I HAD FIVE short trips after I dropped Elise off. Then an extended one: a woman staying at the Beverly Hills Hilton who wanted me to go to the Armani store on Rodeo Drive. Once in the car she then asked if I would bring her shop to shop. I told her that, after I deposited her at Armani, she could walk to most of the stores. But she insisted that she be driven to each and every one of them. I explained that to do this would be tricky. Stopping on Rodeo Drive meant dealing with the cops who wanted to keep traffic moving … and who gave deference to the limo guys in their sharp suits with their over-monied clients. They also looked upon anyone behind the wheel of an Uber as trash. But I had done the Rodeo Drive run enough over the last year to know a couple of back alleys where I could loiter and hope some cop on the beat didn’t tell me to move on. The Asian lady was around thirty-five. Thin as a needle. Dressed to impress anyone who was into designer labels. Big sunglasses on her clenched face. She told me she had an American cell number and would pay me a cool one hundred per hour if I was able to pick her up as soon as she finished in one shop and was ready to move on to the next boutique. We agreed a system: a text from her two minutes before she was outside a certain store.

‘And you have to be there waiting for me – no delays allowed.’

‘Will do, ma’am.’

‘If I am waiting for you more than a minute I am deducting ten dollars. Understood?’

All too fucking well. Money can give certain people – in fact a lot of people – not just the illusion of power, but also the ability to insist on things that shouldn’t be insisted on … and actually make them come across as crass and mean. But this could be a $300 afternoon for me … and no payment to be made to Uber. I swallowed hard and fought to keep my rage down.

‘No worries, ma’am. I will make the deadline every time.’

We arrived at Armani. I went offline with Uber. Taking a break. I found an alleyway. I shut my eyes. Twenty-two minutes later … bing. She came out accompanied by some tall slick dude with the flattest stomach in LA and a crisp black shirt open to the sternum. He was carrying three big shopping bags for her. Into the trunk they went, the dude turning up his nose at my cheap car.

‘Off now to Vera Wang,’ she said to me.

Twelve minutes there.

Bing.

Made it to Her Ladyship in eighty-eight seconds. One shopping bag. Off now to Ralph Lauren.

Six minutes there.

Bing.