The limousine was idling outside. Morning light reflected off the shiny surfaces. It was a vintage car, grey with black trim, but well cared for.
There was a knock at the door. It was Lula.
“The car’s here,” she explained through the door. “We should go.”
Tyler was already dressed, except for his shoes. He’d been hoping to take a bath. There was something in the air that left a coating on his skin, as if his skin weren’t his own.
“Do we have to leave now?” he asked.
“I’m leaving,” she answered, her voice fading.
Tyler slipped on his shoes before walking to the sink, splashing water on his face and using it to smooth down the cowlicks.
Hearing Lula outside, he ran to the window. She was talking to a chauffeur, garbed in cap and buttoned jacket.
“I’m coming,” he hollered. The day was bright, almost blindingly so.
“Hurry up then,” she answered, her voice echoing down the quiet street.
Tyler raced down the stairs and out of the uninhabited lobby to the street outside. He squinted from the light. It seemed there was no seeing anything clearly in Two Cities, whether it was day or night.
He turned away. Wallace appeared as if from the shadows.
“What do you want?” asked Lula of Wallace.
“You should go to Bunker Hill,” he advised Tyler. “You’ll know where to go.”
The words “Bunker Hill” had little meaning at that moment. Tyler wanted answers and was curious what this club owner Rex had to say about Lula and Laurel.
“Thank you,” answered Tyler before turning to the car. The chauffeur was holding the door open. Lula had already stepped inside.
“You need to start at the beginning,” insisted Wallace. “Only way to figure out the ending.”
Tyler acknowledged the remark before climbing inside the Cadillac limo, the seats still smelling of leather.
“Now this is how you travel,” declared Lula.
The chauffeur climbed behind the steering wheel and started the car. The noisy rumble could be felt under Tyler’s seat.
Tyler turned around. Wallace was still observing him from the street. Had he misunderstood something important? Was it a warning?
Tyler turned to Lula.
“And Rex will know about Faye?”
“Well, he can’t stop talking about her, but I can and I will.”
Tyler turned to the window. There were no skyscrapers to be seen, the tallest building being the City Hall several blocks to the north. Majestic and ornately designed masonry fronted the street. Soon the city made way for residences: old Victorian homes with porches, porticoes and narrow turrets.
It was familiar and yet it was the reality of an old postcard. Had he time traveled? Los Angeles was never called Two Cities, and yet it couldn’t have been any place else. There were large undeveloped tracts of weeded land, telegraph wires flanking the streets and even the occasional oil derrick nodding away in search for instant riches.
What should have been the Hollywood sign read LOTUSLAND. No, this wasn’t time travel; although whatever it was couldn’t have been more unclear.
“Lotusland?” mused Tyler aloud.
“What of it?” answered Lula.
“Not Hollywood?” asked Tyler.
“Hollywood?” answered Lula blankly.
Tyler turned once again to the window. There were more open spaces in a city Tyler assumed had no open spaces, everything being spoken for. And yet, here was unused space and the promise, perhaps, of things to come.
The car turned north. Single family homes were once again replaced by loftier edifices. Near a corner, Tyler turned to find what looked like a derby hat the size of a house. Across the street appeared a park. The chauffeur turned the car toward the park before turning again. Flower beds and trees lined paths leading to a palatial building fronted by palm trees. It looked like the old Ambassador Hotel that had been demolished not too long ago.
“Is that the Ambassador?” asked Tyler.
“What else could it be?” asked Lula.
“And the club …” Tyler spoke while ransacking his memory. “The Cocoanut Grove.”
“Now you know why people listen to Rex,” she answered. “Best chunk of real estate this side of the Mississippi.”
The chauffeur turned the car into a driveway and stopped, porters opening doors, surprised to find no baggage to carry. One of the porters, who couldn’t have been much older than 15, recognized Lula.
“Why it’s Ms. Lula,” said the boy to the others.
“You should know Rex Regan’s car by now,” she answered as the chauffeur helped her out of the car. She was smiling, relishing the enthusiasm of the boys, and exiting the car as if arriving for an Oscar party.
