Not so in the City of Angels. A cemetery was a tourist attraction, the ultimate amusement park, a Disneyland of the Dead.

Even his job as a boiler repairman at times seemed an illusion. He was given a title, “inspector of lapsed technology,” a car, and a route of canneries, laundries, museum operations, and tourist railroads. He would be called out for a maintenance check, stick his head in a fire door or smoke box, make an announcement that the boiler was either safe to operate or needed repair, then go back to his office to make a report, figure an estimate, and, in the case of dangerous conditions, notify the state boiler inspector. His supervisor, Mr. Mason, a mean, gray-skinned man with a face as sharp as a hatchet, bounced back half of Paul’s reports, generally disagreeing with plain facts. They’d had their first argument within a week when Mason called him into a littered office and told him to sit down.

“You redlined InsCo’s boiler by mistake,” he said.

Paul folded his hands over his belly. “The right water-leg sheet had a bulge in it.”

The supervisor lit a cigarette and seemed to ignore the remark. “I want you to tear up the blue sheet.”

“Nope. State inspector’s got to know about this one. That thing’s got a hernia.”

The supervisor’s voice carried remnants of his Chicago youth. “You didn’t see any bulge.”

Paul shook his head. “You know what code says about bulges above the mud ring. The engineers are not blowing out sediment often enough, and the stuff is heating up inside the boiler shell and softening the iron. They’re running a hundred and seventy-five psi out there at InsCo. If a water leg ruptures, they’ll be able to serve the firemen on a platter like crawfish.”

Mason looked at his watch. “The state guy’s giving them their regular inspection at the end of the month. He’ll catch it. But you, you saw no bulge.”

“Why you paying me so damn much money to look for stuff if you want me to forget about it when I find it?”

“Let’s just say it’s a question of timing. InsCo’s been very good to this business. We don’t want to slow their production. You saw no bulge.”

“Okay, okay.” He held up his hands. “But why don’t you take my car away and let me sit in my cubicle and make up fairy tales on your forms?”

Mason narrowed his eyes. “I’d fire your ass if you didn’t know so much about old equipment.” He threw a folder into Paul’s lap. “Now rewrite this report and get it back to me in an hour.”

And that was the way his job went. Paul was happiest when there were no field inspections to make and he was sent to the shop to help the welders and stay-bolt men, where he could break a sweat and smell soot. His hefty paychecks went mostly in the bank, though he did buy a set of shiny, expensive wrenches that rang like little bells when he picked them up. He also bought a used Crown Victoria, four-door, white, with low-end upholstery. He would drive it home at four, after work, check the mail, take a shower, and wait for the phone to ring. One afternoon, it did.