Everybody in the party had been warned to wear long sleeves and hiking shoes. Almost nobody did. Just a few turns down from what we were told is Madonna’s Beverly Hills château, or one of them anyway, we parked the new Chrysler 300 SRT8 and took the first step off Mulholland Drive onto a 45-degree downward slope, alternately sliding and stumbling into thickets of brown grass and sumac bushes. Soon we were invisible under a canopy of monkeypod and California black walnut trees, moving carefully to dodge the poison oak.
Down here, below what was once the dangerous macaroni-shaped curve called “Carl’s” on the illegal racetrack that Mulholland used to become at night, were rusting relics of the road’s blood-sport days. A small gully had served as a funnel for cars whose drivers had drained their talent tanks, and after passing through a debris field of doors and air-cleaner covers, we found what we had come for.
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