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AL FRAY
All characters in this work are fictitious
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Over Cahuenga Pass we got it down to Kate and Marty and worked in a few background details but the blonde gave the problem at hand a wide berth. Vague generalities and the bland statement that it would be easier to show me when we arrived. Maybe I shouldn’t have worried about it, either. Good duty this. I should have been content to roll her expensive wagon over the concrete and let small matters take care of themselves but somehow I didn’t like the feel of things. We turned right onto the Canyon Highway, the tires making a soothing hum on the pavement. Dry air hung motionless over stunted desert growth and dusty tumbleweeds shook themselves at our passing, bumped lazily along in our wake for a few yards, and subsided in the peace of the morning. Tiny heat waves shimmered over rocks and sand and in the distance a range of ragged hills swept upward and caught purple tints from a climbing sun.
I pushed the lighter into contact, and tried to figure who was kidding who, and why. When the lighter clicked back I offered smokes, then held the glowing tip for Miss Weston. Her thank you was a smile backed by those cool blue eyes and then she settled back again to watch the scenery slip past. She was as relaxed as a rag doll. She had draped the jacket to her suit over the back of the seat and a stream of air deflected inward by the windwing tugged gently at that long yellow hair and arranged her thin nylon blouse into that rounded effect cover girls strive to achieve. We smoked in silence, the soft purr of two hundred willing horses whisked us effortlessly along, and once again I tried to make something sensible out of the hour that had elapsed since I answered my phone back on the beach.
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