He reaches Brett’s studio at ten till two, but because he doesn’t want to seem overly eager, Johnny walks around the block once, twice, three times, then crosses Sunset Boulevard to grab a latté at Starbucks. From a perch in the café’s window, he sips the hot coffee as he watches the old five-story brownstone bearing the address on Brett’s business card. Quite a few people enter through the revolving door, but no one famous, no one Johnny knows. Once he’s finished his drink, he glances at the clock over the counter—two-thirty now—and weaves through traffic on his way back across the street. Nothing like being fashionably late, no?
The studio is on the fourth floor. Alone in the elevator, Johnny studies his reflection in the mirrored walls, glancing from the corner of his eye to check out
