Los Angeles

Overview

It is a hoarse whisper over a crackling cell phone - "Angel" - and then the connection is lost. Angel is convinced that the voice belongs to his beautiful and enigmatic neighbor, Angela - and that she is terrified for her life. He paces the floor, waiting for the phone to ring again, calls the police, searches her apartment, but there is no trace of her anywhere, not for days. So begins a haunted man's quest to uncover what happened to the woman he has fallen in love with. Only now does he realize that he knows ...

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Los Angeles: A Novel

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Overview

It is a hoarse whisper over a crackling cell phone - "Angel" - and then the connection is lost. Angel is convinced that the voice belongs to his beautiful and enigmatic neighbor, Angela - and that she is terrified for her life. He paces the floor, waiting for the phone to ring again, calls the police, searches her apartment, but there is no trace of her anywhere, not for days. So begins a haunted man's quest to uncover what happened to the woman he has fallen in love with. Only now does he realize that he knows nearly nothing about her. Angel has his secrets, too. He is the son of one of Hollywood's most successful movie producers, but he has turned away from that bright and power-ridden world. Instead, he leads a cloistered existence, nursing an unfinished screenplay as Ridley Scott's Blade Runner loops ceaselessly in his darkened apartment. But now, for the first time in years, because of Angela's sudden disappearance, Angel is propelled into action. Following the few clues he has gathered about her, he trails Angela through the hard glitter of Los Angeles days and nights. With every new piece of knowledge arrives another question and an even more chilling possibility: Did he merely imagine Angela? Is someone deliberately leading him? Is the phantom he is pursuing the very fear he has been running from? In the murky underworld beneath the bright surface of Los Angeles, everything he knew about her - and himself - begins to unravel. In this city of secrets that aren't meant to be told and people who aren't meant to be found, Angel may soon discover that the most dangerous lies of all are the ones you tell yourself.

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Editorial Reviews

Publishers Weekly
As an albino in sunny Los Angeles, Angel Veronchek is a stranger in a strange land, and Smith's moody and atmospheric psychological thriller embraces the noir aesthetic that's so much a part of the city's history. Veronchek is rich-his father is a successful movie producer-and richly dysfunctional, ingesting a cornucopia of pharmaceuticals while working, obsessively, on a screenplay about his hometown while a DVD of Ridley Scott's Blade Runner plays continuously in his dark apartment. The hermit-like Angel begins to connect with the world when Angela, a mysterious beauty, moves in next door, but a few weeks later she disappears. Angel's quest to find Angela takes him out of his apartment and into the city, but the more important journey is the one he takes into his bizarre psychology and family history. Smith's prose can be strong, particularly in his rendering of the hellish dystopia of the City of Angels: "the smog is absolute... the exhaust fumes of a million engines rising... through an atmosphere that almost never breathes." But his plot is only mildly compelling; it can't support the weight of the narrator's musings on the nature of reality-nor is any character, including the pathetic Angel, attractive enough to command our attention. Agent, Mary Ann Maples at Creative Culture. (Jan. 5) FYI: Smith's first novel, Raveling (2000), was nominated for an Edgar Award. Copyright 2004 Reed Business Information.
Library Journal
Angel Veronchek, the thirtysomething, drug-dependent son of a Hollywood mogul, is obsessed with his strip-dancing new neighbor, "Angela." He mistakes her neighborly gestures for amorous invitations. She is intrigued by his advances but is turned off by his albinism and pathological aversion to sunlight. After a few furtive encounters, their relationship evolves into frequent alcohol- and drug-fueled trysts. After one particularly passionate night, Angel receives a mysterious phone call from "Angela," who whispers his name, hangs up, and vanishes. Angel is feverishly consumed by his need to find her, but his nocturnal and reclusive lifestyle and drug-dimmed mindset make detection difficult, to say the least. As he flails about gathering clues, Angel uncovers more about himself and his family's sordid lifestyle than about his lost love. The lives of the rich and famous do tend to be complex. It is difficult to discern whether this first novel is intended to be L.A. noir, a thriller, a coming-of-age novel, or simply a psychotic event. No one is very likable, and the story line is rather tedious. Not recommended.-Susan Clifford Braun, Aerospace Corp., El Segundo, CA Copyright 2005 Reed Business Information.
Kirkus Reviews
A near-miss second thriller from Smith (Raveling, 2000), this about a young man's search for a lost love who may not be lost-and may not be real. Angel Veronchek, 34, the disaffected son of a rich and powerful movie mogul, lives as if in perpetual hiding. He sees almost no one and seldom ventures out of his shabby apartment in West Hollywood. Spasmodically, he works on an epic screenplay-ambitiously entitled Los Angeles. Occasionally, he'll glance toward his TV set, where Ridley Scott's futuristic cult classic, Blade Runner, rotates on a disc he can't bear to stop. It hardly needs saying that Angel is deeply troubled, his existence heavily dependent on psycho-pharmaceuticals. To add to his crosses, he's an albino: "white, white, white, even my eyelashes are white." And then one day a new neighbor knocks at the door, introducing herself as Angela: young, beautiful, black. Angela to his Angel. Black to his white. Irrepressible to his hermetically repressed. In a complete change of life, Angel falls irrevocably in love, while Angela-enigmatic though she certainly is-seems to reciprocate. But he's able to learn so little about her. Yes, she's an exotic dancer. Yes, she has aspirations beyond that, which manage to go unspecified. Still, Angel finds himself experiencing something he never expected to, something akin to happiness-until the awful phone call. "Angel," she says, but no more than that. A click and she's gone. Vanished. Ill-equipped as he is for the search, Angel knows he has to find and rescue her. But from what or whom? Problem is, he can't tell for sure how much of his Angela is imagined. Or, for that matter, how much of his Angel is. The prose is elegant, even lyrical at times.But fragile, self-loathing Angel generates too little empathy to hold the stage successfully.
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Product Details

