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by Brad Stratton

White Lies

Colored Waters

Copyright 2008 By

Brad Stratton

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Published by Second Wind Publishing

Kernersville

Dagger Books

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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, locations and events are either a product of the author's imagination, fictitious or use fictitiously. Any resemblance to any event, locale or person, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Copyright 2008 by Brad Stratton

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First Dagger Books edition published August, 2008.

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Manufactured in the United States of America

ISBN 978-1-935171-15-7
For Anne Elyse

—Brad Stratton

1

It was another cloudless morning and the sky was that deep, delft blue that comes only in winter to Los Angeles. One of those rare days, when hard night rain and ocean breezes conspire to sweep away the haze and the city is transformed. The air is fresh and clean, scented with a hint of jasmine, and the white stucco sparkles so bright against the deep green of the hillsides it hurts your eyes. It was a perfect Valentine's Day, clear and bright and full of promise; the kind that makes you wish you had someone to give flowers to.

I was busy gazing out my office window, watching the boats on the bay perform their random wind dance and listening to my telephone ring. It was too nice a day for sad stories and I was hoping whoever it was would decide their problems could keep until tomorrow, along with the smog. On the fourth ring my conscience got the better of me. I picked up and said, "Floral delivery, forget-me-nots our specialty."

"Mr. Chambers?"

"Yes."

"Michael Chambers?"

"Yes."

"The private investigator?"

He sounded dubious.

"It's Valentine's Day," I said, as though only a fool wouldn't know that.

"Oh . . . I see . . . yes, of course it is."

His voice was deep and resonant, full of authority and used to giving orders but unsure of itself now, unfamiliar with nonsense. Perhaps remembering who he was, he barked at me.

"Chambers, this is David Silverman." He paused to let the name sink in, "I have a private matter I wish to discuss with you and I'd like to see you at my home this morning."

I recognized the name, as he obviously expected I would. It could be found among the opening credits on some of the biggest hits to come out of Hollywood in the past thirty years. Right under where it said Produced by.

"Gee, Mr. Silverman, it was kind of you to think of me but I just committed on a Scorsese project. Marty has already sent the contracts." Marty was short for Martin, as in Martin Scorsese, but Silverman would know that. He would know, too, that I was lying.

There was so long a silence I thought he had hung up.

"Mr. Chambers, I'm afraid I haven't much experience at this sort of thing. I apologize for asking you to come here on such short notice but I assure you this matter is urgent. It is imperative that I see you as soon as possible. I'm tied up in meetings all afternoon and I can't reschedule. The principals are flying back to Europe tonight. If you could see your way clear to come over this morning I would consider it a substantial favor."

That last line probably packed a lot of weight in his circles. Having David Silverman owe you one would be considered a big deal and, to be fair, it probably was.

He hadn't hung up on me and he had apologized.

"Let's start over, Mr. Silverman, who gave you my number?"

He was silent again. I could tell he wasn't used to being auditioned, nor did he like it much. Finally he said, "Barry Mann recommended you. He said you once helped him with a personal problem and he was pleased with your work. He spoke highly of you. He also said you were discreet."

It looked as if Barry had moved up in the world and I was glad for him. He was one of the few movie people I knew who actually deserved to.

"All right, sir," I said, "is there anything you want to tell me before I leave?"

"Not on the phone, Chambers. This is a very delicate situation."

"Okay, tell me how to get there and I'll be along."

The directions were elaborate but impeccable. Just like the neighborhood.

2

As I eased my ancient Speedster through the curves along Sunset, I was hoping the locals might take me for a classic car collector or maybe a low-key broker whose assistants handled the early calls. I was dressed in my best: tan gabardine slacks, pale blue oxford shirt, a wine red foulard tie, dark, burnished loafers and a navy blazer. I looked the part but up close, the scuffmarks on my hands and face would probably give me away. If they didn't, the Beretta under my arm surely would.

