Slick & Hustle: The Prague Story — Book III
Los Angeles greets them with sunlight. Keizer Hustle takes that personally.
Read Chapter One — Arrival.
Chapter 1 — The Arrival
Los Angeles greeted them with sunlight.
Keizer Hustle took that personally.
The plane descended through a pale morning sky, banking slowly over endless neighborhoods, freeways, parking lots, swimming pools, palm trees, low buildings and the particular kind of urban sprawl that made a person question whether the city had ever received planning permission from anyone.
Max Slick looked out the window.
Hustle did not.
He had spent the last twenty minutes pretending to sleep with the determination of a man avoiding both conversation and geography.
The Pacific appeared briefly in the distance.
Blue.
Calm.
Entirely indifferent.
Slick watched it until the plane turned.
“You can stop pretending.”
Hustle didn’t open his eyes.
“I’m resting.”
“You’ve been awake since Chicago.”
“Emotionally, I was asleep.”
“That explains several things.”
Hustle opened one eye.
“Are we there?”
“Almost.”
“That’s unfortunate.”
Slick looked back out the window.
Los Angeles stretched beneath them in every direction.
Not upward, like New York.
Outward.
As if the city had started walking west one day and simply never stopped.
“You used to live here,” Hustle said.
“I know.”
“You don’t sound happy.”
“I’ve been here before.”
“That usually helps.”
“Not with Los Angeles.”
The wheels touched down.
A long, heavy sound moved through the aircraft as if everyone inside had collectively remembered gravity.
Hustle opened both eyes.
“Well.”
Slick glanced at him.
“Well what?”
“I thought the city would at least pretend to be relaxed.”
“We haven’t left the airport.”
“Exactly.”
The airport was already crowded.
Of course it was.
Los Angeles had a gift for turning arrival into negotiation.
People stood in lines that didn’t appear to move. Screens changed gates with quiet cruelty. Children cried with professional commitment. A man in sunglasses argued with an airline employee about priority boarding despite clearly having already boarded, flown, landed and disembarked.
Hustle watched him with reluctant respect.
“That’s dedication.”
“To what?”
“Being wrong after the fact.”
Slick checked his phone.
Kaplan had sent three messages during the flight.
None reassuring.
The latest was short.
Doctor says today is better than tomorrow.
Slick read it twice.
That was the problem with certain sentences.
They became worse on repetition.
Hustle saw his expression.
“Kaplan?”
Slick handed him the phone.
Hustle read the message.
For once, he did not comment immediately.
That concerned Slick more than any joke would have.
Finally Hustle returned the phone.
“Today is doing a lot of work in that sentence.”
“Yes.”
“How far?”
Slick looked toward the exit.
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“Traffic.”
Hustle stared at him.
“We crossed a continent to be defeated by traffic?”
“This is Los Angeles.”
“That wasn’t an answer.”
“It was the answer.”
Outside, the air felt wrong.
Not unpleasant.
Just wrong.
New York had pressed itself against the body.
London had wrapped itself around the shoulders.
Los Angeles stood slightly away and smiled as if it had somewhere better to be.
The morning was warm, bright and almost offensive in its confidence.
Palm trees moved gently above the arrivals lane.
Cars moved less gently below them.
A driver holding a cardboard sign with SLICK / HUSTLE printed in black marker stood near the curb and looked exactly as tired as a man hired by Kaplan should look.
Hustle pointed at the sign.
“Subtle.”
Slick walked toward him.
The driver lowered the sign.
“You Max?”
“Yes.”
“Keizer?”
“Unfortunately.”
The driver looked from one to the other.
“Kaplan said you would say that.”
“I dislike being predictable.”
“Then don’t be.”
Hustle paused.
Then looked at Slick.
“I already hate him.”
The driver opened the car door.
“Good. We have a lot in common.”
His name was Rafael.
He drove a black sedan that had once been clean enough to suggest professionalism but had since made peace with Los Angeles. Receipts occupied the center console. Two coffee cups lived in the front passenger footwell. A small plastic saint stood glued to the dashboard, facing traffic with the resigned patience of someone who had seen too much.
