Free Perfect Sax by Jerrilyn Farmer

down and I took that to mean, “Go ahead, help yourself.”
    It wasn’t really stealing if you planned all along to give the money back, was it? Under better circumstances, I would certainly have left him my business card, but of course I keep my cards in my purse. And at this precise moment, my purse was in a hundred-thousand-dollar armored vehicle, which, for all I knew, was ramming into a mansion in Pasadena while its crazed driver screamed for his lost Selmer Mark VI.
    I reached down for the jar, keeping my eye on the dog.
    “This is just a loan. I promise,” I promised the dog as I scooped out five quarters and a dime from the dirty glass jar that still had the Clausen’s Dill Pickle label semiattached.
    I put the jar back quietly and shot a glance at the sleeping man. He hadn’t stirred. And, minding my manners, I said, “Thank you, doggy. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”
    I raced up the block to the Red Line station, feeling elated to be on my way home. This had been, admittedly, an odd evening. Not that there wasn’t something a little odd about most of the events that our company organizes—parties bring out the oddest behavior imaginable—but tonight was getting to be some kind of record. Not only had the live auction turned ugly, but a priceless saxophone had apparently been stolen. Add to that the bizarre chase scene in the streets between two crazed dads and the fact that I’d just had to roll a drunk to get enough money to take the subway home, and I think even Holly and Wes would agree, this evening deserved a special monument in hell all to itself.
    And that was even before the sign on the entrance to the Red Line station had time to sink in. THE LAST TRAIN LEAVES UNION STATION WESTBOUND TO NORTH HOLLYWOOD AT 11:33 P.M. I looked at my watch: 1:38.
    Well, no wonder, then, that the street outside the station had seemed so deserted. The last train had left over two hours ago. Damn the Red Line! Damn public transportation!
    So okay, I may not know everything there is to know about train schedules, but there is something I do know about. I know every late-night restaurant there is in the 213 area code, and one of the oldest and coolest was just a block west and two blocks south of where I was standing.
    It turns out our former Mayor Richard Riordan’s legacy wasn’t just the Democratic National Convention and the Walt Disney Concert Hall. It’s also the landmark diner heowns, a twenty-four-hour T-bone-lover’s haven in downtown Los Angeles, the Original Pantry Café. They say it opened in 1924 and it’s never closed for an hour since, a legend in a town with less history to boast of than it likes.
    I suddenly realized I was starving. It would be kind of nice to slip out of these shoes and order one of the Pantry’s famous breakfasts, the #4, which gets you ham, bacon, or sausage, one egg, two pancakes, potatoes, and a cup of joe for only $5.95. I was already humming to myself, my Red Line woes behind me, as I turned down Figueroa, deciding I could use the money I had “borrowed” from the wino to phone Wesley. I liked to be self-reliant, of that there’s no doubt. But I wasn’t going to make a religion out of it. Maybe Wes and Holly would join me for at the Pantry for breakfast. And bring cash.
    There was a whole different vibe on Fig. For one thing, there was some light traffic passing by, which made the scene instantly appear a lot less Twilight Zone surreal. For another, I could see the lit-up Pantry off another block. Dwarfed as it was by the skyscraper office towers around it, it still had the comforting aura of hot food and warm folks inside. In fact, there was actually a line of waiting-to-be-seated patrons coming out the door. At 1:30 A.M. on a Sunday morning. Hot dog! I hurried along, tying my shawl to keep it from flapping.
    Just then, I noticed a sporty little car, a dark BMW something, slowing down, pacing me. I hurried some more and the car matched my pace. Good grief. I was so