LIAM TURNS HIS PRIUS onto the 101 and frowns at the traffic, not because it’s any worse than usual, but because it’s always terrible. He spends more time than is strictly reasonable being pissed off at Victor for being buried in a part of town he never used to have to go to except to meet with his financial advisor.
Now he tries to visit about once a month. He parks and walks across the plaza in front of the Cathedral of Our Lady of the Angels with its constellations cut into the concrete. He and Victor used to spend hours discussing those stars as everything from industry metaphor to snide enticement to the non-religious. Victor had found it particularly brilliant that they were underfoot.
The descent down into the mausoleum, from bright daylight to sudden dark to pleasant LED illuminat
