“I’m gonna fuck you one day, Kitty,” he slurred. His dirty curls fell across his forehead, bouncing like springs as he twitched and jerked. “Gonna hit every hole in that sweet Black body.”

“Fuck you, Angelo.”

“Maybe make a few new holes.”

The second thing to happen was not as threatening, but it upset her more deeply. She’d just made a drop at a garbage can in Rampart Village, half an ounce of meth in a crumpled Subway wrapper, which she had to push down to keep it from blowing away. She was in the process of doing this when a car horn pipped twice—hey, you!—and she turned, her hand still in the garbage can, to see a familiar Mustang grumbling at the light. Johan sat in the passenger seat, one tattooed arm hanging loosely out the open window. He smiled, flicked a finger in salute, then the light turned green and the Mustang pulled away. Kitty groaned, slowly withdrawing her hand, her sense of shame so vast that she stood rooted to the spot for eight minutes.

She finished her rounds, then rode her board to Fusion 44. Sly Boy wasn’t there when she arrived. She waited two hours. A nu jazz band played brightly. An old guy with a missing tooth hit on her. Kitty was about to leave when Sly Boy came in. He greeted a few of his regulars before taking the barstool next to Kitty’s.

“I’m not doing this anymore,” she said to him. “I’m out.”

“Maybe we can talk about this some other time.”

“No.” Kitty shook her head, then borrowed Johan’s analogy. “My L.A. dream doesn’t involve me hopping between garbage cans like a raccoon—”

“A well-paid raccoon . . .”

“I deserve better.”

The band played, hitting a groove that felt like pure improvisation, but sounded tight enough to have been rehearsed a thousand times. The vocalist—white hair, a tight green dress—swayed like an orchid. Sly Boy watched them appreciatively for a moment, then ordered two Cognacs. He gave one to Kitty.

“This won’t change my mind,” she said.

“Not trying to change your mind.”

He had Clooney good looks, close to fifty years old, strong shoulders. There wasn’t a worry crease on his brow, and why should there be? He’d amassed a small fortune dealing heroin from the late 1990s to the early 2010s, and had semiretired to the good life. Fine suits, fast cars, a house in the Bird Streets. He owned two clubs: Fusion 44 and E-Five, a rock venue in Santa Monica.

“You have something else lined up?” Sly Boy sipped his Cognac and smiled.

“Maybe,” Kitty replied. Her eyes dimmed, then she pulled back her shoulders. “I’m meeting with a talent agent soon. That’ll be my new starting point. I’ll bartend, I guess, until the roles start coming in.”