"How about now?"

* * *

In the taxi on the way to the airport, Teddy Tumtum stuck his head out of Peez's carry-on bag and remarked, "Well, that little expedition gave a whole new meaning to Another satisfied customer!"

Peez tied her emergency underpants over his mouth and jammed him head-down into the bag, then settled back in her seat to think things over.

She wasn't quite sure how she felt about Martin's refusal to make a commitment to her bid for company leadership, but she knew she didn't feel bad. In fact, she was surprised by how well she was taking it.

He's a heavy hitter on the financial side, but look where the money comes from! she thought. Maybe he had some magic once. Now it's all about the bottom line. He's a sellout, but a very good sellout, and he's also a very, very good—

She smiled, remembering. Then she thought about what Wilma would say and she smiled even wider. The Great Mother was very big on fertility, but there were some aspects of her worship where only a virgin would do. Up until a short while ago, Peez had been the New York office's Emergency Virgin. Now Wilma would have to put out an APB to get a new one on the payroll. Wilma hated it when she had to do Human Resources scutwork.

She won't know whether to congratulate me or kill me. It'll be fun to find out.

Fun ... She startled herself with the realization that the word now held a whole new meaning for her. It was a surprising transformation, one that was almost—

Gee, Peez mused. I guess Martin Agparak has some magic after all.

The people who live in the greater Los Angeles area take umbrage when outlanders think of them and their sun-kissed life-style solely in terms of media cliches. Dov Godz had been made aware of this fact on the first of his many non-business-related trips to the Left Coast, when he had casually remarked to his dining companion about how many impossibly perfect-looking people he'd seen since his arrival.

"Even more than in South Beach," he said. "I guess there must be something in the water, huh?"

He meant it as a joke. It was not taken as such. Indeed, he was promptly taught that he had said the Wrong Thing. He would never forget that lesson. He thought about it every time he returned, mostly because the earache he contracted from the ensuing lecture/rant never cleared up completely.

Now, watching the hazy landscape below come closer as his plane made the final approach to L.A. International, the memory came drifting back as it always did. Once more he was seated at one of the best tables at Marozia's, the Pacific-Rim-Italian- Macrobiotic-Thai-Fusion restaurant du moment, listening to his ladyfriend Brytanni calmly explain to him how he had erred.

"Oh wow, I mean, like, what is it with you people from Back East?" she shrilled. (Having a native-born SoCal accent, her pronunciation made Back East sound like Among the Lepers.) She crossed her long, tan, lotion-sleeked legs, revealing a number of fascinating views easily ogled through the glass tabletop. Dov nearly choked on his brioche, but Brytanni was oblivious.

"You're all, so, like, L.A. is all palm trees and smog and movies and Porsches and Rodeo Drive and crap. It's all: You're from L.A., you must be shallow. As if! I mean, my friend Wyndsong is from Marin, if you want to talk about posers, and even she's smart enough to know that we are not all body-image-obsessed media slaves around here." She took another mouthful of imported Finnish mineral water and chewed it carefully, making every calorie count. "If we were that two-dimensional, would I have agreed to meet you now, right when they're announcing the winners of the Shimmies?"

"Uh, what's the Shimmies?" Dov had asked, wiping soggy brioche crumbs from his chin.

"Oh ... mah ... gawd!" Brytanni was so taken aback by his woeful ignorance that she slapped her forehead. Then, realizing the harm she might have inadvertently wrought to her skin's elasticity, she broke open a collagen capsule, slathered it over the assaulted area, used her cell phone to speed-dial her plastic surgeon for reassurance and to make a just-in-case maintenance appointment, and finally replied: "The Shimmies are only the numero uno premier award to recognize the achievements of spokesmodels in the cellulite reduction appliance field! I can't believe you didn't know that. And you call us shallow!"

Dov had apologized most sincerely for his lack of cultural awareness, but the damage was done: Brytanni was so upset that she actually ate a piece of cheese out of his chef's salad before rushing from the restaurant and driving off in a huff to see her guru. (There was no need to phone ahead for an appointment: Baba Yamama was also a registered psychic.)

She did call back later that evening to reassure him that Baba Yamama had said that Dov's ill-advised attitude towards all things Angelino did not stem from deliberate evil on his part, but rather was the product of improperly stored karmic leftovers from previous lives currently festering within the refrigerator of his soul. The guru advised an immediate therapeutic aura-fluffing for the unhappy man, preceded by a combination past-life regression/rebirth ritual.

"He said for me to tell you that you should come tomorrow at ten-fifteenish," she chirped happily. "That's when he'll have the amniotic hot tub all filled up and good to go. Oh, and also that I should remind you he doesn't take out-of-state checks, but all major credit cards are way cool. So! Want me to pick you up?"

Dov demurred. He told Brytanni that he couldn't possibly have his aura fluffed until he'd gotten his chakras aligned, and doing both in close succession was almost as big a no-no as going swimming less than half an hour after eating. Brytanni was assuaged and he kept his opinions about L.A. to himself for the rest of the trip.

He closed his eyes and wondered whatever had become of Brytanni. He had not sought out her company on subsequent trips to the City of Angels. First she'd sent him a totally unnecessary Dear Dov letter the week after he got back to Miami, informing him that it was all over between them since she'd gotten involved with a Pomo Indian shaman out in Claremont. Next he got an e-mail saying that the supposed shaman was really an Anthro student named Mitch who'd flunked out of Pomona College, but she was mending her broken spirituality under the supervision of Vigbor the Galactic Redeemer ("You'd totally like him. He's an alien from an interstellar civilization far more highly developed and advanced than our own, but not in that creepy sci-fi fanboy kinda way. And when Vigbor's visa from Amsterdam ran out, she faxed Dov to tell him all about her latest soul-guide.

At least that was what he assumed was the message the fax contained. Did she ever contact him for any other reason save to chitter at him about her newest, shiniest, most improved path to enlightenment/salvation? Dov had lost interest. He shredded the fax unread. He knew it was from her without looking: Somewhere in her spiritual blunderings, Brytanni had acquired the unholy power to make her letters, her e-mails, and her faxes all smell like strawberry incense.

The plane made a smooth touchdown and Dov recovered his luggage almost the instant he stepped up to the baggage carousel.

That's a good omen, he thought. Here's hoping it holds true. I don't have any use for another yes/no/maybe meeting like the one with Sam Turkey Feather, Plucker, whatever. Who knows what Peez is up to, or how far she's gone to grab the company?

He dug into his pocket and pulled out the little clutch of healing charms that Sam had given him for Edwina. He felt a faint pang of guilt for not having taken the time to send them on their way to Poughkeepsie before he'd boarded the L.A. flight in Tucson, but he talked himself out of it in short order.