Ear to the Ground. David L. Ulin

of any kind. La Brea was straight and simple and easy to maneuver one-handed. The red light at Melrose introduced him to a pretty blonde, around thirty, alone in a spanking white Honda Accord, howling with laughter. She caught him noticing and lowered her passenger window. “Howard Stern,” she giggled.

      “What?”

      “On the radio. Howard Stern.”

      The light turned green and he saw no more of her. Turning again, he made his way along Oakwood, past its stucco apartment buildings that appeared to have been shaped from a single mold. He noticed the cracks in their exteriors—at the corners usually, and extending diagonally and horizontally from the windows. Apparent also were the patch-jobs, where wet concrete had been slung as caulk and had discolored quickly.

      Charlie pulled into a permit-only zone in front of 418 North Spaulding where, twelve minutes later, he received a thirty-five-dollar ticket. He was, meanwhile, scratching plaster from the house’s front wall with a Swiss Army knife and mixing it on the palm of his hand with a bluish liquid he squeezed from an eyedropper. Satisfied with his findings, he walked around to the north side of the building, looking for a way into the basement. He discovered a crawl space, which, with a shove of the grate, he easily entered.

      Louis Navaro intended to rise early and wash his car in front of the building he owned. He had given the Santa Ana winds nearly two days to swirl their desert dust around his quarter-panels and work their insidiousness into his MacPherson struts. A bucket of hot water and a serious gob of Latho-Glaze would stun the demons, and force their retreat. It was his building; it was his car. The woman who’d left him seven years earlier had taken everything else—except for a duplex he’d converted from two vertically stacked apartments, blasting through the ceiling of the lower in a surge so libidinous he was convinced it was the sort of gesture to make her stay a lifetime.

      He was wrong, of course, and after two years he moved into a smaller unit on the other side of the building, hoping the duplex would be easy to rent, in spite of its price: twenty-four hundred dollars, firm.

      Currently, he lay in bed, staring at a tiny crack in the ceiling that resembled the depiction of a river on a map. He’d had a dream about a cruise boat that sailed, curiously, from Los Angeles to Chicago. The rest was pretty hazy, and no amount of recollection served him. So when at first there was a scraping sound beneath him, he didn’t notice. It persisted, however, and became a pop-pop, then a cack-cack, so Navaro got up. He jumped into some khakis and, zipping up his fly, went out the front door, and around to the side of the building.

      Only Charlie’s feet and ankles were visible. Navaro, barefoot and barechested, took note of the exposed black leather uppers and the conservative-looking trouser cuffs. He paused for a moment before he heard from within the rap of metal on metal.

      “What’re you doin’ there? Hey!” The rapping stopped.

      “Hello? Mr. Navaro?” The voice was muffled.

      “Who’s that?”

      “It’s Charlie Richter.” It sounded like “Cawa Rawa.” Gradually, the ankles led to shins, and thighs. Charlie’s white button-down emerged, smudged. The expression on his face resembled that of an auto mechanic with bad news. “I was checking the foundation.”

      “The foundation?”

      “I was wondering why there’s no X-brace along the front.”

      “What?”

      “Front to back, the expanse is X-enforced, but along the front it’s only an H, and then kind of a …”

      “Hey, I’m tri’na find a tenant, not a building inspector.”

      “No, I mean …”

      “Whaddya afraid of? The Big Bad Wolf?”

      Charlie smiled and stood up.

      “This building got through Northridge, nothin’ happened.”

      “Uh-huh.” Charlie brushed some pebbles from his trousers and looked over at the lawn. “What was your price again?”

      “Twenty-four hundred, firm.”

      “Two thousand.”

      “No way.”

      “Tell me,” Charlie hesitated, “how long’s it been vacant?”

      Navaro lit a Pall Mall, and spat out a fleck of tobacco. He took a couple of drags and looked his prospective tenant in the face. “This is the only duplex in the neighborhood.”

      “Precisely.” This somehow put the landlord at a disadvantage. “Nobody wants to pay that much rent around here.”

      “It’s a damn good neighborhood. And a damn good apartment.”

      “At twenty-four hundred, people want to live in Beverly Hills.”

      “Whaddya need so much space for?”

      “My equipment.”

      There came the pause that accompanies any derailed negotiation, until one side or the other realigns it. In this case, it was Charlie.

      “Here’s what I’m saying. I’d like you to think for a minute about my next offer, and if you can’t abide by it, just say no, and I’ll wish you the best.”

      Navaro dropped his cigarette. Charlie, seeing the landlord’s bare feet, squashed it cold, and continued: “But if you say yes, we’ll be in agreement, which makes sense, since we’ll be living under the same roof. So, if it’s all right with you, I’d like you to think carefully before answering.”

      “All right.”

      “You’ll think about the figure I’m about to give you?”

      “Yeah, yeah,” Navaro answered impatiently.

      “Two thousand.”

      Grace Gonglewski swallowed the last sip of her coffee and put the cup on the kitchen table, in the center of the patch of sunlight that drifted in through the triple row of windows over the sink. She glanced at the script tented beside her, then looked at her watch. Eight fifty-four. I’ll finish this tonight, she thought, and then she let the pages fan themselves shut with a breeze that ruffled the tiny hairs on her forearm. Ruefully, she glanced toward the high-ceilinged expanse of the living room, where two waist-high stacks of screenplays sat next to a white Ikea couch.

      Each day at Tailspin Pictures seemed like a lifetime to Grace. She felt, every morning—usually at the intersection of La Brea and Hollywood, where that chrome sculpture reminded her of New York—that she would die in Los Angeles, probably at Warners, reading at her desk.

      They wanted her to plow through three thousand pages of screenplay format every week, identifying gems. But God help her (He didn’t) if what she thought was a gem turned out to be coal, or—according to Ethan, two years her junior—shit.

      She had not the power to say yes at Tailspin Pictures; neither actually did her boss. Grace lived and marched in the ranks of Development, and it was her job to say no.

      If all that was something of a crapshoot, however, Grace’s apartment, at least, was hers alone, created in her own image, where she answered to no one but herself. Looking at the pattern of sun and shadows coming through the curtains, she felt, not for the first time, as if she couldn’t bear to leave. Then she went to get her sunglasses and keys.

      The bedroom was mossy, dark, a tangle of sleep smells, crumpled bedclothes and curtains drawn against the light. As Grace’s eyes adjusted, she grimaced at the mess. Sprawled across the width of the queen-size mattress lay Ian, hand raised, as if in protest, against the headboard’s knotty pine. God, Ian—she’d forgotten all about him, although it should hardly have come as a surprise. In three months, they had never once had breakfast together, and lately, she’d even given up kissing him good-bye. Looking at one skinny, dark-haired leg protruding from the sheets, she felt a small finger of revulsion tickle the back of her throat,