Tyler opened his door and stepped outside.
Lula chuckled. “I should have introduced you,” she began, her mouth twisted in amusement. “Tyler meet Adams. Adams meet Tyler.”
The chauffeur bowed slightly for Tyler before returning to the driver’s seat.
“So many President names,” Lula mused. “What could it all mean?”
“Tyler’s my first name,” he explained, but Lula was already walking to the front entrance with her retinue of underage porters, chuckling to herself as if relishing an amusing memory.
Tyler followed Lula inside.
The lobby was vibrant, bellhops and porters in their red buttoned jackets busily carrying luggage while patrons in suits and floor-length dresses gathered before elevators.
Lula guided Tyler to a large cavernous room, miniature palm trees stretching overhead. It looked like a set from Casablanca with its Muslim-inspired columns and hanging lanterns.
The room was unoccupied and the lights out, but the effect was still dramatic. To enter the Cocoanut Grove was to enter another world.
Lula’s heels smacked purposefully over the hard-wood dance floor. Tyler, on the other hand, took a seat, imagining the room full of partygoers dancing to big band swing.
“Rex is waiting,” Lula reminded him.
“I’m not in my office,” echoed a man’s voice through the spacious room. It wasn’t a commanding voice, but it was clipped and decisive.
“Rex,” gushed Lula as she ran toward a short-statured man smartly-dressed in a double-breasted suit, hair pomaded close to his round scalp. “I missed you so much.”
Lula reached for him. Rex gave her a few moments of unreciprocated affection before throwing her off, his gaze fixed on Tyler.
Tyler turned to find two men in similar suits taking seats at his table. They glared as if it were their job to put him ill at ease. This was the muscle, their faces punched out of shape and guns likely concealed under jacket pockets.
“And who are you again?” asked Rex as he approached Tyler’s table, standing next to one of his associates.
“Tyler Hackett,” answered Tyler. “I’m looking for a woman by the name of Laurel Harrington.”
“What makes you think I know her? She’s not one of our patrons.”
“So you haven’t seen her?”
“Got a picture?”
Tyler shook his head. How much simpler his search would be if only he had something to show. What use was a name unless she were constantly introducing herself to people?
Rex shook his head, a row of even white teeth testament to a man who valued perfection, in himself and others.
“You know how many people live in Two Cities?”
“Over a million, right?” asked one goon to the other.
“At least,” answered the other.
“A million five,” answered Rex, taking a seat across from Tyler, “so you want to find someone, I hope you got a lot of time on your hands.”
“All the names are on file at the …” began the first goon.
“Shut up,” countered Rex.
Rex retrieved something from his pocket. It was a glossy 3’ by 5’ of Faye. “Now, this woman people know. And it was my understanding you were looking for her not this Laura whatshername.”
“They said if I find Faye, I’ll find Laurel.”
“So you ARE looking for my Faye.”
Lula sat dejectedly on a nearby seat, flinching at every mention of Faye Rand.
“I understand she’s with someone called Murdoch,” answered Tyler.
Rex slammed a fist on the table, his gaze downcast.
“She wouldn’t choose someone else,” he murmured. The goons reached inside their pockets.
“I believe she’s there against her will,” answered Tyler. “Right, Lula?”
Rex turned on Lula. “You keepin’ me in the dark?”
Lula shook her head. Rex stepped toward her, pulling her to her feet, his hands on her shoulder. “What didn’t you tell me?”
“I saw her get in a car,” answered Lula, trembling. “Russell Murdoch was inside. I know ‘cause he saw me.”
“She got in his car?”
“She knows him,” answered Lula.
Rex chuckled to himself as if the news didn’t matter. Then, to everyone’s surprise, Rex grabbed the table and flipped it over, slamming Tyler’s elbow and pinning one of the goon’s underneath.
“I’m not gonna be the last to know,” roared Rex.
Lula grabbed his lapels, her body almost limp. “You don’t need her. You got me.”
Rex knocked her loose, sending her to the floor. “What I want with a fat old has-been like you?” he roared before storming off toward a distant cluster of palm trees.
