Chapter Two
I craned my neck for a better view out the plane window as we approached LAX.
The brown desert landscape gave way to mountains and then to the slightly greener San Bernardino Valley, the focus muted behind a thin milky haze.
Tightly packed grids of residences and small businesses stretched block after block, ending abruptly when the flat plain reached the base of the green-black mountains surrounding it.
When I spotted what appeared to be a white smudge high up in the hills, I pulled out my cell phone and zoomed in to take a picture of the Hollywood Sign, and then I snapped another of the cluster of taller buildings of downtown Los Angeles that seemed to sprout from the ground like a persistent dandelion.
As the engines slowed and the plane inched downward, the haze grew thicker, and the neat residential grids were broken up by sprawling multilane highways snaking through the landscape.
Larger flat-roofed buildings, maybe industrial or medical complexes, took up more of the acreage, as did expansive parking lots.
Mort, who had been sitting in the seat directly behind me, tapped me on the shoulder and pointed out the white roof of SoFi Stadium.
The decision to take the trip wasn’t easy to make.
At first it didn’t seem possible that all four of us could clear our schedules at the same time, and besides, the invitation to appear on Pub Trivia Live didn’t exactly come all-expenses-paid.
Except for a craft-services snack each day of the filming, we were responsible for all our own meals, hotels, and travel.
We might win some prize money to help pay for the trip, but only if we took at least third place.
So it hardly seemed a wise decision financially, and the lure of the bright lights had long since faded for me.
After more than my share of interviews on local and national television, the idea of becoming a reclusive writer up in a garret somewhere sounded more and more appealing.
Seth didn’t feel strongly one way or another.
But Mort and Maureen were so enthralled by the opportunity that they were willing to forgo their long-awaited anniversary cruise to be able to make the trip.
In the end, it seemed cruel to disappoint them.
Their excitement began rubbing off on me as we met to study and practice, and then I helped them pick out a few new camera-friendly outfits at Charles Department Store. Before long, the whole community was buzzing, and folks would stop me at the Fruit and Veg or at the library and ask me about it.
My niece Victoria, who lived in LA with her husband, Howard, was also excited about our coming for an extended visit.
“But of course you must stay with us!” she’d insisted when I’d called her with the news.
“Victoria, you know that I’d love to, but I will probably need to be near my friends and the studio.”
“They can all stay, Aunt Jess.”
“Victoria, how can you be serious? That seems like such an imposition.”
“Not at all. You’d be helping us. We recently decided to open the house as a bed-and-breakfast to pay for the rest of the renovations.
Don’t think of it as an imposition as much as it would be a great trial run for us, so to speak.
Get the bugs out. Not that we have bugs.
At least not anymore, or so the exterminator assures us.
And Howard just bought an old limousine to take our guests on tours.
There’s plenty of room to carry you and your friends to the studio or anywhere else you’d like to go. ”
Victoria, a real estate agent, had kept me abreast of their purchase of a dated mansion in Beverly Hills.
It was a real fixer-upper, to hear her tell of it.
A glamorous starlet had built the place way back in the day, and then as she aged and her fame decayed and the money sifted through her fingers, she could no longer maintain the structure.
Victoria had listed the property for months with no takers, until she walked Howard through the house.
Howard, an actor of some recent success, had always been a bit of a dreamer, so instead of the leaky plumbing, outdated wiring, squeaky floors, and bowing roofline, all he could see was the romance of the place.
And that’s how they became the owners of a nearly ten-thousand-square-foot dilapidated mansion with a reputation for being haunted.
The wheels of the landing gear bounced once on terra firma, then grabbed in earnest as the pilot applied the brakes and engaged the reverse thrusters.
When we came to a stop, several in the cabin applauded.
I wasn’t sure if they were appreciative of the skill of the pilot or just happy at the thought of getting out of the plane after such a long day of traveling.
We’d left Cabot Cove before dawn, Jed Richardson flying us from the local airfield to Boston, then taken a nonstop commercial flight to LAX.
For me it seemed like the day should be over, but thanks to the time difference, it was still early afternoon.
I think we were all feeling the physical effects of sitting for so many hours, so we made a slow ramble from the gate, following the signs toward baggage claim.
