Dantes' Inferno by Sarah Lovett Read Free Book Online Page A

leathery cave of the Lincoln nursing the last of a cigarette.
    Ten minutes earlier, she’d stepped out of MDC’s artificial womb into searing Los Angeles sunlight. Half blind and conscious only of the sign for the car park on the side of the large concrete structure ahead, she’d stumbled acrossAlameda, a wide downtown boulevard surprisingly free of traffic. The sun had assaulted eyes already glazed and heavy lidded from stress and chemicals. And fear. Dantes had made her afraid.
    It almost felt good—that forced exile from a deadened world .
    She exhaled smoke, studying the cigarette she gripped between taut fingers. The ragged, charred edge of tobacco had almost burned down to the yellowed filter. She opened the door of the Lincoln just long enough to jab the cigarette butt on the pavement, then she jerked the door shut and set the locks. Shaking off the fear and a fleeting sense of doom, she turned the key in the ignition. The engine awoke with a powerful growl.
    She followed the I-10 west until it slapped smack up against ocean. The Pacific shone with the watery blue of ink. It stretched and rolled and heaved its weight against the wide lip of sand. With Missy Elliott singing about D.C., Atlanta, and LA from the radio (volume cranked), Sylvia watched lunar magnetism muscling the tides.
    Traffic was backed up two blocks in front of the neon entrance to Santa Monica Pier. Inching toward the intersection, and finally turning north onto Ocean Avenue, she caught a catty-corner view of the restaurant where she was due to meet Leo for dinner. The Lobster, a glaringly white beach-box structure, stuck out like a swollen jaw on a neck of stilts. A banner advertised Thursday evening concerts on the pier; next week, oldies by the Velvet Underground.
    Joggers, sunbathers, tourists, and street people shared the slice of green known as Palisades Park. As she drove past the looming, funky deco prow of the Shangri La Hotel, she tried to reach her fiancé in New Mexico by cell phone. Matt England didn’t answer but his machine managed to cut her off just as she told him she loved him. She left amessage for Leo Carreras—moving their meeting up to three o’clock. She tossed the phone onto the passenger seat as she drove past Wilshire and Montana, finally turning right onto Marguerita Avenue.
    She parked the Lincoln in front of the property owned by Leo, and she stepped out into a balmy ocean breeze. Carrying her briefcase, garment bag, and overnight case, she crossed manicured grass skirting lemony tufts of daffodils until she reached the tiny yellow thirties-style bungalow that was one of a quartet. Leo’s stark and glassy condominium occupied the south end of the large lot. He rented the cottages to various LA standards: a television writer, a character actor with a fondness for Irish whiskey, a waiter/singer. The last bungalow, Numero Quatro, was reserved for Leo’s visiting colleagues. Over the past two years, Sylvia had stayed here on consulting trips. The key was under the familiar ceramic pot that overflowed with night-blooming jasmine.
    Inside, the house smelled of old wood, salt, the faintest hint of ocean mildew, and perfume. She located the source of the sweet fragrance immediately, a fat ocher-tinted porcelain vase filled with white, yellow, and lavender orchids, gracing an antique writing desk. She experienced a moment of pleasure tinged with uneasiness knowing Leo had chosen the flowers especially for her; breaking off one delicate blossom, she pressed it to her cheek. The petals felt silky against her skin.
    The bungalow had been built around a simple rectangular floor plan: kitchen and dining nook, living room, bedroom, bath—and tiny sitting room, which functioned as an office—all connecting around a compact central hall.
    After cracking louver blinds in the living room, she moved to the bedroom, where she tossed her bag on thenubby white spread. Pulling out shorts, T-shirt,