Rafael merged into traffic with no visible concern for mortality.
Hustle gripped the door handle.
“Do you drive professionally?”
“Yes.”
“Recently?”
Rafael glanced in the mirror.
“You want fast or comfortable?”
“Alive.”
“That’s extra.”
Slick almost smiled.
Almost.
The freeway swallowed them.
Six lanes.
Then seven.
Then eight.
Then somehow still not enough.
Cars surrounded them on every side, shining in the morning light, each one carrying a person who believed their destination was more important than everyone else’s.
Los Angeles did not move like New York.
New York pushed.
Los Angeles delayed.
That was worse.
At least New York was honest about its aggression.
Los Angeles smiled, checked its reflection, and made you twenty minutes late.
Hustle stared out the window.
“This is supposed to be the relaxed city.”
“It is.”
“We’re not moving.”
“Exactly.”
“Explain.”
“Everyone is relaxed about being late.”
Hustle considered that.
“I hate it more now.”
Kaplan called ten minutes later.
Slick answered.
“We landed.”
“I know.”
“That is not comforting.”
“Rafael texted me.”
Hustle leaned toward the phone.
“Tell Kaplan his driver is a criminal.”
Rafael lifted one hand from the wheel.
“Thank you.”
Kaplan ignored both of them.
“How long until you get there?”
Slick looked at the traffic ahead.
Every lane had become a philosophy of failure.
“Rafael?”
“Forty minutes.”
Kaplan sighed.
“That’s optimistic.”
“It is,” Rafael said.
Slick looked out the window.
“What happened?”
“Nothing yet.”
A pause.
“That’s not comforting.”
Kaplan’s voice sounded worse than it had in New York.
Less tired.
More alert.
That was rarely an improvement.
“He asked for you again.”
Hustle stopped looking out the window.
“The old man?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say?”
Kaplan hesitated.
Slick heard it.
So did Hustle.
“He said you would be late.”
Hustle frowned.
“That’s not impressive. Everyone in this city is late.”
“He said Max would blame the traffic.”
Slick said nothing.
Kaplan continued.
“And you would blame Los Angeles.”
Hustle looked at Slick.
Slick looked back.
Rafael changed lanes with religious confidence.
Kaplan’s voice lowered.
“He knows both of you.”
For several seconds the car contained only road noise.
Then Hustle said:
“Does he know himself?”
Kaplan didn’t answer immediately.
“No.”
A pause.
“Not always.”
That made the sentence worse.
They reached the medical facility almost an hour later.
Not a hospital.
Not exactly.
The building sat on a quiet side street above the coast, white walls and shaded windows surrounded by trimmed hedges, private security and the kind of landscaping designed to make money look peaceful.
The ocean was visible in the distance.
Beautiful.
Useless.
Rafael parked near the entrance.
“Here.”
Hustle stepped out slowly.
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“It looks expensive.”
“It is.”
“Then something terrible is happening inside.”
Rafael nodded.
“Usually.”
Slick looked up at the building.
For a moment he felt the strange sensation of arriving somewhere too late even though he was exactly on time.
He disliked that feeling.
He had known it before.
The reception area smelled of flowers, polished stone and controlled grief.
A woman behind the desk looked up as they entered.
She already knew their names.
That was becoming a theme.
“Mr. Slick. Mr. Hustle.”
Hustle stopped.
“I miss when strangers were strangers.”
Slick approached the desk.
“We’re here to see Harlow.”
The receptionist’s expression shifted.
Professional.
Careful.
Not quite sympathetic.
“Mr. Harlow is resting.”
Hustle stared at her.
“We crossed the country.”
“I’m aware.”
“That usually outranks resting.”
“Not here.”
Slick placed both hands on the counter.
Calmly.
Too calmly.
“When can we see him?”
The receptionist looked at a screen.
Then toward a hallway.
Then back at them.
“His doctor is with him now.”
“How long?”
“I don’t know.”
That answer had followed them from London to New York to Los Angeles.
It was becoming rude.
Kaplan appeared from the hallway before either man could say more.
