A CHANGE OF SCENE

Santa Monica is up against the ocean. Five miles or so to the east, you'll find Westwood, and in Westwood you'll find UCLA and a lot of movie houses. Between the two is Brentwood, where the rents are more reasonable than Westwood or Santa Monica. That was why I was looking for a place to rent in Brentwood, while I tried to adjust to the fact that, big as New York was, I kept bumping into Lisa when I was there. Really, really awkward. At our wedding, lots of people kidded us about a marriage between a freelance investigator (me) and an artist (Lisa) being an odd-couple type of arrangement. Maybe it was too odd, as we were now separated.

I felt I could use a change of scene, and L.A. is a definite change of scene from New York. At this moment, I was eyeballing a little guesthouse just behind a typical California hacienda off San Vicente north of Wilshire. For those with long memories, that's the general area where O.J. Simpson also had a guesthouse, but O.J. would have turned up his nose at this one — maybe not now, as he was doing a stretch in a Nevada jail, but back when he had money. A rather dilapidated sign declared that it (the guesthouse) was for rent. The sign was dilapidated, but the guesthouse looked okay.

I rang the doorbell and was soon confronted by a casually dressed guy in his late twenties, about six feet two, and a little pudgy. Not everyone in California spends their lives in health clubs. In a pleasant voice with a slight trace of a southern accent, he said, "What can I do for you?" That's one difference between L.A. and New York, where they say, "Yeah, waddya want?" Or just, "Waddya want?" Or just, "Yeah?"

"My name's Freddy Carmichael. I'm thinking about renting your guesthouse," I replied.

"I'm Pete Lennox." We shook hands. He rummaged around and got a key. "It's a nice place, and the location's good." As we traipsed through the main house toward the back, I had my first take on Pete. A sports junkie. Probably a sports bettor. Most of the former over age 18 are the latter, and probably more than a few under age 18 as well, thanks to offshore betting sites.

I didn't have to use any investigative skills to work out Pete's passion for sports, for I'd been in enough man caves. In fact, I'd even had one before I got married. The house was bristling with the latest electronic equipment for viewing, receiving, and recording sports events. A dish antenna on the roof was big enough that it could probably pull in live telecasts from NASA Mars rovers. Tables and chairs were littered with racing forms, sports newsletters, and all the usual paraphernalia that can be found in the home of a typical sports addict. There were mementos of everything from the Kentucky Derby to the Rose Bowl. I saw baseball gloves, tennis rackets, hockey sticks, and basketball jerseys on the way from the living room to the kitchen and out the back door — some autographed, some not.

The environment in which Pete wanted to live was his own affair, but I couldn't help feeling sorry for the goldfish. There were tanks of them all over the place. At least, I assumed they were goldfish because the tanks looked as if they hadn't been cleaned out since Obama was inaugurated. I caught an occasional flash of orange when a fish swam by one of the few places in the glass that wasn't completely clouded over with algae and other things that accrue when an aquarium isn't cleaned regularly. It was a smoggy day in Los Angeles, as it was hot with Santa Ana winds, and the pollutants that had been generated in the L.A. basin had no place to dissipate. Nonetheless, it was a lot better than a hot and muggy day in New York. I had a brief, bizarre thought, wondering if extraterrestrials peering through the gloom for a sight of the Angelenos felt the way I did about the goldfish.

One look at the guesthouse, and it was love at first sight. It had a living room, a den, two bedrooms, two bathrooms, and a kitchen. And an old-fashioned fireplace! I'm a sucker for old-fashioned fireplaces, but I wouldn't have thought that Los Angeles ever got cold enough to need one. There were a few logs, some kindling, and old newspaper to use for tinder, as well as fireplace tongs and a box of really long matches, so I guess it wasn't just for decoration.

I'd have to clean everything up some, but I didn't mind. I wouldn't go so far as to say that I'm a neat freak, but you get a definite feeling of accomplishment when you bring order where before there was only chaos.

A world-class negotiator would have pointed out the guesthouse's defects, but I just wanted to see if it was in my price range. It probably would have been three thousand-plus in Manhattan, depending on where you found it. Of course, there aren't any guesthouses in New York — and this place also had a lawn. And trees. And flowers. There were roses in the garden. Wow! The only time I ever see roses in New York is when I walk by a florist shop — and they cost an arm and a leg if you actually want to buy them.

"How much are you asking?" I inquired.

"Two thousand a month. I'll take care of the utilities."

I may not be a great negotiator, but in New York you never take the first offer. "That's a little steep for me. How about seventeen hundred?"

He looked at me, or rather, he studied me. I'd seen eyes like that before. Mostly on Wall Street traders, or gamblers. Neither friendly nor hostile, just assessing what the market will bear. Evidently he thought that the market would bear a little more, for he countered with, "How about splitting the...