The second goon rolled the table off the first goon, who coughed as he struggled to find his feet.
Lula sat on the floor, her head in her hands.
This wasn’t what Tyler expected, but there was nothing to do but help return the table to an upright position and take a seat. He’d have to wait for tempers to cool.
Near the open door, band members with instrument cases hesitated.
“Is it alright to set up?” asked one of the band members.
The second goon nodded, gesturing to the stage before helping the first goon onto a seat.
Tyler stood, reaching for Lula’s hand. She seemed relieved by the attention, but said nothing as he helped her to her feet. Lula turned her head, as if wipe tears from her face.
Tyler reached for her arm, but she was already walking to the restrooms, a hand to her face as if to conceal it.
“You ain’t goin’ anywhere,” insisted the second good. “So don’t get any bright ideas.” The goons walked in the direction Rex took, leaving Tyler entirely alone.
Tyler took a seat, observing members of the band as they set up drums and music stands, performers riffing on their saxophones and trumpets, the mood increasingly convivial until patrons began lining up outside.
The second goon reappeared suddenly, gesturing for him to make himself scarce. Tyler stood up and approached the stage, finding a seat behind the performers, obscured by low-hanging palm fronds.
Tyler enjoyed the blasts of music and the occasional beat of the drums as the performers tuned up. He didn’t realize his eyes were closed until the woman spoke to him. At first, he imagined it was Laurel, finding him before he had to find her.
“West?” he heard her say in a deep, sonorous voice.
Tyler opened his eyes.
The woman wore a skin-tight reflective gown, what appeared to be a bowl of fruit on her head. Her skin was olive, and her hair raven. She was pleasing to look at, if overly made-up, bright red lipstick giving her an almost clownish appearance.
“No,” answered Tyler. “That was my father’s name.”
“West McCauley,” said the woman, pleased to have remembered something. Tyler was surprised she knew his father’s full name.
“You met him?” asked Tyler.
“How could he be your father,” she replied with a smirk. “He’s no older than you.”
“It’s my father’s name, but he’s probably someone else.”
“And he looks like you?” she asked. “Who are you anyway if you’re not West?”
The woman had a slight accent. He couldn’t place it.
“Tyler Hackett,” he replied. “And you?”
“Carmen Montero,” she answered. “But here I am just Carmen.”
Carmen leaned in close, her breath on his cheek.
“But I know it’s you, West. It’s alright. Your secret is safe. You know I’d tell them nothing. They can tear out my fingernails and I will still tell them nothing, hijos de putas.”
Tyler never much thought about his resemblance to his father. He’d seen photos of a boy but perhaps he looked just like him now.
“I’m looking for someone,” he told her, remembering his purpose.
“Who?” asked Carmen.
“Her name is Laurel and she may be in the company of Faye Rand.”
Carmen shook her head. “Then this Laurel should have made better friends.”
“What do you mean?”
“Ella es un idiota. She wants everything and she thinks she can get it. But she will learn.”
“Do you know where she is?”
‘They say she is with a man who will never let her leave.”
Carmen gave him a playful shove. “But you men all kiss her feet but she’s nothing and she will never be anything. You should think about a woman who’s everything she says she is.”
Carmen inched close again. “I could be convinced to forgive you for last time, West. And maybe I already have.”
Tyler wanted to clarify his identity but Carmen was already walking to the stage, her hips swaying languidly as she took her time. Patrons were already taking their seats, someliers taking drink orders.
The clatter of silverware punctuated the increasing chatter, as patrons occupied tables. Eventually, the lights dimmed. All heads turned to the stage where percussionists shook maracas and tapped hand rums, Carmen swaying sensuously to the beat.
“Rex’ll see you now,” said a familiar voice. It was the second goon, his hand firmly on Tyler’s shoulder.
Standing, Tyler followed the second goon to the rear rooms, glancing back as Carmen began to croon something in Spanish, her voice soft at first as if she were singing to herself. But her eyes were firmly fixed on Tyler as he stepped past the palm trees and into the world of unknown intentions.