  • ISBN-13: 9780316803922
  • Publisher: Little, Brown and Company
  • Publication date: 7/30/2008
  • Pages: 348
  • Product dimensions: 6.00 (w) x 9.00 (h) x 0.94 (d)

Read an Excerpt

Los Angeles

A Novel
By Peter Moore Smith

Little, Brown

Copyright © 2005 Peter Moore Smith
All right reserved.

ISBN: 0-316-80392-8


Chapter One

I LOOK BACK AND FEEL TERROR-COMPREHENSIVE, ABSOLUTE-like I was living through one of those familiar bytes of live violence on the news. But at the time, at that instant, I stood on the cool of the kitchen tiles in my charcoal-colored bathrobe, sipping my usual fusion of coffee and psychopharmaceuticals. I had pulled the miniblinds up, uncharacteristically, because I was searching for that cat. She had been mewling out there all night, crying like a human baby, and now, of course, the moment I decided to look for her, she was gone. It was probably the medication, but I found myself mesmerized by the unfamiliar six-in-the-morning brilliance, entranced by the sunlight glinting off the crappy sedans and SUVs in the parking lot below. The whole scene seemed so oddly calculated. Soft beams weaving over the blue and white hyacinths of the old man's overgrown garden next door, hard gleams shimmering off the waxy leaves of his laurel tree-it was all almost too thought-out, as though devised by some cinematographic genius. In the quiet rustle of overhanging branches, I even thought I heard a director whisper, "Action!"

Then, shattering my reverie, the phone rang.

I had been expecting a call, actually, from my father's lawyer's office because therehad been a problem with one of my credit cards at the Vons the other day, and I had left a message with one of the assistants to sort it out. My only thought when I picked up was, why would they call so early?

"Hello?" I answered.

She said my name.

Then, click.

It was her, it was Angela, there was no doubt about it.

