When I get to Westwood the next day, a rare cold and rainy Thursday, I find a metered spot a block and a half from the building. I walk through the pouring rain with an umbrella, avoiding the larger puddles to keep my “dress-up” sneakers, newish Puma suedes, from getting soaked.

The rain reminds me of living in New York City nearly a decade ago. I think for a moment about who I was and the way I lived back there, back then… It feels like a lifetime ago.

I come through a revolving door and enter a cavernous marble lobby. I nod at the security guard behind the desk and stand for a moment with rainwater dripping off my umbrella. A minute later, a harried looking bald dude steps out of the elevator. He scans the lobby and spots me. “Jonas?” he asks. I nod.

Martin has the size and girth of a football player but he doesn’t dress like one. He wears fitted black pants, black creepers, and a maroon Fred Perry polo under a black wool sports coat: ex-Skinhead formal wear. He’s even got the heavy black frame glasses to complete the ensemble. The thing is though; he’s not a skinhead anymore, just bald. I was right, Martin is a tough guy. He just has a wussy voice with a Dutch accent is all…

He reaches out a big, veiny hand and I’m scared he’s going to crush mine. Thankfully, he doesn’t. “Nice to finally meet you,” he says. “The freeway was…”

“Yeah, yeah… Don’t worry about it. You made it.” The traffic. It’s the most boring conversation an Angeleno can have. Still we seem to repeat it endlessly. The traffic…

“Let’s head upstairs.” Martin says.

The 15th floor offices of Consuelo, Andersson, Petermeyer and Associates are done up first class, California-style luxurious with a single purple orchid floating in a clear vase atop a walnut finished magazine table. The reception area has a view of the ocean and after the woman behind the desk softly announces our arrival into her headset, I make a point of surveying the beach under the low hanging clouds a mile or two distant.

A buttoned-up, pretty brunette woman in her 30’s appears from behind the receptionist desk and introduces herself as Audrey, the woman Martin spoke with on the phone yesterday. She leads us to a conference room. The big picture windows look out at the Hollywood Hills and mountains beyond downtown. It’s impressive. You forget that stuff is out there sometimes. Or at least I do. She waves at the black Eames chairs surrounding a big glass conference table. “Have a seat.”

Audrey takes a seat next to Martin. She is calm and self-assured, but has a cute bob haircut that suggests she might have a life outside the office. After a couple of pleasantries she begins, almost as if giving a PowerPoint presentation.

“While I’d love to just come right out and tell you why we’ve asked you here today, I can’t. What I am allowed to say is that we would like to discuss a confidential matter with you, a very tightly kept secret…”

She pauses and takes a moment to look each of us in the eyes.

“Our client, whose identity we are not at liberty to reveal just yet, has requested your presence specifically — that is, our client is familiar with and enamored of the work that you do at Victimless Crime, which is why you are here — and while this goes quite a long way, it is Mr. Consuelo’s job to protect said client. In other words, the fact that your presence comes at his or her behest is quite frankly, not enough. We can’t afford to take any chances with a confidential matter with this level of importance.”

“Okay,” I say. Audrey gives me a look that says don’t interrupt me.

“We’ve performed background checks on you both already — ”

I look over at Martin. He doesn’t look nearly as surprised as I feel. Honestly, I have a hard time imagining anyone entrusting a secret that’s worth-doing-a-background-check-on-me, with me.

“ — and there doesn’t appear to be anything that will prevent us from proceeding. Provided, Mr. Lapkus, that you have continued to abstain from the use of illegal drugs?” She asks with a cocked eyebrow.

How do they know about that?

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business…” I say. “But, yeah. I mean, no. No, I don’t use drugs… and I’ve been sober for a long time. Over five years.”

“Excellent. I believe the reason for that question will become self-evident in due course. Now, with all of that said, we can continue our discussion provided you two sign these highly enforceable non-disclosure agreements.”

She hands each of us a presentation folder with a number of documents inside.

“I’m familiar with non-disclosure agreements, but what do you mean when you say ‘highly enforceable?’” Martin asks.

“The information we are prepared to entrust you with, could theoretically be sold or used to earn quite a lot of money, certainly in the hundreds of thousands if not millions of dollars…”

“Holy shit,” I say.

“…and by signing these documents, you would be held financially accountable were you to reveal our client’s information. Meaning you could be sued for whatever you were able to earn, along with sizable financial penalties. It’s not a perfect arrangement. We’d prefer that you kept the information confidential, but it’s our only legal defense.”

