The eggs and bacon at Duke's Coffee Shop were as greasy and aromatic as the patrons. In fact, in the wake of the storm that had flushed through the City of Angels, the strengthening morning sun had raised up a ghost of funky vapor all along Sunset, like a snake of steam. Through the plate glass, Madison could see the morning creatures making their way distorted through the pavement's dank essence. The waitress brought his check and another cup of black coffee. She was pretty and clean in a Midwestern way despite the black widow spider tattooed under her left ear, and he wanted to tell her to split back to St Paul before the predators sensed her blood in the water. But she was probably an actress, not a waitress, like Cal Murphy was a trumpet player not a bartender, like Madison was a detective and not a homeless person. Nobody in LA was what they seemed to be, which was why you had relocated drug informants living next to little old ladies in San Vicente, and dentists stashing the bodies of their victims in Topanga Canyon. It was a teeming hive of illusion, and Madison realized in his few lucid moments that he needed it. The archaeology thing was an amusing dream. Madison dug his bones much closer to the surface.
At some point on the way from Duke's heading down Santa Monica Blvd, it occurred to Madison that the "where did the fun go" note and the talking 5 gs might be in the nature of a message from God, a cryptic slap on the ass meant to shake him out of the alcoholic depression he had been in, and into a more blissful but equally alcoholic state of nirvana. The coffee had helped focus this concept, and by the time he pulled into the parking lot at Barney's Beanery he was ready for a red beer to really start the morning. The sky over Hollywood was bright blue now, birds chirped in the palm trees, and Blake had a huge smile for Sarah when he hit the barstool at Barney's.
"A mission from God," he mumbled as he quaffed the cold Budweiser and tomato juice. Momentarily he pictured Belushi with fedora and shades mouthing the phrase, Belushi slurping lentil soup at the Rainbow, Belushi stumbling through the Chateau Marmont back gate with Catharine Smith. Sheeee-it. Maybe the mission was to pick up where John left off. That was a heavy responsibility.
Blake pulled the folded up 5000 dollar bill out of his wallet and plastered it on the beer-dampened bar. "You mustn't let me down this time" read the caption. Could be a message from God. He tried to recall when he had failed in previous attempts to find the fun. He had been largely successful. No, clearly this was a message from a client. But in the absence of further communication...Madison chased the beer with a shot of Four Roses.
The pink envelope under his wiper held a card written in the same hand as the first. "you're wasting time. See Cassidy at the Ash Grove."
"The Ash Grove?" Madison queried aloud. The Ash Grove had been a rock bar where he had watched John Lee Hooker, Taj Mahal, and Spirit in the late lamented decade of peace and love. But it had coughed up its ghost on a March night in 1973 when the fire had been visible from the top of Topanga where Blake had been smoking a hookah with Leon Gardipee. "What the hell. Find the fun."
He did as instructed, the Mercury giving a short squeal as he steered toward Melrose.