Unlike that cat, Angela had been absent all night. I had stayed awake long past the hour she usually came over, then grown bored of waiting and had used the free time to rewrite a few pages of my screenplay before taking a couple of Restorils and crawling off to bed.

Right now I replaced the phone in its cradle, thinking she would call back any second. She probably wanted to explain where she had been last night, I told myself, and had been cut off, that's all.

I looked out the window again. A man I had never seen before walked from my building to his car. He removed his gray suit jacket and laid it neatly over the passenger seat before starting his old Honda and driving away. I tried to imagine the office he worked in-a desk, a computer, a coffee mug filled with pencils, maybe even a potted plant, its tendrils curling.

Then too much time passed, too many blue minutes on the blue digital clock of the coffeemaker. This wasn't right, I kept thinking. She should have called back by now. I picked up again, punched star-69 and listened to the smooth electronic voice of the computerized operator tell me the number of the last call that had come through. I was instructing myself not to freak out. The whole time I was thinking, Stay calm, stay focused. I wrote Angela's cell number down on an old unfilled prescription slip and dialed it immediately, listening to those five impersonal rings before her own recorded message said, "Hi, it's me." She was too cheerful, too sincere. It was an answering-machine answer and didn't capture her personality at all. "Leave a message, I'll call you back."

This made no sense. If Angela had just called from her cell, why wasn't she answering it now?

I replaced the cordless in its cradle once again and picked up my coffee mug, taking that final, gritty sip.

I lowered the miniblinds.

I pressed my ear to the wall between our apartments.

I walked out into the hallway and knocked on her door, even though I knew there would be no answer.

I considered the way she had said my name, that tone in her voice, and waited a fraction less calmly.

With every passing second I became a fraction less calm.

I dialed her number again, this time leaving my own message. "It's me," I said, trying to make my voice sound unconcerned. "What did you want, anyway?" But since I hadn't spoken to anyone all morning, it came out broken.

I let ten more minutes pass, then called again.

"Is everything all right?" I asked the telephone, much more clearly this time. "Angela, what the fuck is going on?"

I hung up.

"A woman," I said less than a minute later, "my neighbor." This time I had dialed 911. I knew it was alarmist, but I was starting to panic.

"What about her, sir?"

"Something's happened. She's afraid."

"Can you be more specific?"

I gave the emergency operator Angela's address; except for her apartment number, it was the same as mine.

"What is she afraid of?"

"I don't know," I blurted. "She called ... she called from the dark. It was in the tone of her voice. It was unmistakably the voice of a person calling from the dark."

"From the dark?"

I stepped out of the kitchen. "From the dark." I had an image of Angela. She was inside a closet, under a bed, deep inside a thicket of bushes. She was hiding, terrified, in danger.

I was agitated, I admit, becoming increasingly irrational.

"Did she say something was wrong?"

"Not in so many words."

There was a pause, then the sound of hard fingernails typing on a computer keyboard.

I thought I detected the sound of disbelief, too, that telltale sigh of skepticism.

"Can you send someone over?"

The light, if you've ever noticed, does things to the human voice. In bright light, people tend to speak through their teeth, unless their eyes are closed, which causes them to speak softly. In midafternoon light, people speak normally, their voices originating from inside their throats. As the light fades into evening, the human voice fades with it. Alcohol, I've noticed, can keep a voice bright and strong as the light disappears. In evening darkness, as the eyes become accustomed to moonlight or artificial incandescence, the voice grows quieter, steadier, more intimate; in total darkness, in complete black, the voice is often just a whisper.

Try it. Close your eyes and speak:

A loud voice in the dark is as unnatural as a scream.

When Angela called and said my name, her voice was barely a voice at all, but it contained everything-confusion, panic, fear. Inside it was everything I needed to hear.

