Claudius Reich

The neighborhood had plenty of parking, at least. In the distance, light slurried down the hillsides, a Fabergé cityscape. Up close, it was all potholed roads, beat-up campers, an occasional huddle of homeless around a trashcan bonfire. Back when America still made things you could touch, the warehouses here were an Aladdin's cavern, an endless cornucopia, the dragon's hoard of the last superpower. Now, it was a DMZ, a quarantine zone where crack passed for currency, girded by elevated freeways to keep the infection out of Beverly Hills.  The blank-faced warehouses around us were full of cobwebs and rust, endless pallets of unsalable toys, and a few freaks who figured life itself was an art form, never mind the paycheck. We parked next to one of the working streetlights and got out, each of us independently checking that Aaron had locked the car.