lobbyists for American companies pleaded their case for them, because American companies like Hewlett-Packard and Compaq were dependent on Toshiba for computer parts. They couldn't stand a boycott because they had no other source of supply. The fact was, we couldn't afford to retaliate. They could sell vital technology to our enemy, and there wasn't a damned thing we could do about it. That's the problem. We're now dependent on Japan – and I believe America shouldn't be dependent on any nation."
Somebody asked a question, and Morton nodded. "Yes, it's true that our industry is not doing well. Real wages in this country are now at 1962 levels. The purchasing power of American workers is back where it was thirty-odd years ago. And that matters, even to the well-to-do folks that I see in this room, because it means American consumers don't have the money to see movies, or buy cars, or clothing, or whatever you people have to sell. The truth is, our nation is sliding badly."
A woman asked another question I couldn't hear, and Morton said, "Yes, I said 1962 levels. I know it's hard to believe, but think back to the fifties, when American workers could own a house, raise a family, and send the kids to college, all on a single paycheck. Now both parents work and most people still can't afford a house. The dollar buys less, everything is more expensive. People struggle just to hold on to what they have. They can't get ahead."
I found myself nodding as I listened. About a month before, I had gone looking for a house, hoping to get a backyard for Michelle. But housing prices were just impossible in L.A. I was never going to be able to afford one, unless I remarried. Maybe not even then, considering—
I felt a sharp jab in the ribs. I turned around and saw the doorman. He jerked his head toward the front door. "Back, fella."
I was angry. I glanced at Connor, but he just quietly moved back to the entrance.
In the entryway, the doorman said, "I checked. There's no Mr. Sakamura here."
"Mr. Sakamura," Connor said, "is the Japanese gentleman standing at the back of the room, to your right. Talking to the redhead."
The doorman shook his head. "I'm sorry, fellas. Unless you have a search warrant, I'll have to ask you to leave."
"There isn't a problem here," Connor said. "Mr. Sakamura is a friend of mine. I know he'd like to talk to me."
"I'm sorry. Do you have a search warrant?"
"No," Connor said.
"Then you're trespassing. And I'm asking you to leave."
Connor just stood there.
The doorman stepped back and planted his feet wide. He said, "I think you should know I'm a black belt."
"Are you really?" Connor said.
"So is Jeff," the doorman said, as a second man appeared.
"Jeff;" Connor said. "Are you the one who'll be driving your friend here to the hospital?"