I never know where to begin in new journals. It always seems appropriate to start off these blank pages with a godly revelation, but I think I shall celebrate this leather-bound beauty with some monumental news instead: The Mason Street job is done! And not only is my bank account's belly glutted beyond six digits, but I have the seven karat canary-yellow pendant that once graced the valley between Misses Eleanor Vanderbilt's small and forgettable breasts.

Johnny asked if I ever felt anything after the job is over. I said that I felt filthy fucking rich, and he scowled, apparently feeling the guilt of ten thousand dollars burning in his pocket. He'll either come around or not, but I sure as hell am not going to wait around. This new job is too damn important for him to get all teary-eyed about it. He may fuck it all up the ass.

Julien had been working on the Piazza Della Rovere Job when his very close friend, Peter Jacobsen, rang and invited him to a party in the downward spiral of 1999. He had of course accepted and attended the event alone, and by midnight he had already romanced two unhappy wives in the shadows of the courtyard: Misses Elisabetta D'Antonio and Misses Katherine Marcuccilli. Both had Italian wealth strung around their necks and dazzling on their hands; both eventually became piece-of-cake jobs.

It wasn't until about twelve-thirty that he had stumbled across a dark dreamer with eyes that bled of the Mediterranean Sea. Helena Connelly was the neglected wife of Frederick Connelly Jr., CEO of Cisco Systems. She was immediately interested in Julien, who was extraordinary in black tie attire, and had inquired about him to the host. Peter, leaning in very close, warned her.

"He's a colleague of mine, not one to reckon with, Helena. I don't think Frederick would be too happy about it anyway."

I was staying at the Shangri-la in Santa Monica for the first week. That entire hotel seems haunted. I could almost see the ghosts of glamorous actresses walk through these corridors. It was built in the 1930s. Art deco style. I'm so glad that I left that penthouse that overlooked the Pacific.

There's something about Los Angeles that makes me drink. I'm already on my second bottle of Isle of Skye 8 year old. I decided to rent out an apartment on Wilshire. Jocelyn's routine has proven to be boring and exactly the same each day, so I've been spending time personalizing the place.

Her husband punctually wakes up at 6 a.m. and leaves for the office at 6:30. There is no morning interaction between them. She is awake by 7, gets her son (he appears to be seven or eight, brown-eyed and bright) ready for school. He is then driven by their chauffeur at 7:45. She takes a swim in their indoor pool for about an hour, takes a shower and prepares herself for the day. She usually leaves around 10:30 in her silver 2003 Range Rover with her daughter (almost always has a doll in hand). She stops at a Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf. The little girl gets dropped off at a posh preschool about four miles away from the resident by 11 a.m. She goes for a manicure and pedicure on Tuesdays and for a facial on Fridays. Otherwise she usually goes to Acadie's to enjoy a hand crafted French crepe and a second cup of coffee. She takes a walk on the third street promenade or along the beach until 4, then she leaves to pick up her daughter. They return back to the house. Her husband usually misses dinner and gets home at 10 p.m., sometimes later. Johnny has been following him the past week and has discovered that Mister McGregor is staying late seducing a couple different receptionists.

Monday. She was having lunch at Acadie's, like she often does with a select girlfriend or two, but today she was alone. It was about twelve o'clock. Her daughter wouldn't be off school until another two and a half hours. I was sitting a couple tables away from her before she noticed me. "Are you following me?" she asked jokingly. I ended up taking my crepe over to her table where we talked until she invited me for a walk along the beach. I told her I was an art dealer and gave her my number just in case she was interested in buying any art.

McGregor had some time off, but was too preoccupied with golf and a mid-afternoon rendezvous with a blonde receptionist, a Miss Olivia Diaz. Jocelyn left the kids with her mother for most of the weekend. She had appointments made at her favorite spa, but surprise surprise, she was too busy to actually follow through. Instead she was hiding away in my apartment.

I suppose it would be too much of a bother for me to actually sleep tonight. I can function. I can function. I can function tonight but what will happen to me tomorrow? I declare an experiment. I can't see; it's like a thousand photographers' bulbs have flashed and it's embedded in my irises. I try to blink it away. Blink. Blink. But it only worsens.

I watch old movies. The Goonies, Stand By Me, Back to the Future. They're muted and I'm left with the words in this book I've been reading. About a serial killer that started in Seattle. Sweet sweet crime books. I would feel so lost if it were my skull found on a Washington state mountainside, licked clean by coyotes and those santeria-black eyed vultures.

I would feel so lost... if Helena doesn't call anymore. I try to be optimistic, you know. Los Angeles is full of SINGLE beautiful women. I can have one, maybe two a night. But there's nothing like taking a married woman to bed. Or a bottle of Glenfarclas 30 years. A very smoky and smooth mouthfeel. Almost as heavenly as when a woman's orgasm ruptures over my tongue. God. It's been too long. Maybe I should rent one of those porns I used to whack off to when I was fourteen. Some early 90's rim-licking flick.

It was me and a bottle of Glenury Royal 1953. Rooftop. It was late. And then from the shadows came Amar. The name 'Amar' means forever, enlightenment.

"Why did you allow it to go on?" she asked. About Helena and me.

He had half the nerve to call Lash's girlfriend. His good ole buddy would probably surely slit his throat if Julien actually went through with it. He had already met up with her a handful of times in Los Angeles. She was lovely. A British brunette with a bite. And although he had suspected that she was starting to feel a twinge of guilt, Julien would continue seeing her until she stopped returning his calls.

I saw Alma again. Didn't feel like writing about it until now. I got a room at Caesar's. That girl makes me sad for some reason. I think it's because I don't have to try. She just gives it up like it's expected of her. But she's one hot fuck and that's all I should care about.

