los angeles a.m.

Last week I drove down Wilshire Boulevard late. Somewhere on the other side of midnight. At that hour the city has a different population-- a different identity. Even the twilight is different. The sky glows with a pale yellow light, a glow that is tangibly man-made. It's a constant reminder of the millions of living bodies within ten miles of my car.

The atmosphere of L.A. at night is seductive to its target demographic: the young, lonely and scarred. It's electric, and it's ominous. There's a dangerous edge to it-- after all, it's the thieves who own the city after midnight, and the junkies and bad cops and all manner of scoundrels.

I was idling at a red light at Fairfax, and across the street I saw a girl in pumps and three layers of make-up, leading a doe-eyed john into the lobby of a hotel.

Less than a mile away, the club scene was in full swing, as a line of impeccably-dressed yups snaked out of a little door and down a narrow side alley. Beyond that little door, subwoofers shook and lights flashed. Out in the alley, cinder blocks and broken glass littered the concrete on which they all stood, shivering in their expensive shoes and shirts and dresses. They didn't seem to care.

And that made sense, when I thought about it. They weren't there to sight-see.

Five minutes later. A black Lincoln Towncar was in the lane adjacent to mine. The driver surveyed his surroundings with the look of a hardened mercenary. He monitored his speed carefully to make sure I wasn't driving next to him. The car's windows were tinted.

Every time we would pull up to a stoplight, he'd keep his cab five feet behind mine, giving me a hard stare every time I glanced his way in my rearview mirror.

I don't know what was going on in the back seat of that Towncar. A passionate affair... maybe. Could've been a big crack deal. Whatever it was, it involved someone who could afford a hired driver. A CEO, a movie star, a record producer, a high-ranking public official. Maybe a crooked lawyer trying to cop a bargain with the prosecution.

More likely, a forty-five-year-old married businessman on a joyride with a very friendly girl named Trixxie.

In this city, it could have been anything.