I open the folder and attempt to read the document, but get lost quickly. It’s a contract. While I can understand each of the individual sentences what the contract means in totality is over my head.

“I’m interested,” I say. “But I’m no lawyer. I’m not going to be able to understand all of this.” Across the conference table Martin continues reading.

“We understand. We’re prepared to allow you until this coming Monday the 12th if you need to review the document with an attorney of your own. We cannot discuss this matter without having a signed copy of this document, however.”

“I’m just a regular dude. I mean, if I keep my mouth shut about whatever it is you’re gonna tell me, is there any way I’m gonna get into trouble? Like legally?”

“No, you have nothing to worry about,” Audrey says.

I can’t help but let my imagination get the best of me. “Like what if your client murdered somebody? Am I gonna have to go to jail if I don’t rat on him or something like that?” I ask.

“No, no,” she says, not betraying the slightest amusement at my casual allusion to murder. “It’s nothing like that. Nothing criminal. It’s just to protect our client’s confidential information. If you aren’t interested in the proposal we put forward, then tell no one and pretend none of this ever happened.”

Martin flips through the very official looking document. It has several of those “sign here” and “initial here” strips of tape placed in various places on it. He turns to me. “Well? As best as I can tell it looks as straightforward as something like this could be…”

“Fuck. I guess I’m game if you are,” I say. Martin nods and begins signing.

“Can I tell my wife?” I ask Audrey.

“No, I’m afraid not. You can’t tell anyone. Not a soul.”

I shrug. “Well, she’s not gonna like that. Here goes nothing.” I sign the document.

Audrey reviews the contracts deliberately, making sure we’ve signed all the required places and then stands.

“Okay, looks good. Wait here while I make sure everyone is ready to proceed. I’ll be back momentarily.” She leaves the room.

I’m even more curious than when we walked in. I turn to Martin. “Dude! What the fuck!?” I feel like a kid or a member of the Bloodhound Gang or Scooby Doo or something. Suddenly I’m being plucked out of my humdrum existence and thrown into some kind of cartoon mystery adventure where the stakes are ridiculously high.

“Maybe one of us is related to Bill Gates or something and the dude wants to give away all his money,” Martin says.

“Or Justin Bieber is your long lost love child.”

And then Audrey is back in the doorframe. “Come this way, gentlemen.” We follow her down a hallway to a portion of the office that, unlike the rest of the place, has solid walls. We enter yet another carpeted, windowless reception area.

She turns to us as the door shuts behind us.

“Once we pass through here, your lives will never be the same. There are fewer than 10 people on earth that possess the knowledge that you are about to receive. This is your last chance to back out. Are you sure you want to continue?”

“Are you serious? No way I’m backing out now!” I say.

“I’m sure,” Martin says.

Audrey smiles. “I don’t think you’ll regret it.”

She opens the door and we follow her in. This is the largest office we’ve yet seen. It’s also dark, with smoked glass windows. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust. I recognize Vincent Consuelo, who, upon our entering, rises to his feet. On a couch, off to the side of the room sit a couple of figures, two men, one blond the other brunette. The light on that side of the room is low. The blond guy has hair down to his shoulders. He holds a water bottle in his hand.

“Mr. Lapkus. Mr. Halberstram. Welcome,” Consuelo says coming out from behind his desk, arm extended. “I’m Victor Consuelo.” He shakes our hands. “I’d like to apologize for all the mystery. Fortunately, all of that ends now. Allow me to introduce my client…”

Consuelo puts a hand on my shoulder and guides Martin and I so that we face the sofa. Before he finishes his sentence a shock of recognition comes over me. How many times have I seen photos of that face? I saw him play 20 plus years ago! Jesus Christ! That face! It’s older, he’s aged but the dude looks just like fucking Kurt Cobain!

Of course that’s impossible…

Everyone knows Kurt killed himself in the most violent way imaginable. Over 20 years ago, he blew his own head off with a shotgun! You don’t come back from that. Did Kurt have a twin brother nobody knew about? Is this some kind of a celebrity look-alike or a body-double person? It makes no sense!

My mind is racing. What is going on here? The figure sitting cross-legged and calm as still water sure does look like Kurt. He’s older sure, but not 20 years older. Kurt would have to be 47 or 48 at this point. This guy is healthy, whereas Kurt did not look well at the end there. What the…

Consuelo interrupts my train of thought and says, “Mr. Kurt Cobain. Contrary to popular belief, alive and in the flesh.”