Near UCLA, the usual contingent of joggers was loping alongside the road in a neon serpentine of T-shirts, shorts and too seldom, I thought, spandex. As a trained professional, I couldn't help noticing that, by far, the majority of them were attractive young women, rosy cheeked, pony tailed and determined as hell. Not that long ago it had been rare to see a woman jogging and I wondered if any of them were day dreaming about becoming the first Madame President. Probably not, probably they were thinking about the boys they had given Valentines to and how good they were going to look for them. Lucky guys. I wondered, too, if any of them preferred older men.

I turned north under the arch of the Bel Air Gate and wound my way uphill through a convoluted tangle of streets with French and Italian names. On this side of Sunset the houses run to estate size and the architecture is as eclectic as Hearst's art collection. Traffic was practically non-existent and those few cars I did pass had out of state plates. Their owners were poking along with Maps to the Star's Homesspread out on the dash, pointing and gawking. I was doing a little of it myself, come to think of it.

Aside from the tourists, the streets were deserted. No pedestrians, no limousines, not even a stray poodle. Everything was tastefully manicured and it was very quiet and peaceful. The only noises came from the birds and even their warbling seemed to have an understated, almost reverent tone, not unlike extras on a movie set. If you were dropped from the sky blindfolded behind any of those walls, you would never guess that the busiest intersection in the country is less than a mile away.

After the ten thousandth switch back I found the address on Sorbonne where the street dead-ended at the front entrance to the property. A large, ornate, silver 'S' decorated the middle of a tall, wrought iron gate that stood sentry between high stone walls. A long, curving drive beyond that led to the main house. It sat atop the hill and had an unobstructed, three hundred sixty-degree view of the surrounding canyons. As I pulled up to the gate I spied a security camera mounted on one of the stone pillars. Below it was a speaker box but before I could push the buzzer it crackled to life.

A polite but firm male voice asked, "How may I help you?"

I suppressed the urge to order a Happy Meal and gave my name. The voice told me to wait and soon a long silver limousine glided down the drive and stopped on the other side of the gate. It had vanity plates that read SLVRSCRN. An extremely large man in well-tailored chauffeur's livery got out of the car and walked to the gate. He looked like André the Giant disguised as The Little Dutch Boy and when he spoke, his voice was the sound of gravel being scraped from the bottom of a dry well.

"ID?"

I'm just over six feet but I had to raise my arm to hand him the license. He removed it from its case and studied it, front and back, running a banana-sized thumb over the plastic, searching for evidence of tampering and then held it up, comparing my face to the picture. It looked like a postage stamp in his hand. Despite his size, his movements had a practiced ease about them and I would bet he had done some bouncing somewhere. Maybe for the Titans.

I appreciated his thoroughness but it was overdone. Silverman had called me less than an hour ago and not even Moriarty could have whipped up a phony private license that fast.

He handed back the ID, took a radio out of his pocket, spoke into it, and a moment later the gate swung inward.

"Okay," he rumbled, "follow me up to the house and park in back, out of sight from the gate."

"I'll put on the trench coat and dark glasses but do I have to wear the hat? It messes up my hair."

He stared at me for a long moment with black, expressionless eyes, folded himself back into the limo, turned it around and headed up the drive. I got the impression he didn't think I was all that funny.

Silverman's house was modeled after an English country manor, constructed mostly of weathered gray stone and aged brick. Ivy covered much of the walls and it was at least three stories tall with gabled windows running the length of the top floor over a steeply pitched slate roof. Calling it a house was like calling an aircraft carrier a boat.

A driveway leading to the back divided what was probably the guesthouse from the main structure and I turned into it, leaving André to carry on alone. Behind the house several cars were parked against a curb at neat forty-five degree angles. I pulled into an empty space beside a silver Jaguar and got out. Next to the Jaguar was a Rolls Silver Spur and next to that a shiny, red Ferrari. I was standing there thinking the Ferrari clashed with the estate color scheme and noting that my paint job looked even more faded than usual, when I heard someone open the back door. I turned to see a chubby, middle-aged Mexican woman in a crisp maid's uniform waiting to greet me.