He looked worse than he had in New York.
Same coat.
Same glasses.
Same face.
Different eyes.
“You made good time.”
Hustle looked at him.
“We were in a moving parking lot for fifty-seven minutes.”
“That’s good time.”
“This city is a medical condition.”
Kaplan almost smiled.
Almost.
Then the expression disappeared.
Slick noticed.
“How is he?”
Kaplan looked toward the hallway.
“Still here.”
No one mistook that for good news.
They waited in a small sitting room with large windows and furniture chosen by someone who believed comfort should remain theoretical.
A bowl of fruit sat on a low table.
None of it looked real enough to trust.
Hustle sat.
Stood.
Sat again.
Then stood.
Slick watched him.
“You nervous?”
“No.”
“Then stop moving.”
“I don’t like this place.”
“You don’t like any place.”
“This one is quieter about it.”
Kaplan stood near the window, arms folded, staring toward the ocean.
He had the look of a man who had found the door he wanted and was now terrified of what might be behind it.
Slick joined him.
“You spoke to him.”
“Briefly.”
“And?”
Kaplan kept his eyes on the water.
“He isn’t what I expected.”
“What did you expect?”
“I don’t know.”
That, at least, sounded honest.
Kaplan took off his glasses and cleaned them with a cloth that had long ago stopped being effective.
“He asked whether you still argued with each other.”
Hustle looked over.
“What did you say?”
“I said I assumed so.”
“Good.”
“He seemed relieved.”
That landed strangely.
Not because it explained anything.
Because it sounded too intimate for a stranger.
Hustle stopped moving.
Slick looked toward the hallway.
Somewhere beyond it, an old man waited.
Or slept.
Or remembered.
Or forgot.
The difference suddenly seemed important.
Twenty minutes passed.
Then thirty.
The city outside continued shining as though time were not a limited resource.
Hustle hated that.
At least New York looked impatient.
Los Angeles looked like it had already forgiven itself.
Finally a doctor entered the room.
Mid-fifties.
Soft voice.
Tired shoes.
He looked at Kaplan first, then at Slick and Hustle.
“He’s awake.”
Nobody moved.
The doctor continued.
“I need to be very clear. He has very little energy. If he wants to stop, you stop. If he falls asleep, you leave. If he becomes confused, you don’t correct him unless he asks you to.”
Hustle nodded once.
No joke.
Slick noticed that too.
The doctor looked at them for another second.
Maybe measuring them.
Maybe deciding whether old men should be allowed old ghosts.
Then he stepped aside.
“You can see him now.”
The hallway was quiet.
Too quiet.
Their footsteps sounded inappropriate.
Kaplan led them to a door near the end.
He stopped before opening it.
For the first time since they had known him, he looked unsure what to do with his hands.
“Kaplan,” Slick said.
He looked over.
“What?”
“Thank you.”
Kaplan seemed genuinely uncomfortable.
“Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Make it sentimental.”
Hustle nodded.
“He’s right. It’s unsettling.”
Kaplan exhaled once.
Almost a laugh.
Then opened the door.
The room was filled with afternoon light.
The ocean stretched beyond the window.
An old man lay in a bed positioned so he could see the water without turning his head.
He looked smaller than Slick had expected.
People often seemed smaller near the end.
Not weaker exactly.
Reduced to essentials.
White hair.
Thin hands.
Sharp eyes that had survived the body failing around them.
For several seconds nobody spoke.
The old man looked at them.
Not with surprise.
Not with confusion.
With recognition.
That was the worst part.
Finally he smiled.
A tired smile.
Human.
“You don’t remember me.”
His voice was thin but clear.
“That’s alright.”
A pause.
“Most days I barely remember myself.”
Then his eyes moved from Slick to Hustle.
“But I remember you two.”
No one spoke.
Outside, the ocean moved endlessly in the sun.
Inside, Los Angeles became very quiet.
And for the first time since arriving, both Max Slick and Keizer Hustle understood that they had not come here for answers.
They had come here before the answers died.
The story continues in Chapter 2 — Remembrance.