Sole Survivor

inexpensive, and the decorator's palette was restricted to pastels used to interpret classic Navajo motifs.
        A fortune had been spent here; and Joe was acutely aware that by comparison to the decor, he was a scruffy specimen. He hadn't shaved since leaving for Colorado more than twelve hours ago. Because most contemporary male movie stars and directors indulged in a perpetually adolescent lifestyle, blue jeans were acceptable attire even at many tony establishments in Los Angeles. But his new corduroy jacket was wrinkled and baggy from having been rain-soaked earlier, and he had the rumpled look of a traveller-or a lush coming off a bender.
        The young hostess, as beautiful as any famous actress and no doubt passing time in food service while waiting for the role that would win her an Oscar, seemed to find nothing about his appearance to disdain. She led him to a window table set for two.
        Glass formed the entire west wall of the building. Tinted plastic blinds softened the power of the declining sun. The view of the coastline was spectacular as it curved outward both to the north and south-and the sea was the sea.
        “Your associate has been delayed,” the hostess said, evidently referring to Demi. “She's asked that you have dinner without her, and she'll join you afterwards.”
        Joe didn't like this development. Didn't like it at all. He was eager to make the connection with Rose, eager to learn what she had to tell him-eager to find Nina.
        He was playing by their rules, however. All right. Thanks.
        If Tom Cruise had undergone cosmetic surgery to improve his appearance, he might have been as handsome as Joe's waiter. His name was Gene, and he seemed to have had a twinkle surgically inserted in each of his gas-flame-blue eyes.
        After ordering a Corona, Joe went to the men's room and winced at the mirror. With his beard stubble, he resembled one of the criminal Beagle Boys in old Scrooge McDuck comics. He washed his hands and face, combed his hair, and smoothed his jacket. He still looked like he should be seated at not a window table but a Dumpster.
        Back at his table, sipping ice-cold beer, he surveyed the other patrons. Several were famous.
        An action-movie hero three tables away was even more stubbled than Joe, and his hair was matted and tousled like that of a small boy just awakened from a nap. He was dressed in tattered black jeans and a pleated tuxedo shirt.
        Nearer was an Oscar-nominated actor and well-known heroin addict in an eccentric outfit fumbled from the closet in a state of chemical bliss: black loafers without socks, green-plaid golf pants, a brown-chequered sportscoat, and a pale blue-denim shirt. In spite of his ensemble, the most colourful things about him were his bloodshot eyes and his swollen, flame-red eyelids.
        Joe relaxed and enjoyed dinner. Pureed corn and black-bean soups were poured into the same dish in such a way as to form a yellow and black yin-and-yang pattern. The mesquite-grilled salmon was on a bed of mango-and-red-pepper salsa. Everything was delicious.
        While he ate, he spent as much time watching the customers as he did staring at the sea. Even those who were not famous were colourful, frequently ravishing, and generally engaged in one sort of performance or another.
        Los Angeles was the most glamorous, tackiest, most elegant, seediest, most clever, dumbest, most beautiful, ugliest, forward looking, retro-thinking, altruistic, self-absorbed, deal-savvy, politically ignorant, artistic-minded, criminal-loving, meaning-obsessed, money-grubbing, laid-back, frantic city on the planet. And any two slices of it, as different as Bel Air and Watts, were nevertheless uncannily alike in essence: rich with the same crazy hungers, hopes, and despairs.
        By the time he was finishing dinner with mango bread pudding and jalapeno ice cream, Joe was surprised to realize how much he enjoyed this people-watching. He and Michelle had spent afternoons strolling places as disparate as Rodeo Drive and City Walk, checking out the “two-footed entertainment,” but he had not been interested in other people for the past year, only in himself and his pain.
        The realization that Nina was alive and the prospect of finding her were slowly bringing Joe out of himself and back to life.
        A heavy-set black woman in a red and gold muumuu and two pounds of jewellery had been