Read Online Where the Truth Lies by Holmes Rupert - Free Book Online

culverts run over worse than the budget ofCleopatra. Half the native Los Angeles drivers, never having seen a heavy rain before, continue to drive at seventy-five miles an hour, unaware of the undertow. The other half, never having seen a heavy rain before, instantly turn around, drive home at five miles per hour, and don’t venture out again for days. This mass sequestering is the Southern California version of snowbound and has been known to cause the citizens to “read for pleasure”—but as I say, it doesn’t rain in Los Angeles very often.
    My cabdriver stared in awe as the view framed by his windshield turned into an impressionist painting in the furious downpour. So stunned was he as the daylight colors bled together on the glass that, momentarily disoriented, he spoke in English.
    “Fucking rain,” he grunted and glared at me in his mirror as if there were something I could do about it, such as walk. But my bags were already in the trunk, next to the spilled puddle of motor oil that is mandatory in the trunks of all Southern California taxicabs.
    We arrived at Los Angeles International Airport, with its theme building designed by Frank Lloyd Jetson, and reached the segment of the white zone designated for the loading and unloading of American Airlines passengers only. My editors at Neuman and Newberry had decided it was urgent that I meet with them in New York to explain the deal I’d put forward to Vince. A phone call like the one I’d already made to their business-affairs department would have sufficed, but for the money they were going to be shelling out, my editors wanted to have me summarize the terms of the agreement yet again in person. Pointless but unavoidable.
    My garment bag swept the terminal floor clean as I dragged it over to the long lines at the American Airlines ticket counter. I saw with elation that there was a separate checkin for first-class passengers, and thanks to the good graces of Neuman and Newberry (and my agent, who’d negotiated my deal with them), that meant me.
    Although there were only two classes of travel at that time, economy was definitely third class. First class meant a wider seat with a much better view, that view on most flights consisting of the economy passengers trudging by on their way to the rear of the plane, looking at us with a searing envy, wondering who we might be, wishing they were us, noticing the glasses of champagne in our hands. All alcoholic beverages would be premium brands poured from full-size bottles into full-fisted glassware. The caviar cart would be ushered down the aisle by the stewardesses (all blond) named Kim or the lone steward (blond, all gay) named Karl. With caviar (“Would you like diced hard-boiled egg? Capers? Chopped raw onion? A squeeze of lemon? Toast?”) would be served tall ampules of Stolichnaya nested in crushed ice. With the fish entrée (possibly seafood Newburg or Irish smoked salmon) we’d be asked to indulge apremier cru Chablis. While we were yielding to the tiresome filet mignonau poivre vert (I know, I know!), a serviceable Gevrey-Chambertin would be tolerated. At the end of the meal would come the sweet trolley (as the English called it) orle chariot (as the affected English called it). Swing low, sweet chariot. On American Airlines, this usually resulted in a made-to-order ice-cream sundae oozing hot caramel and bittersweet chocolate. Next would materialize the liqueur cart, a score of bottles clanking away against one another like a steel-drum band, and then coffee would be served, but even so, a spike of Irish whiskey or a snifter of cognac or Armagnac was always advised. Frankly, it’s a wonder the planes didn’t simply fly on booze. There was enough fuel in the first-class cabin to keep a Boeing (and oneself) in a holding pattern over the Great Lakes for a fortnight.
    For this level of extraordinary (although, I felt, totally appropriate) service, my publishers were being charged an additional seven hundred dollars.