© Art Report Today
by Edie Lange
Fiction
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Chapter I: Click Here
I.3
CHAPTER
MEETING JOLLY CHOLLY
There was a tall, oddly imposing guy at the airport concourse, mid-twenties, about my age. He held a sign, which read, "Lange." He certainly dressed well. Johnny-on-the-spot. Tailored suit. Some dash. Could lose a few pounds, not to shame him in any way. Mumsy must keep him well fed. Was Chef Pearl his mom? She had called him 'my boy.'
I spun on my heel and placed my phone to my ear, faking a call. I turned back, to approach the sign bearer and said into the phone, "Yes, I just got here." I laughed at a funny reply. Then I pretended to 'see' the guy and raised a finger to catch his attention. He smiled as I approached. I said into the dead phone, "Look, Sher, I'm here and I will call you later. I'll let you know how it goes... Yes, I left my itinerary on the refrigerator. See ya." I pretended to hang up the phone and put it in my bag. A girl's gotta be careful in uncharted waters.
I gave my ride the once-over. He was a prince of old school, Euro-rad. Or cad. Carefully combed hair, heavy pomade. He must have known my face; he beamed when he recognized me. He bowed, all show biz. I asked, "Cholly, is it?"
"No, actually." He said phonetically, "It's Ch-ah-lly. Like Charlie, but the 'ar' gets so stretched out it ceases to exist."
Oh God. It's worse than using the wrong pronoun. I tried, "Chol-ly."
"Nah, but with a little practice...," He winked.
"But you spell it C-h-o-l-l-y," I argued.
He shrugged, "They used to call it a Mid-Atlantic accent. Cholly. Cholly Knickerbocker."
I nodded my approval. "Nice to meet you Cholly." I shook his hand.
"Likewise, Edie."
"Thanks for the pick-up."
"Oh, I haven't tried yet." He smiled and winked.
The remark took me aback. It was a little too early in the game. His Cheshire Cat wasn't a leer, a smile more angelic than devilish. I wasn't sure how to take it or how he meant it. So, I pulled a pair of reading glasses out of my pocket and put them on slowly, then held two fingers against the side of my face, and I looked at him as if I were scrutinizing a painting. It made him squirm.
He said, "I volunteered for this assignment. I think your 'Blue Chip, Red Dot' is rather nifty."
"I'll take nifty."
He shifted, for import, "As a matter of fact, I was the one who recommended your name to Pearl." He smiled. "You delight me."
He could read the flattery on my face. I liked this Cholly. He had a sparkle behind his eyes, a glint of humor or mischief. He was kind of good looking, just almost, but he drove it hard, hence his good grooming. I said, "You're jolly, Cholly."
"I try to be," he said. "Is that all of your luggage? Let me take that." He stowed my bag in the trunk of a Mercedes SUV and opened the rear door for me. I wrinkled my nose and he closed the rear and opened the front. I slid in. "It'll be an hour and a half to two hours before we get to Silverlake," he said as he closed the door.
"Does the ride have tunes?"
He laughed, "Can't sit in traffic without it."
I had to smile. Cholly Knickerbocker. I knew his name, or the history of it, anyway. My grandpa was old and old school. He taught me well. I had to smile. I knew that name, but I didn't know his intentions. I wondered what his real name was. I thought I would tease him. "Your name is so familiar, but I can't... place it."
"We get that," he said and smiled. "Through the generations. A long line of Chollys." His voice changed to business attire. "When we arrive, Chef Pearl wants to pow-wow with you about the assignment tomorrow, but then she is off to a dinner engagement."
"Is Chef Pearl really a chef?" I asked. "I couldn't find anything recent online."
"Yes. A chef without a restaurant." He saw an opening and changed lanes. "She's very good. She just hasn't found a new location after Lalula's closed."
"Ah." I ran down my research. "But that was ten years or so ago, no? Olvera Street. Her grandma's recipes. She turned a dying historic restaurant into a new hot thing?"
"Oh, yeah, Chef Superstar. She was on all of the shows."
"So, what happened?"
"The landlord, the city no less, raised the rent and Lalula's closed after 74 years."
"Bummer."
"A bane for Pearl. A boon for the councilman's chef niece." 
"Ouch."
"Yah." The traffic was as depressing as the story. The yellow afternoon light was beginning to burn orange. Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds sang something old and hollow, echoing empty. Cholly finally said brightly, "So, after you meet with her, I will take you wherever you want to go. The night is yours."
I smiled and leaned back into the plush leather seat. I said, "This trip happened so fast. I didn't have time to make any plans."
"Do you have friends here?" Cholly asked.
"A few." Suddenly I felt very tired. My forehead hung heavy and my eyes prickled. I was raised in LA, but I guess I don't like to think about that.
He changed songs and turned to me, "I hate to ask, but it's so hard to get around town now. Do you mind if I make a few stops along the way? For Pearl?"
"Not at all," I replied. His brow furrowed and his mind went elsewhere. He turned and we cut through the hills of View Park. The mix stayed chill on an amazing sound system. I sat up when we passed Art + Practice. We must be in Leimert Park where artist Mark Bradford has his museum or community center gallery; I had never been.
Cholly turned onto a residential street, like the one I had seen a million times on TV, with long steady rows of tall palms. He parked in front of an old, one story house that hadn't been remodeled yet. Actually, none of the houses had been flipped. It was the kind of street where a TV police officer lives as he struggles to clean up the neighborhood and keep his daughter off crack. Cholly went inside and returned rather quickly. He didn't carry anything, but he opened the rear door and stowed something. About thirty minutes later, he pulled off Hoover and into the parking lot of a fast food Mexican joint with no probability of ever being franchised. "Hungry? " I asked.
"Uh, no. Not from here," he laughed, "You would die." He locked the doors and walked around the building. He returned holding a shoebox, which he placed in the back of the SUV. I doubted they were Louboutins.
As we jogged toward Silverlake, he stopped at a locksmith shop and then a Chicanx variety store where he loaded up the backseat with six colorful pinatas. I asked and he replied simply, "Props."
He settled in behind the wheel and his attention seemed to turn to me. "I can take you anywhere you'd like for dinner tonight." He chirped, "I have Pearl's Black Card!"
"Mexican or In-N-Out works for me. You really can't get either in New York."
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“Blue Chip, Red Dot is a work of fiction. All characters and incidents are products of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual people or events is coincidental or fictionalized.” |
