That was not his first time here, but the sweat he couldn't get used to. It was so cold in Seattle, and in a couple of hours flight you had to pull those heavy jackets off, or you'd have your shoulders drooling like some wannabee actress pussy.

Anyway. Jeb was happy to be in LA again - though the expression haunted his mind when he thought about Suitcase City : Rotting under the sun. Rotting under LA sun. If you made the wrong move, that's what could happen to you, yet he had heard the worst about Las Vegas, where sand melted with bones.

"First of all, he mumbled to himself, gotta get back to this Mexican inn. Cheap waitresses. Asses like apples. And then the beach. - And then the business. Tomorrow I'll be in Pasadena. But that'll be just tomorrow. Not here for vacation, pal. Gotta sell those barbs Tops dropped on my desk yesterday morning, and gotta sell'em good."

Got into a taxi. Had to wait among the Wiltshire Boulevard Jam. Passed along the studios, where hungry lads where showing their claquette talents right on the sidewalk. "Poor fucks", he thought with his grin. He could have pulled greenies from his Vuitton suitcase and throwed them away, but Jeb Connor had swore never to despise the poor. And sometimes, yeah, that was pretty hard. He swallowed laughs and a sip from his Mademan's Delight flask. "Hey ! he yelled to the chauffeur. Head faster. Crush those damn treadles of yours. Do ya think I'm here to rot under the sun... ?"