TONER LOWE IN LA

TONER LOWE: He didn't say why he wanted to meet. But he needed to see me soon, and in secret at an out-of-way place. He chose a rooftop downtown. As I waited, I studied the two giant construction cranes hovering like praying mantises over the rising new hotel, and at the horizon's spine, and sunset flaming through clouds like a furnace of molten fury conjured by the gods...

TONER LOWE: I tailed Snidley on the Red Line, keeping my distance. He exited in North Hollywood, walking quickly and entering a drab-brick two-story office building gouged between a couple of lanky palm trees. While I waited I studied the far-off San Gabriels. It had snowed overnight, coating them with a glaze seeming almost mystic in the hazy sunlight -- a muscular sculpture of pearl and shadow...

TONER LOWE: Ever since I read how they screwed homeowners with subprime loans leading to the 2008 crash, I’ve shunned Bank of America. But a friend had keyed me to an art display in their downtown LA building. I bit, and on a muggy Friday stood on their slick floor with bare white walls studying a lower-ceiling-sized fiber net sculpture like a glowing aqua vortex. At its base a wrinkly dressed singer – flashback to Cat Stevens – strummed his guitar, the sculpture altering shades with each chord.

The corner of my eye caught a blonde figure in lavender, floating like a graceful scarf in gentle breeze toward the fiber art. I glanced to verify loveliness, then focused back on the sculpture. But I noticed the scarf began winding my way. Still, my gaze stayed on the artwork and singer. Then suddenly the fragrant fist of Chanel stunned  me, and close to my ear I felt the warm whisper:

“Mr. Lowe…I need your help.”