* * *

Weeks before, a couple of months before, I'm still not clear on what day this was, obviously, but at some uncertain point in time, there was a soft, uncertain knock. It was early evening, dinnertime for most people, morning for me. I looked through the peephole and saw a blurred, convex image of a pretty young woman holding a bright orange casserole dish, her hands inside two floral pot holders. I had the idea that she was on some sort of evangelical mission, so when I opened the door, I gave her my iciest smile.

I expected a reaction. I expected, at least, a look of mild apprehension.

But she just stood there, paralyzed.

The light in the hallway was blue fluorescent, a grim, impoverished glow containing only the cold end of the spectrum, and far too bright for these pale irises. I squinted automatically, raising a hand to my forehead, and waited impatiently for her to say something.

A black girl in her late twenties, relatively tall, with long straightened hair colored an unnatural reddish blond, she wore jeans, a Guns N' Roses T-shirt. Her feet were bare, her toenails painted a glittery green metallic. Oddly, her eyes were cobalt, azure, robin's egg-a shade of blue I didn't know human eyes came in.

A good five seconds passed.

"I'm so sorry," she said finally. And something peculiar was developing in those eyes, too, something I didn't expect. "I didn't mean ..."

My own eyes, I should mention, are the color of Caucasian infant flesh. My skin is marble-veined, ivory, translucent. My hair is snowy white, aluminum, a shock of fiber optics. I am white, white, all white, even my eyelashes are white, and what isn't white is stark pink. I am, if you haven't guessed already, an albino. "It's all right," I said. "I know you didn't mean anything." I had to clear my throat because I hadn't spoken to anyone in days. "It surprises people sometimes, that's all." I forced what I hoped was a warmer smile onto my lips. "My appearance."

There was something else about this woman, something genuinely ... not contrite, exactly, or even apologetic-her expression had gone from stunned to understanding almost instantly, like water pouring into a glass-kind, I guess is the word.

"I'm Angela?" she said as if it were a question. "I just moved in down the hall?"

A scent of spices rose from the casserole dish, something mouthwatering I didn't recognize.

Covertly I inhaled, straining to identify it.

"I heard you," I said. "I mean, yesterday I heard the truck outside." There had been the wheezing of air brakes, a couple of moving men shouting to one another in the stairwell.

"I hope the noise didn't bother you."

I shrugged. "I sleep during the day."

"Me, too!" she exclaimed. "I sleep during the day, too!" It was as though we had something so incredibly uncommon in common, as though we were the only two human beings in West Hollywood who stay awake all night. Then her face filled with realization, with that look of kindness again. "I'm really sorry." Her voice was slightly raspy, permanently damaged. As if a low volume now would prevent her from disturbing me then, she let it drop to just above a whisper. "Did I wake you?"

I suddenly became aware of my frayed bathrobe, the chalky skin beneath it. I pulled it closer across my chest, tightening the belt. "It doesn't matter. I'm not going anywhere." I wasn't adequately medicated at the moment, having just gotten out of bed, and was becoming more and more self-conscious, wary of a strange emotion I hadn't experienced in a long time.

She inched forward, those intense blue eyes growing wider, and somehow bluer. "I always think it's nice, you know, when I move somewhere new, to make something special for my neighbors, especially my next-door neighbor." She laughed, maybe a little too cheerfully. "You know what I mean? It's sort of like an apology in advance. But maybe, maybe I already owe you one for the noise. Anyway," she added, "I made lamb stew. If you're -"

I didn't bother to hide my amazement. "Holy shit."

"- a vegetarian, I can always -"

"No," I said. "No, no."

"Well ..." She held out the casserole, eyebrows lifted. "I hope you like it."

I took the bright dish and floral mitts into my hands, an awkward exchange because we had to do it-because we were strangers-without touching.

"My mother used to make lamb stew," I confessed.

"Really?"

There was another lull in the action, as though a piece of dialogue had been cut from the script. We stood there silently, regarding one another, waiting, awkwardly smiling. Finally, I offered her one of those I-have-to-go-now head jerks, as if something desperately important awaited me inside my apartment.

