And with that we were off. We stopped at a gas station close by, and I ran in for a camera, and then from there we headed into Hollywood Hills. Conversation, unlike the night in the limo, was easy and nonstop as we drove through the narrow and twisty roads that led to what was supposedly the best vantage point for the Hollywood sign. After getting several pictures, we made our way back down the hills, getting deliberately lost and taking twice as long to get back to the main road, just so we could check out the houses along the way. From there we went into Hollywood, where we found parking in a public lot and walked to the Chinese Theatre. Before we got out, he fished around on the floor of the backseat for a moment before finally finding a beat-up Angels cap and pulling it down low over his eyes.

I frowned as he locked the car. “Is this going to be a hassle for you?”

He pocketed the keys and came around to my side of the car. “What do you mean?”

I glanced up at the cap. “Doing the whole incognito thing must mean you expect to get blitzed.”

He shrugged. “Goes with the territory. I don’t usually try to hide myself, but I don’t want you to get all mixed up in that. It wouldn’t be fair to you.” Then he smiled. “Unless you want to be mobbed by strangers.”

I laughed. “Eh, maybe next time. I’m not really in a mobbing kind of mood.”

He led me out to Hollywood Boulevard where most people were looking down at the names on the sidewalk and not into the faces of those passing by. It was weird seeing all this again in the daylight and without scores of photographers and celebrity-watchers. We got to the theatre and measured our hands against those of the people famous enough to get a block of cement all their own. Judy Garland was a perfect fit for me, and for the rest of the afternoon, I was subjected to comments about my dog Toto and getting high on poppies.

After that we went back to the car—as it turns out there’s not much to do in Hollywood—and then drove out to Beverly Hills. The houses there were amazing, and we oohed and aahed our way down the streets. I was reminded of my diatribe on money, but he didn’t mention it, so I guessed we were all right.

A little before noon he asked, “So how hungry are you?”

I grinned. “Not very, but now that you’ve mentioned eating, I’ll be starving in about five minutes. My stomach is voice activated.”

He laughed. “Well, I have reservations at a place just off Rodeo. Do you like Italian?”

“Love it—but are we dressed up enough for a place that requires reservations?”