"Hola, Buenos dias," I said. She put on a pleasant smile that reached her eyes and with a pronounced accent, said, "Please com' een, senor, Mr. Silverman, he es'pecting you." I followed her down a narrow hallway that led to the main foyer where black and white marble covered the floor like a vast game board. It looked about the right size for a game of checkers with the chauffeur.

She led me down the main hall and stopped in front of two large double doors that gleamed with age and polish. Without knocking she opened the door and held it for me. I went in and there he was, sitting behind an antique, walnut partner's desk. It had baroque corners and gold inlays along the legs. Inset in the top were two, identical, tooled leather writing surfaces. It looked old and genuine and, if so, would fetch a tidy sum at Sotheby's. Behind him was a mullioned, bay window with a full view of immaculately tended lawn and gardens. On either side of the window were oil paintings in large gilt frames and, if possible, they put the desk to shame. They were originals and had been done by a couple of long deceased Impressionists. One was a Pissaro and the other an early Manet. I had seen others like them but only in museums and, had I been less sophisticated, I might have whistled.

He was in his late fifties, I guessed, not very tall but tanned and fit looking with a full head of silvered hair combed straight back over deep-set, pale blue eyes. He had high cheekbones and a strong jaw and, sitting as he was, he looked like a Forbes cover, right down to his pinstripe power suit and rep tie.

He rose to extend his hand and said, "Please, come in and sit down, Mr. Chambers," waving me to a couple of brass studded leather chairs, "thanks for coming." His grip was firm but his heart wasn't in it and his eyes wavered as we shook hands. Up close I could see the circles under his eyes and he looked tired, as if maybe he hadn't been sleeping much.

He swept a hand past his suit, "Please excuse the formal attire, I have a business luncheon after this. Would you care for something, a cup of coffee, or a drink, perhaps?"

"I'll take some coffee, with cream and honey if you have it, otherwise black is fine."

He nodded at the maid, "Elena, I'll have a Glenlivet, please."

I wondered if it was too late to change my order.

The maid left and Silverman turned his attention back to me. He looked me up and down but, despite his forcefulness on the phone, I could tell he was ill at ease now that he had me here. He began fidgeting with an octagonal, crystal paperweight that had a golf ball trapped in its center. It had a green crest stamped on it that read, "St. Andrews." Except for the crest, it looked just like one I had.

I knew he was trying to work up the courage to tell me. This was always the hard part. By the time people got around to calling me, things had usually gone south. I assumed the scotch was to help him say whatever it was he had to say. If not, it could mean he had other problems, too. In my experience, all due respect to the late Mr. Fitzgerald, I haven't found the rich to be all that different. In spite of their efforts.

I sat there looking at him like an expectant puppy until he began.

"I apologize for all of the . . . ah . . . cloak and dagger business at the gate. Rudy doubles as security for me and he takes it very seriously. This thing, this situation has us all on edge, it is, ah . . . it has just . . . well . . . anyway, it was good of you to come on such short notice. Did you have much trouble finding us? People often do, though you seem to have made good time so I guess not."

I was beginning to think he was an impostor. He had apologized to me twice in less than an hour and was as nervous as a politician without a speech. So far, I had done nothing but practice my well-criticized wit on him and his help and I couldn't afford the hood ornament on his Rolls. Still, here he was, apologizing to me. Whatever his problem was, it had him wound as tight as a cheap clock. I decided to help him out.

"Mr. Silverman, perhaps we should dispense with the pleasantries. We both know you aren't the kind of man who hires a private investigator on the basis of someone's recommendation, at least not someone as far down on the guest list as Barry Mann. With your juice, you've already checked downtown and they gave me the nod. Probably a very conditional one but good enough or I wouldn't be sitting here. I'll bet the Mayor called personally. You said it was urgent and I'm here. Why not tell me about it."

My little speech made him sit back in his chair and a hard glint came into his eyes. I could see some of his composure returning as I spoke. And some of what allowed him to afford the artwork. The paperweight thunked down on the desk, hard.

