People have this idea about LA. I have that idea and I live here. But then there is this other LA . . .

“You want to see Vic.”

The young host sneers, eyes fixed just past us, his question delivered in a flatline tone. He’s a few years older than us. Aside from his black apron, his fashionable square glasses and coiffed hair scream struggling actor.

“Yeah,” says Caleb, trying to match the venom. “Does he still work here?”

The host gives us a theater-camp quality eye roll, and continues delivering answers as questions and questions as answers. “Of course he does? You’re sure it’s Vic you’re looking for.”

“Do you need us to say it in Shakespearean, Kenneth Branagh?” Randy snaps. He’s been standing over by the door, checking out a line of signed rock-star photos on the wood-paneled wall, like Guns N’ Roses and Van Halen. He squeezed out his shirt just before we came in, but he’s still dripping red goo on the floor. Caleb nods to the puddle, and Randy rubs his foot over it, trying to look casual.

The host doesn’t notice. He’s busy rolling his eyes and running his hand through his hair. He counts out three menus like this is the most menial thing he’s had to do all day. “Right this way?”

He leads us into the main dining room. It’s full of every Hollywood type, from expensive and slick to blue collar and lumpy; hipsters, hags . . . it’s the kind of place that should still have swirls of cigarette smoke mingling above every table. The booths are brown vinyl. There’s a counter along one wall, the clatter of the kitchen beyond that, and the din of an unpolished rock band tumbles from the lounge down a short staircase.

But it’s the ceiling that captivates me. It’s a mosaic of backlit glass panels, depicting autumn foliage like I saw once on a family trip to Vermont. It covers almost the whole dining area in a serene glow of orange and yellow, with traces of robin’s egg blue sky. Does it make any sense in Los Angeles? No! But there is something about it, something so perfect. It’s one of those things that’s just amazing, for no other reason than its amazingness. I don’t want to know why they chose that ceiling. I just want it to be.

Struggling actor seats us in a booth in the center of the room. He’s gone before the menus hit the table.

“Gotta get the matzo-ball soup,” says Randy. “A Reuben for sure, order of pickles, potato knishes . . .”

“I’m not that hungry,” I say, still gazing up at the leaves.

Randy shrugs. “Get whatever you want. That’s just for me.”

“I don’t see it.” Caleb is running his finger down the list of sandwiches.

I open my menu and look too. The menu is exhaustive. After a minute, I agree: “There’s no Reuben version with pickles.”

“That’s because nobody eats them that way,” says Randy. “Except Eli. I think he just did it to be different.”

“What do you want.”

A man has appeared at our table. It’s like he just popped out of thin air, or more likely out of a time vortex. He’s wiry, and wearing a black silken shirt that billows around his skinny frame and is tucked into dark jeans. A toothpick rolls around between his lips. There’s a cigarette at-the-ready behind his left ear. His thin gray-black hair is slicked over his oval skull, and his face is all shadow and stubble.

“Vic,” says Randy. “You remember me?”

Vic just looks at him.

“That’s okay,” says Randy, suddenly deferential, “I used to come here with the guys from Allegiance to North.”

No reaction. Vic taps the pencil in his hand against a small black notebook.

Randy’s eyes flash to Caleb. “This is Eli’s son.”

Vic looks down. His expression barely changes, but his voice does. “I liked that kid.” Less like sandpaper now, more like shag carpet. And coming from Vic, the word “liked” sounds nearly like a profession of love. “Damn shame what happened to him.” His eyes sharpen, like he’s analyzing Caleb. “You couldn’t have been very old when he died.”

“No,” says Caleb. “I never knew him.”

Vic nods. He flips open his notebook. “What do you want.” Apparently that’s it.

Randy starts to list his order. “Matzo-ball soup, potato knish, order of blintzes, Reuben . . .” But Vic isn’t writing. Instead, he looks back at Caleb, checks his watch and looks over toward the door.

“What?” Caleb says quietly.

I wonder . . . so I say it for him. “We’ll split a Reuben with pickles.”

Vic’s eyes finally flash to me. He’s either studying me, or considering killing me. But he nods slightly. “And to drink?”

“Two Cokes.”

He collects the menus. “Be right back.”

“I—” Randy starts but seems to have the good sense to stop. “Well, he’s as unfriendly as I remember. Do you think he heard my order?”