"Um ..." She bit her lip. "Aren't you going to tell me your name?"

Now it was my turn to hesitate.

My name.

This is always embarrassing, but around the time I was born, my father worked on various films as a kind of associate producer, procuring actors, securing locations, setting up meetings. It was, it continues to be, his greatest talent. In the movie Barbarella, on which he worked for Dino De Laurentiis in this capacity, there is an absurd character with white hair and white-feathered wings whose name is Pygar the Angel. And my parents, under the psychedelic influence of the era, so the story goes, named me after him.

I should be thankful; I could be named Pygar.

I had to force myself to tell her, but when I did, her whole body seemed to brighten. "What are the chances?" she asked.

"The chances of what?"

"I'm Angela, and you're Angel."

I hadn't noticed the similarity at all, to tell the truth. Besides, I imagined the chances were relatively high-they're just names.

But it didn't matter anymore, because at that moment, the woman who had told me her name was Angela turned around and vanished into her own apartment, her swiftly closing door forcing an artificial breeze down the corridor.

* * *

Back in my living room, Blade Runner, Ridley Scott's great noir science fiction thriller, played on my large-screen TV. In those days, I just let the disk rotate endlessly in the DVD player, the volume set to inaudible, as a kind of low-level light source and most of the time the only well of illumination in my whole apartment. I didn't need to hear it because I had memorized all the scenes anyway. The one that was on at the moment was from early in the movie, where Tyrell, the scientist who created the replicants, clasps his hands behind his back and says, "Commerce is our goal here at Tyrell. More human than human is our motto."

"More human than human," I murmured in unison.

In case you don't know, it's a movie about a bunch of renegade androids, or replicants, who are searching for their creator. Harrison Ford plays Rick Deckard, the police detective whose job is to hunt the replicants down and kill them. Mostly, I liked the way the film looked, the futuristic brights and shadows, the glossy blacks and vivid neons.

Right now, I stepped into my minuscule kitchen and pushed the array of psychiatric medication bottles out of the way-the Valium, Librium, and Centrax, the Ativan and Xanax, the Inderol, Prolixin, and Navane, the Adapin, Vivactil, and Ludiomil, as well as the Ambien and Restoril-all the drugs I had been prescribed for anxiety, depression, and social phobia, as well as the other meds designed to counteract the side effects of the first set. Standing a little higher than the rest of the bottles was the container of the drug I simply called Reality. This was the maintenance drug, the one that never seemed to have an effect, except to make my mouth dry and my imagination disappear.

I set the casserole on the counter and removed the lid with one of Angela's flowery pot holders, inhaling the scents of rosemary, sage, and pepper. I noticed the chunks of brown, flaky meat in there, the white potatoes, and orange carrots. There were bright green peas, too, which meant she had probably cooked them separately and placed them in at the last minute, since otherwise they would have gone mushy and gray. I closed my eyes and lived an entire lifetime inside that aroma, and when I took the first bite straight out of the dish, standing there on the cool kitchen tiles, I imagined my vibrantly blue-eyed, glittery-green-toed neighbor driving over to the Vons market on Sunset to buy these ingredients-rosemary, thyme, pepper, carrots, peas, potatoes, lamb. I pictured her gorgeous face in the severe commercial lighting, illuminated like a portrait of a medieval saint, and wondered achingly when I would see her again.

Continues...


Excerpted from Los Angeles by Peter Moore Smith Copyright © 2005 by Peter Moore Smith. Excerpted by permission.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.