There, a man in a chauffeur’s cap held a sign that read Fletcher Hazlitt Metzger.
I did a double take, then rushed to give him a hug.
“Howard! You haven’t changed a bit!” This was a bit of a joke between us.
As an actor, Howard’s appearance had changed frequently—losing and gaining weight, altering his hair style and color, and growing and shaving facial hair—depending on a part he was playing, or even just hoped to get. Sometimes I barely recognized him.
I introduced him to our little group.
“You look familiar,” Mort said.
“Mort, don’t be silly.” Maureen slapped her husband’s arm. “He played the uncle…on that sitcom. What was it called? Don’t tell me.”
Howard laughed. “I’ve played a few of them now. Seems I’ve found my niche. One director called me the ‘archetypal screwball uncle,’ whatever that means. All I know is it beats playing a pineapple.”
Mort snapped his fingers. “Pepe the Pineapple! I knew I recognized that face. Hey, could you sing the jingle?”
“Yeah, not going to do that.” Howard led us to the baggage carousel and helped carry our luggage to a waiting limo.
Mort whistled as he pulled open a back door and peered inside while Howard began loading the luggage in the trunk. “What model is this?”
“It’s a Lincoln Town Car stretch. There’s a little age on it, but it can seat seven in a pinch, depending on how friendly everyone wants to get, so there’s plenty of room for four.”
When we were all settled and Howard had climbed into the driver’s seat, he turned around and asked, “So, back to the house, or are you up for some sightseeing?”
“Actually,” Seth said, “I wouldn’t mind stopping off for a bite somewhere.”
“It has been a while since we last ate,” Mort added.
“But someplace different, like we can’t get at home,” Maureen said. “I want to make the most out of the trip.”
“I have an idea,” Howard said, “and if you’re up for a little sightseeing afterward, there’s a spot nearby with a great bird’s-eye view of the city.”
We all agreed to trust Howard’s recommendation and settled into the plush limo for the better part of an hour.
Mort busied himself pushing buttons and opening various compartments, offering us bottles of water when he found a minifridge.
Seth leaned back and rested his eyes. Maureen glued herself to the window, her cell-phone camera at the ready.
“What are you looking for, Maureen?” I asked.
“Celebrities,” she said.
“On the highway?” I glanced out the window, and all I could see were cars crawling and frequent brake lights.
“I’m checking out the most expensive cars and limos.” She snapped a picture. “That’s funny. I wonder if anyone will think we’re celebrities.” She zoomed in on the photo she’d just taken. “Is that…is that Tom Selleck?” She showed her phone to Mort.
“Gee, I’m not sure, honey.”
She pointed. “See, there’s his mustache.”
“Oh.” He squinted at it again. “That smudge there? I don’t know. Could be.”
She passed the phone to me. I pulled on my reading glasses and scrutinized the blurry image.
“I suppose there’s a certain resemblance,” I hedged, not wanting to dim her enthusiasm.
After all, Maureen’s obsession with celebrities and pop culture was a big part of our team winning the chance to appear on the game show.
Once she’d reattached herself to the window, Mort shrugged at me, and I winked in return.
We exited the highway to city streets, and Maureen was the first to call out. “Wait, are we in Chinatown?”
“We sure are,” Howard said. “I thought you might enjoy a restaurant called Foo-Chow. It was used as a location in the film—”
“Rush Hour!” Maureen interrupted. “Jackie Chan and Chris Tucker. Opened number one in the box office in…1998.” She grinned and used her index finger to tally an imaginary point in the air. “I’ve been watching so many movies to study for the show.”
“She has.” Mort put his arm around her proudly. “I think we cornered the market on popcorn.”
“Then I think you’ll enjoy the restaurant,” Howard said. “Not that they serve popcorn. They painted the fact that they were in the movie right on the outside of the building. And on a beautiful day like today, you might enjoy the patio.”
“You are going to join us, right?” I asked.
“Well, normally if I were giving a tour, I’d just grab a sandwich and eat in the parking garage.”
“But you’re not our chauffeur,” I said. “You’re family.”
The rest of our group also insisted.
Howard laughed. “Well, you don’t have to twist my arm. Save me a spot while I find a place to park this behemoth.”