Went to Los Angeles again for another one of those sick hotel room affairs I waste time with. The upside was that my Ferrari got the best ride of it's life thus far.

I long for a woman with no depth. I tire of Killian's love stare, although it's hard for me to tell if it's really so much love as infatuation. I know what lust looks like, and this is certainly not lust. At least not anymore. She's a mistake. I can feel it in my bones. She's a mistake.

Julien was narrowing in on twenty-one. York Aviation was at an all time high. He was strapped for cash, having that his father was cutting off all his allowances due to Julien's refusal to hop on board. No one knows exactly where he came up with the idea, but it wouldn't be until the next spring that he would come out on top. It was the winter of 1998 in a beautiful town called London. Her name was Audrey Marie Barrick. He had picked her to be his first job mostly because he found her insanely attractive and wealthy. Her husband was a balding man who was one of the six members of The House of Commons commission.

It was a few days before Christmas. Things were going very very well. Julien, Lash, and Sam were to execute the plan tonight. The snow storm had been snubbed, and the small apartment that sat upon a tourist shop was lit by the small lamp on the bedside table. Julien was waiting patiently by the window, until Audrey burst into the room. They embraced before she could barely close the door, his mouth hungrily feeding off hers. He pushed her against the wall, struggling to pull off her coat. "Wait..." Audrey murmured against his lips. Julien, still a young lover at the time, had a hard time channeling out from his sheer lust until she said "I've left Henry."

There were three more things that needed to be done:

1. Change the number to his Nextel (he had two phones, and by some people's observation that made him some kind of pimp).

2. Break the lease to whatever apartment he was occupying for the sole purpose of the job.

Julien never liked to bring women home, but he did make an exception (mistake) now and again.

And here was Cindy Patel, an Indian Brit little minx, who happen to work at The Carlton (those January Arsonists could never get enough of that place). She had a heavy accent and she talked about religion more than he cared to pay attention to. Julien particularly liked her for those large brown eyes, but he took her home for that ass.

He had left her on his bed, mindless from her games, and to the shower. Not ten minutes later, he wrapped a towel around his waste and started with something ridiculously charming like "Are you ready for round--" before that knowing grin froze.

She had simply vanished from the bed, sheets cold. It was panic at first, as he made his way down the hallway and straight for the kitc--and to the right: a flash of dark amber skin against the leather chair. And there was the fucking little cunt, legs crossed, files opened.

His eyes spoke a language I hadn't ever seen. Strange how a man in a towel could look so pissed off, and I took that as a cue to stand up and close the top file. I was starting to doubt that he was the co-owner of an import/export company. Gut instinct was indicating I was never going to see him again after this morning. "I'll call you a taxi." He muttered, reaching around his desk (nevermind me, I moved out from beyond his grand cherry wood desk from the other side). This is the first time I had ever seen him rest a cigarette between his lips, and suck in his first drag while giving me a contemplative glance. He picked up the phone and did exactly what he said he would do.

"They'll be here in five minutes." He seemed less distressed now, blowing smoke in my direction. "So. Were you looking for something?"

I paused and shook my head. "I wanted to know more about you." She would give him the benefit of the doubt. "So, you're a private investigator, right?"

He smirked, he seemed to enjoy that. "You know what all these women that I have... investigated have in common, Cindy?" He moved away from his desk, pouring himself a scotch. It was a little early for a drink, but he never minded.

"Most of them are attractive..." She wasn't going to state the obvious, sometimes it was better to play dumb.

"C'mon, Cindy, you're brighter than that."

"Well...." But it was too late, he could see the answers in her eyes. They're all disgustingly wealthy.

"Well, as you can imagine, I'm upset that you have... gone through all my private files. But, Cindy, I really like you. And I'd really like to get a chance to explain... what all of this means..." He seemed to soften, looking almost angelic.

I found myself gazing into those brown eyes, and it was hard to not believe him. "You don't owe me an explanation, Julien. I'm sorry that I went through your.. personal things. How about we just move forward as if nothing happened?" My fingertips grazed against his lower abdomen and he smiled deliciously.

Julien walked her to the door, gently tugging on her until she gave him a kiss. "We're still on for Friday, right?" He whispered into her mouth, she nodded and waved before disappearing into the taxi. He watched the vehicle disappear down the street and he sighed. He should've locked the cabinet last night.

She would pay dearly for his mistake.

"Fuck, Jules. It's early. Johnny and I were up til--"

Julien cut him off. "Yes. I'd like to get a cab to come to 244 Sloane Street."
 
"I wonder what little bitch crossed you this time."

"Lets get down to business."

The voice purred off leather, Ms. Montgomery was not one to wait for anyone. Dress straps sliding off in the most simply provocative way, and Julien sipped at his scotch with pleasure burning in his stare. She was a professional.

"Please, let me..." The zipper didn't hesitate, not once. Julien's breath on her shoulder, and Ms. Montgomery's dirty murmur was lost in the transition from standing to bent over the sofa armrest.

Three hundred was left on the coffee table, and she was gone by two a.m.

"Hello, darling."

"Helena."

"Why, Julien, you haven't forgotten all about me."

"I've..."

"You don't have to explain anything. I know what you've been up to."

"What I've been up to?"

"In Switzerland. With that... girl."

"My father thought it would be wise to--"

"Do you think I was born yesterday?"

"No, Helena. Not at all."

"You've got your buddies there. And that broadway nobody."

"Did you call just to throw a few insults around?"

"No. I called to tell you that Frederick found the letters."

"What letters?"

"The letters you wrote me. The ones I hid in the attic."

"And?"