"All right Chambers, let's get to it. They told me you weren't stupid. They also said you had something of an attitude and were too fond of your own wit, that you could be difficult, although that's not how they put it. I can see I was informed correctly. I was also told you were honest and could be counted on to see something through once you took it on, that you wouldn't fold if things got a little rough. I hope they were right about that, too. What I'm going to tell you is to be held in strictest confidence. Is that understood?"

"Is there any other kind?"

He stared at me a moment, not sure if I was exercising my wit again, "I'm being blackmailed, Chambers, that is, my daughter is being blackmailed. It is an intolerable situation. I want you to find out who is doing it and I want you to make them stop. We have already paid them what they asked for and now they want more. A great deal more."

"They will do that. Once you pay them they know what they have is worth something to you. They will probably keep squeezing now, as long and as hard as you let them. When are you supposed to make the next payment?"

"I don't know. We received another note in the mail this morning telling us how much they wanted. They said they would call and let us know where and when to make the payment. That's when I called you."

Just then, the maid opened the door, again without knocking, and set a silver coffee service on the table beside me. She placed a highball glass, dark enough for a double, on a matching coaster in front of Silverman and poured my coffee into a bone china cup with silver edging. A dish of rose shaped butter pats sat on a bed of ice and was kept company by a plate of croissants and pastries whose names I could only guess at. Even if I turned the case down the drive was going to be worth it. I couldn't help wondering what color the service would have been if his last name had been Goldman.

I grinned at her, "Muchos gracias." She smiled that smile at me again and turned to leave. As she reached the door Silverman said, "Elena, would you find Laurel and ask her to come in here." Without turning around she said, "She not here, senor, she say to tell you she go to see a fren'."

He flushed, "Damn it, she was supposed to . . . oh, never mind, Elena, thank you, that will be all."

Still with her back to us and not saying another word, the maid left.

"Laurel is my daughter, Chambers, you would think she might take at least a passing interest in this situation. It is, after all, her career that is being jeopardized. I suppose, in a way, it's my fault. I've been an indulgent and over protective father and I've probably given her too much. Do you have children?" I shook my head.

"Then you really don't know what it's like, how difficult it is to know the right thing to do. You want to give them the best, protect them from an unforgiving and frequently ugly world, provide them with the opportunity to live a childhood that you never had the chance at. I have tried to do that. Perhaps I have done too much. Maybe I've left them unprepared for life at all. I worry about her and especially her brother, Aaron. By now, I suppose they have come to expect me to be able to take care of any problem. It's just that I don't know if I can fix it this time."

He wasn't really talking to me. He had been staring over my shoulder as he spoke, not seeing anything except his own thoughts. No matter how often I watched someone catching a glimpse of their own mortality it never got any easier. I always wished I were somewhere else. His last thought seemed to bring him back and he glanced at me to see what I made of it all.

"I've never met a perfect parent, Mr. Silverman, not even my own. I think the most important part of it comes with caring about the job you're doing. Giving it time and thought. It sounds to me like you've done that. In my line I get to see a lot of what happens to people when no one cared. You may not be able to fix it this time, but I probably can."

He didn't exactly smile but I could see some of the tension go out of him, "I hope so, Chambers, I hope to God you can."

3

Silverman's empty drink was sitting in front of him and he kept glancing at it, as if he were debating having another but didn't want to embarrass himself by ordering one. I had only had time to take a few sips of my coffee. He seemed to make up his mind, unlocked a desk drawer, took out a padded manila envelope and handed it to me. A plain white label was pasted on the front addressed to Laurel Silverman at this address. It was postmarked Los Angeles and dated three weeks ago. Inside were a videocassette, a note on plain white copy paper and a standard number ten envelope. The envelope had the same postmark and was dated two days ago. Inside it was a second note. Both of the notes had been printed using some type of laser printer. That meant virtually no chance of a match.

