“I guess we can discuss those pants another day. That’s a ketchup stain, right?”
I looked down. He was wrong: It was in fact two ketchup stains, but one had annexed the other to form a larger, more influential federation of residue. When I raised my head to explain this, however, Len was no longer there. The Jaguar was already at the studio gate, tail lights on, turn signal flashing.
“Asshole,” I muttered, returned to the task of putting on my helmet. No sooner had I got it on than I became aware of something else behind me. A voice, getting closer.
Couldn’t everyone just leave me alone?
“Bill? Is that you, Bill?”
I turned wearily. The owner of the voice had now almost reached me. “Hey—it is Bill, right?”
“David?” I gasped, my face changing color instantly. It was Bibi’s chauffeur. The hot one. He was dressed in skinny jeans and a puffy, dark-colored sleeveless vest, with a pair of headphones—or maybe they were earmuffs—around his neck. He reminded me of a life-size action figure. Only somehow more perfect.
“How did you know my name?” he replied, confused. Then he remembered. Snapping his fingers: “The ride to Bibi’s, right? In the Rolls. Well, you certainly have a lot of powerful folk chasing after you, Bill. We’re waiting for you on the roof.”
“We?… what are you talking ab—”
“Follow me.”
“But my bicycle.”
“You can bring it with you if you want. But I don’t recommend it. Heh, not where we’re going.”
I took David’s advice and locked it up again, only this time without removing the wheel. Then I allowed him to lead the way, wondering what Bibi could possibly want from me this evening. We traversed the parking lot, left the studio grounds through a side gate, crossed Gower Street, then entered the lower floor of a high-rise parking structure opposite. Two elevators gaped open in front of us. We took the first, with David tapping a button marked “H,” whatever that stood for.
A giddy sensation as we rose.
“Are we going to Bibi’s again?” I asked.
David smiled. “Bibi isn’t my only client, y’know,” he said. “I’m in the general transportation business. Celebrities. Politicians. High net worth individuals.”
“So this isn’t about Bibi?”
“You’ll see.”
The doors opened to reveal the top-floor level of the parking structure, the moon hanging there in front of us, huge and solemn. But I wasn’t looking at the moon. I was looking at the large white H-shape in front of me—on top of which was resting a sleek white helicopter, its windshield shaped like the visor of motorcycle helmet. The rotors were spinning. “Here, you might want to wear these,” shouted David over the noise, taking off his ear muffs and handing them to me. “If you wanna talk, plug ’em into the outlet next to you, there’s a mic built into the cord. You’ll figure it out.” Then he pulled open the rear door and helped me inside.
This was insanity.
I’d never been in a helicopter. Then again, this machine didn’t resemble any helicopter I’d ever seen before—not on the TV, not the movies, not anywhere. The cabin, for example, was even more unsparingly appointed than Bibi’s Rolls-Royce—a feat I wouldn’t have thought possible if I hadn’t seen it for myself. Seating was provided by six retrocontoured armchairs in white leather. Under foot: floors made from some exotic timber. And between the chairs was a glowing console, outlined in blue LEDs, which served as both an armrest and a glass-topped champagne cooler. An open bottle was locked in place, next to a single tethered flute.
I was now alone, harness in place, looking out of the vast, bulbous window. David, meanwhile, had climbed in through the co-pilot’s door and was also seated, checking instruments, making hand signals. He still hadn’t told me where we were going, what we were doing, who had organized all this. And by the time I’d plugged in my headset to ask him once more, we were already in the air.
It felt as though we were barely moving.
“Have some champagne,” said David, his voice in my ear. “He bought it especially for you.”
“He? Who’s he? Where are we going? This is crazy, David, you have to tell me now.”
“Relax. You’ll find out soon enough. Drink the champagne.”
I did as he said. It was a midnineties Dom Pérignon, according to the label. Still, I couldn’t exactly savor the taste when I didn’t know what this was all about. Of all the people I knew, who had the means to send for