Kama Sutra Cadillac

The girl was slumped against a wall, head down, her long black hair unkempt around her shoulders, her worn blue jeans and spattered white blouse speaking of poverty and perhaps worse.

Hayward sighed but dutifully followed his housemaid's instructions, stopping beneath the awning of a tony sidewalk cafe. It was summer, and sunburnt tourists were sipping frosted Margaritas and crunching tortilla chips doused with a salsa so heavy with cilantro that he could smell it six feet away.

So much for a quick detour, Hayward grumbled to himself; if this takes more than a few minutes, the freeway will be jammed with Friday afternoon traffic and I'll never get home.

Desperate to puncture his leaden gloom, he'd succumbed to the sweet pull of nostalgia and stopped by the Pasadena Playhouse, where his career had started; but then Marta had spotted the girl.