The first note was short and to the point. Watch this and wait for further instructions. We want $100,000 in cash, non-sequential bills in small denominations, nothing larger than hundreds but mix it up. Put them in a box 2" high, 9" wide and 12" long. Wrap the box in plain brown paper and tape it securely. No cops, no tricks, no negotiation. Have it ready in 72 hours. Stay by the phone and follow these instructions exactly unless you want to see a copy of this tape sent to every studio, tabloid and gossip show in the country.

That was it. No telltale signature, no smudged fingerprints, no bloodstains, no marks of any kind. The most remarkable thing was the packaging request. What they wanted seemed about the right size to fit in a briefcase. The only other thing of note was the use of the plural 'we'. It could mean there were more than one of them. Or it could mean nothing.

"How many people know your daughter has acting aspirations?"

The question startled him. "Not that many. Outside of friends and family, just a few people in the Industry, but how on earth would you know she wants to be an actress?"

"You mentioned her career being jeopardized and the only people those sleaze merchants care about are celebrities. Unless your daughter is marrying into the Royal Family she must be an actress. Add yourself to the equation and it's an easy jump. The reference to the studios could have been included more to pressure you than your daughter. I assume whatever is on this tape is not something you would like to see floating around the studios or making the rounds on the Bel Air circuit?"

"I haven't seen the tape and I have no intention of seeing it. From what my daughter has told me, release of it would be embarrassing in the extreme. For all of us. Laurel's description of its content was far more detailed than I would have wished. It hadn't occurred to me that the blackmailer must know of her acting ambitions. I assumed they were just using the tape to get to me. I have lived around celebrity so long that I guess it seemed natural to fear exposure of this kind."

I read the second note. They wanted more all right.

This time we want a million. Divide it equally into four boxes, same dimensions as before. Same drill, exactly. Remember, every gossip rag and studio. This will be it for a while so don't screw up. Pay the money and you're off the hook.

They weren't dumb. It was a big payoff but not too big. Not something he probably couldn't handle and then an offer to leave him alone. At least for a while. They were greedy but not too greedy.

I thought I already knew the answer but I asked anyway.

"Why pay them at all, Mr. Silverman? It seems to me the public has become fairly tolerant of other people's, ah, singularities. Not that long ago we elected and then re-elected the first President in history whose mistress held a press conference before the primaries. And there was a number one selling book with pictures of a well-known woman acting out her sexual fantasies with everything but an aardvark. It was a coffee table book just like the ones by Ansel Adams. Isn't there an old show business axiom about no such thing as bad publicity?"

I had been eyeing a small layered pastry with snow-white icing. Now seemed as good a time as any. Umm. It had a faint raspberry taste and a hint of something else, maybe almonds. It was as good as the coffee. I decided I would work for food.

"What you say is true enough, to a point, but this is my daughter we're talking about. I won't allow her or, for that matter, her mother and I, to be subjected to the kind of media circus the release of that tape would engender. I simply won't have it. Not at any cost. Aside from personal considerations, something like this could ruin Laurel's career before it has a chance to get off the ground. Madonna she is not. Surprisingly, I think Laurel has talent and acting is what she wants to do. No, I have to pay what they want. I really don't have a choice."

It was more or less the answer I expected.

"You haven't contacted the police I take it?"

"You read the note, Chambers, they said no police. I can't take the chance. I won't risk my daughter's future with those incompetents."

I thought about reminding him that I was sitting here because of them but I let it pass. I had another pastry instead. It was hard not to make small animal noises of pleasure.

"How did they handle it the first time? When did they call, what did they say, how did they say it? Any accent, young, old, what were you told to do? That sort of thing."

"The call came about five days after the first note. It was a man, in his thirties, maybe older. Laurel thought he might have had a slight Hispanic accent but she wasn't sure. It was the middle of the night, a little after three when her private line rang. The man told her to drive to the public phones at the Federal Building in Westwood and gave her twenty minutes to get there. He said if anyone else came with her or followed her, the deal was off and they would release the tapes. Even so, I refused to let her go alone. I lay down on the floor in the back and covered myself with a blanket. From there they sent us to another phone booth on Sepulveda north of Sunset. Do you know the shopping area there?" I nodded I did. "We were told to drive north again until we reached the on ramp to the 405, stop there, leave the package under a bush marked with an orange ribbon and take the freeway to Ventura Boulevard. When she made it that far she could turn around and go home. I assume they didn't suspect I was with her because it worked but it frightened the daylights out of both of us."

