George was impressed, though, he suspected, not as much as he was supposed to be.

Southern California wasn’t his normal hunting ground, and every time he visited it, he found he liked it less and less. He kept being reminded of something he had once heard said about the area: Once you took away all the tinsel and glitz, what you had left was tinsel and glitz.

He found all the faddishness of what restaurant or club was in, much less what designer clothes one wore or food one ate, to be depressingly shallow and frantic. In his own private protest, he had long since consciously decided not to play their reindeer games.

He was an out-of-towner and an outsider, and made no effort to hide the fact. His suit was off-the-rack and not custom-tailored, and his shoes were comfortable and durable rather than one of the flimsy, short-lived imported fashions.

In one sense, this was appropriate, as George was himself an unimposing man. Anyone passing him on the street in the Midwest or the Northeast would barely notice him, much less remember him a half dozen steps later. In the youth-and-beauty-oriented culture of Southern California, he was as invisible as a homeless person, noticed, if at all, with distaste.

Even his rental car was an economy-sized Ford, readily sneered at by the valet at the trendy restaurant he pulled up at. At least, he assumed it was trendy. The girl at the car-rental counter had recognized it readily enough when he asked for directions.

None of this bothered George in the slightest. It was expected and, in some ways, gratifying. Anonymity was a plus, if not a necessity, in his chosen profession. What was more, he was sure enough of himself and what he could do that he did not feel the need for outside admiration or reassurance.