Of course, no one in L.A. had an accent. Everyone was from somewhere else, but they all strove to hide it, as if they’d slid from the womb craving flavored mineral water and sushi on Melrose. But Suko had met no one else who spoke like this man. His voice was soft and low, nearly a monotone. To Suko it was soothing; any kind of quiet aimed at him was soothing after the circuses of Patpong and West Hollywood, half a world apart but cut from the same bright cacophonous cloth. Cities of angels: yeah, right. Fallen angels.
They pulled up in front of a shabby apartment building that looked as if it had been modeled after a cardboard box sometime in the 1950s. The man—Justin, Suko remembered, his name was Justin—paid the cabdriver but didn’t tip. The cab gunned away from the curb, tires squeali