I shook my head. "What you did was foolish and it could have done a lot more than frighten you, it could have gotten you both hurt or worse. The people behind this are smart but they're amateurs and that makes them unpredictable. You should have called the police, they aren't incompetent, they're just busy. They know how to handle situations like this."

"Why do you think they are amateurs, Mr. Chambers? It seemed pretty professional to me." I was Mr. Chambers again. Clients can be fickle.

"Please, call me Michael," I said.

He nodded and I continued, "If it had been professionals one of them would have met with you personally. No playing phone tag in the dark. It would have been someplace public and after he checked you for a wire he would have explained what he wanted and what would happen to you or your daughter if you double-crossed him with the police. He would have been very low-key about it. If you agreed to the payment he would have arranged a time and place for the pick up. Or he may have given you instructions to wire the money to a blind trust in Liechtenstein or Zug or someplace offshore like the Channel Islands. I'm sure you know about such places. Be hard for the police to set him up if he did that and your chances of tracking him down through the banks would be slim. If you were imprudent enough to have him arrested when he came for the money he would have been out on bail in a matter of hours and you would have had a serious security problem on your hands.

"Instead of money, he might have asked you for a little favor, maybe for your help in signing a celebrity to an endorsement contract for one of his companies. Or maybe sell him points in your next picture at a deep discount. Or worse, in your company.

"Fortunately, drugs and gambling are much too profitable for the real pros to bother with something like this. Cocaine is the number two import in this country, right behind oil, and heroin is making a big comeback. They may buy dirty politicians and cops but blackmailing someone like you is frowned upon.

"Besides, this setup is too much risk for too little reward and something like this would have to be approved from the top. You are too high profile for any of the wise guys to touch it. The heat would be intense if something went wrong. There are some who might try this kind of score if they tripped over it but, generally, it isn't their style. They tend to think of crime in more physical terms. And the Jamaicans and the Asians mainly deal drugs." Maybe I should teach a course at UCLA. Call it "Crime Busting 101." "The Art of Detecting?" How about, "The Inner Gumshoe?"

Silverman had a slightly glazed look in his eyes when I finished.

"I see, so where does that leave us?"

"With amateurs, sir. Is your daughter's number unlisted?"

"Yes."

"Is it under her name or yours?"

He hesitated a moment, looking slightly embarrassed, "Actually, it's listed in her cat's name, Sylvester. It's listed as Sylvester Silverman."

It was very hard not to smile.

"Who has the number? Friends, casting agents?"

"Laurel told me she has given it out only to close friends. We also have a private line that changes on a regular schedule. Those whom we wish to have it are informed by my secretary. It's a common practice."

My phone number hasn't changed in seven years. Maybe if I changed it on a regular schedule it would ring more often. Then again, it might never ring.

"What about business calls, do you have a line for them here?"

"Yes, but my secretary is the only one who answers that line. She screens all of my calls so there really isn't a need to change the number."

"So a lot of people might have that number? How many would you guess?"

"Quite a large number in the Industry of course. It's not listed but it isn't a secret either. Perhaps a hundred. It could be much higher though. I have no way of knowing."

"And how many people would you say have the, ah, cat's number."

"Probably not more than a dozen, certainly not more than twice that."

"Did it bother you that the call came in on her private line and not the business number? Especially since the phone isn't listed in her name?"

"We assumed that someone must have found a way to get the number. I know from experience that people have ways. She is quite certain that none of her friends could be involved."

Trying to look innocent, I said, "It's possible to get an unlisted number but not easy unless you know what you're doing. The easiest way is to pose as a phone company employee or a cop and call the local exchange. If you know the routine and ask the right questions it can be done, but not many people do."

I had more questions but I figured Laurel would be the one to ask. For now I decided just to look at the tape.

