CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
When I got back to the car, some LADOT traffic officer had stuck a parking citation under the passenger-side windshield wiper blade. In L. A., justice never sleeps. That would teach me about parking in no-parking zones. I wadded the ticket into a ball and tossed it at a sidewalk waste receptacle. It rimmed out and fell onto the sidewalk. I shrugged, got in the car, and drove home to my West L. A. apartment.
It was after five, and I figured Sara was probably home from the office. I took out my phone and called her.
“I’ve got movies if you’d care to come over and watch them with me,” I said.
“Will you make popcorn?” Sara said.
“If you stop and pick up some on your way,” I said.
“What are the movies? Anything I’ve heard of?”
“Probably not,” I said.
“What kind of m
