Lon Hartford answered the door. He might’ve been in his seventies, maybe even older, but his deeply-tanned skin was tight and smooth, and his swept-back hair was dark and glistening. In one hand he held a tall glass filled with mint leaves and what could be tea or bourbon. “You must be Vish. Come in, come in. Call me Lon.”
Lon Hartford is a now-retired talent agent in Wrong City. Sparky Mother took over his practice. It is implied that Lon had no choice in the matter, though Lon is very anxious not to get on Sparky's bad side. A bit of a creepy, unsettling fellow, Lon lives in a big house in Beechwood Canyon with disturbing decor:
Unlike the dining area, the walls in the living room weren’t bare. Vish wished they were. Eight oil paintings in total, huge unframed canvases hanging high on the walls, done in vivid pinks and roses and beiges and browns. Headless naked women were featured in all of them, bulging breasts and tiny waists and long, long legs, entwined in erotic positions with each other. The heads looked like they’d been severed just under the chin, a glimpse of cut bone and sawed flesh at the top of the neck stumps.
It was seriously creepy.
Lon glanced at him sideways as they passed, gauging his reaction. Vish kept his face neutral. “Amazing work, isn’t it?” Lon said. He raised his glass and saluted the paintings. “Local artist. Talented fellow, divinely gifted. He worships the female form.”
Though not the female face. Vish made some noise of polite acknowledgement.
