Outside 450 Melrose, Leland checked the mailboxes and then rode the elevator to the twelfth floor. Number 9 had a large wreath on the door. He pressed the buzzer. A few moments later, he heard muffled footsteps drawing near and then the door opened.
“Where the hell did you come from?” Cliff said with a puzzled expression. He left the door ajar, turned his back on his guest, and strode down the hallway.
Leland closed the door and followed him into a living room with a large window and a view of another ultra-modern building across the street. “You’ve lost a few pounds,” he said, admiring Cliff’s trim build. He was wearing jeans and an It Gets Better T-shirt that fit him perfectly. “I like what you’ve done with your hair. It’s different somehow.”
“It used to be black with streaks of gray.