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Sort by: Showing all of 5 Customer Reviews
  • Posted July 18, 2010

    Los Angeles Dodge this book

    An Albino man, Angel, falls for his African American, stripper neighbor, Angela. When Angela calls him and only whispers his name and hangs up, he thinks she has been kidnapped. Very long, uneventful book. Very difficult to keep picking up the book to get through it. I would not recommend this.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted March 15, 2007

    Fast start, lost momentum

    Angel is an albino, drug consuming, head case blessed with parents who, while not of the Ozzie and Harriet or Father Knows Best mode, have one redeeming attribute, significant wealth which allows him the relative freedom of a life style without responsibility. He tends to slide through life working on a screenplay while undergoing therapy, consuming prescription medication and imbibing in bourbon. Then, a knock at the door, a meeting with a woman of the lower social order, and a head over heels fall into the unchartered territory of love and relationships. Then the lady disappears and we are off on a search for the lost love. Stop right there. We have everything going, mystery, a hero whom we can empathize with despite his idiosyncratic life style, and a victim who despite what she does is a person we wish the best for. Unfortunately, the book doesn't stop there. It goes on, and on, and on. We are treated to shallow characters, questionable situations, a totally unbelievable yet trite confession, and a descent into a morrass of psychological gunk that gums up the work. And yet, despite all of this, the author's writing style was excellent. No question he can write. My problem was the course he took to produce this work. I thought it was a mystery, then a suspense novel, and left with the impression it was nothing more than psychological blather. I am sure I missed the point somewhere along the line. I feel this work was the literary equivalent of a horse race where the horse was trained to run a quarter mile and was put in a mile long race. Fast start, game effort, but woeful fade at the end when it just ran out of gas.

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  • Anonymous

    Posted February 27, 2005

    Perchance to Dream

    'Angel' is an introverted, almost schizoid individual who must also live with all the physical restrictions imposed upon anyone inflicted with albinism. He stays mostly in his West Hollywood apartment, taking mass quantiities of medications as the movie 'Blade Runner' plays constantly on his television. As the story thrusts him into a 'love' affair with a newly arrived neighbor, it also drops him into a missing person/murder mystery that virtually consumes him emotionally. Peter Moore Smith takes you into a world you've seldom read about, while imposing a 'who done it' (or, where did she go)story plot into the mix. In the movie 'Blade Runner' (or the books title,'Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep') Phillip K Dick offered the questions, 'What is being Human and What are Real Memories'. In 'Los Angeles' Peter Moore Smith asks some of these same questions. 'Los Angeles' is neither fun nor entertaining. But it is quite interesting and thought provoking, as Smith offers the reader the question, 'Is all this really happening in 'Angels' life, or he he just dreaming of 'Electric Sheep'

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  • Posted December 9, 2008

    more from this reviewer

    excellent psychological suspense drama

    In a run down part of West Hollywood thirty-four years old Angel Veronchek, son of a thriving producer, lives a near hermit-like existence. Part of it is caused by his being an albino, but much of his hiding is psychological. The recluse sees no one and does little inside his apartment except occasionally work on a screenplay ¿Los Angeles¿ while his DVD eternally plays Blade Runner. He survives existence predominantly by psychological drugs.--- A new neighbor visits Angel introducing herself as Angela to the loner. : She is his opposite as she is effervescent beautiful black person who plans to one day own Hollywood. Clearly opposites in appearance and outlook, Angela¿s energy and élan awaken Angel; he quickly falls in love for the first time in his lonely life. Surprisingly, Angela seems to share his deep feelings. Angel struggles with a foreign emotion, happiness until he receives the call. She whispers 'Angel' and hangs up; disappearing from his life. Stunned and not ready to go out into the world, Angel investigates his Angela, not even sure she truly exists.--- LOS ANGELES is an excellent psychological suspense drama that explores the concept of what is reality mostly from the perspective of Angel. The story line is moving and depressing as the lead protagonist is not an easy person for readers to understand or empathize with; thus this is not a one sitting tale as the dark mutterings (terrific prose) of Angel is disheartening and difficult to accept. Yet this deep look at reality is a two edged sword that makes Peter Moore Smith¿s tale compelling albeit with a warning label that the ¿star¿ is as gloomy a protagonist as one will find.--- Harriet Klausner

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  • Anonymous

    Posted January 14, 2009

    No text was provided for this review.

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