A server brings us water, and then suddenly Vic stalks past us in a major hurry. We all watch him as he proceeds to one of the semicircle booths along the wall. There are four scene-sters slouched there, fitting every cliché. Vic says something quietly. A shadow passes over the alpha guy’s face.

“Excuse me?” he says.

Vic holds his hands up, as if to say “settle down,” then he leans close over the table. We can hear the faint murmur of his voice under the din.

“The FUCK—” one of the dudes starts to say.

And then who knows what Vic says, but suddenly they all look down into their laps, like they’re being scolded by their mothers. And then, together, they stand up, pick up their plates, and slide out of the booth. Vic whistles and motions and a bus girl comes over and helps gather their cups and cutlery. Vic leads the group to a booth across the room. Then he strides back past us.

“Wonder what that was all about,” says Caleb.

“Vic is connected,” says Randy. “Let’s just say, that guy could arrange for things to happen.”

“This way.” Vic is in front of us again. He collects our napkins and silverware and adds our menus to the one he already has under his arm.

We scoot out and follow him to the booth he just emptied. He motions us in. As we sit, I notice the displaced guys leering at us, but they keep quiet.

“Here you go,” Vic says, businesslike, putting the new cutlery in front of us. “I’ll leave a menu if you want anything else,” he says, placing one on the table.

“This is weird,” I say, glancing around the booth. “Is this the VIP seating or something?”

“Kind of,” says Randy quietly. “This is the exact seat we sat in after the Hollywood Bowl show.”

“Guys,” says Caleb, “check out this menu.”

The menu Vic left looks nothing like the ones we ordered from. It’s folded and beat up, the laminate cloudy and chipped, the black edges frayed.

“That’s the old-style menu,” says Randy. “They replaced those years ago.”

Caleb slowly opens the menu, and I think we all feel it. Something is going on here, as if we’re barely in control any more.

“Check it out,” Caleb says quietly. He points to the top corner of the inside page. Someone has etched blue lettering into the plastic with a ballpoint pen. Block letters:

A

T

N

No one comments, instead we just start scouring the map from three angles, looking for clues.

When I see one, I can’t help whispering: “There.”

Halfway down the first page, under the egg dishes, the “I” in “Spanish Omelette” is colored over, a blue indent.

“Here’s another one.” Randy points to the opposite page. The “B” in “Blintzes.”

“Here’s a ‘T’,” says Caleb.

“Do you think it’s a message?” says Randy.

Caleb and I don’t answer. We already know it is. Under the table, he squeezes my leg. There is so much energy vibrating around us right now, excitement, fear, potential, the protective cloak of a secret, all of that and then some.

We lean close, combing the menu. I get my phone out of my bag and open a notepad. We start from the “I” and call out letters, our fingers running over the plastic, feeling for indents like ancient runes.

“T.”

“S.”

“It’s . . . ?” I say.

More letters.

“A-l-l . . .”

“About . . .”

“The . . .”

“Vinyl.”

“Of course it is,” says Randy. To the air beside him: “Vinyl always sounds way better than CDs.” To the ceiling: “Not to mention freakin’ mp3s. Might as well flush your—”

“That can’t be it,” says Caleb. “It has to mean more.”

I hear the disappointment in his voice, and feel it too, like an adrenaline wave just broke inside me, and now there’s a mess of foam running this way and that. “Yeah. He wouldn’t send us here, to Vic, to this menu, just to make a vague reference, would he?”

“Unless he was high when he did it,” says Caleb.

That crossed my mind too, but I’m not giving up hope yet. “No, it’s got to be more specific.”

“I don’t get it. What were you guys expecting?” Randy asks.

“I don’t even know.” Caleb leans back and lets his head fall against the back of the booth.

“Eli was into collecting vinyl,” Randy muses. “Maybe he left his records for you? I don’t know what would have happened to them, though.”

I keep scouring the menu, but there’s nothing else there.

“Maybe we’ve been making this whole thing up,” says Caleb.

Vic returns with a large tray by his shoulder and starts laying out our food. He’s mostly just doing his work like normal, but at one point, he looks at Caleb, then over to me.

Something about his expression . . . and I find myself asking: “Is there anything else?” Maybe he knows what this is, what we’re missing.

He glances away from me for a second, almost like he’s looking at something behind me. Then back to the table. “Do you need a refill on the waters?” He asks like he has no idea.