"Okay, Mr. Silverman, I'll look into this for you. I may need to ask you some additional questions but first I have to take a look at this tape and then talk with your daughter."

His face soured and he gave me a hard stare. "Is that absolutely necessary, Chambers? Laurel knows where the tape was made. Why must you view it to know that it can hurt my daughter?" He hadn't called me Michael; I wasn't even Mr. Chambers anymore.

"I wish I didn't have to but if I'm going to catch the bad guys I need to get a sense of them. I need to find out as much as I can about everything connected with this. I may not find anything useful on the tape but I won't know until I look. For obvious reasons I imagine you would prefer the tape stays here. If I need to see it again for some reason I'll come back.

"If you have a VCR I may as well get it over with. Maybe your daughter knew I would have to see it today and that's why she left, to save us both some embarrassment. I can talk with her later but if we're going to have much of a chance before the next payment it should be today. Could you ask her to come by my office? Around three o'clock should be good."

"I expected her to be here today but, by God, I think you're right. She is quite embarrassed by this whole situation. At first she refused to let me make the payment. She said she didn't care what anyone thought. When I insisted on paying, though, she didn't put up much of a fight."

"I'm sure that's it," I said, hoping to close the subject. I was feeling some embarrassment myself and I liked her for being smart enough to be truant.

"I'll need a number where I can reach you, preferably one that only you answer or that you know is private and, ah, Sylvester's number, too. I will also need a retainer. I charge five hundred a day, plus expenses. That means I don't take on any other cases until this is over. I'm terrible at paperwork but I'll keep an honest estimate of my time and expenses and when this is over I'll give you a complete report."

He didn't know what to make of what I had just said but he understood the money part, opened a desk drawer and took out an engraved, ledger style checkbook. He wrote out a check, tore it out and handed it to me. I felt like Vanna White should be clapping in the background.

"I really don't need this much, Mr. Silverman, if I use up all of this I probably won't have been much help to you. The blackmailers will have died of natural causes." The check was for twenty-five thousand dollars.

"That's all right. Take it. Use what you need and if you need more, ask. If you catch them there will be a bonus." For a moment I wondered what it would be like to keep it. I have often pondered how little money seems to mean when people find real trouble. No one in it has ever haggled over the price of my services.

"Thanks just the same, what I don't use will be returned." He gave me a look I had seen before. Usually near the primate cages. I had opposable thumbs but . . .

"Let's discuss your fee after we see what you can come up with, shall we?"

I let it pass. It was something he would never understand.

"If you'll show me where I can watch this, I'll be on my way. I can let myself out, just ask Laurel to come by my office."

I gave him my card and he pushed some buttons in a drawer. There was a soft whirring sound and a private screening room evolved out of some bookshelves behind me. The lights dimmed and the drapes began to close. He got up, thanked me again for coming and left, a tight grimace on his face.

4

I looked at the tape, then at the screen. No more pastries. Maybe I should have asked Elena for some popcorn. I didn't want to do this; it made me feel like a Peeping Tom. Maybe I should have worn a large overcoat for the occasion. The sugar and the caffeine had me on edge and there was nothing for it, no way out.

I popped the tape into the machine and hit the play button. There was no swell of music or opening credits, just the sharply defined images you get with expensive video cameras, the kind the television news people use. The light and focus were good, too, so it was probably set up by someone who knew what they were doing. Or maybe it had self-operating features like those auto-everything models at Circuit City.

What I saw was a tastefully decorated room, probably designer created, with an unobtrusive blend of muted pastels in grays, blues and beige's. There was a large potted cactus in one corner and on the walls were abstract, color-matched serigraphs of desert scenery and pueblo dwellings. Featured prominently in the center of the room was a king-size bed, neatly made. Nothing too damaging so far. I would find out later, but I was fairly certain it was a hotel room, one with a southwestern motif and expensive. Yippie Ki Yea.

I waited awhile for something to happen and then remembered I could fast-forward the tape. I also discovered my back was getting sore because I was sitting on the edge of the seat. I leaned back, took a deep breath and waited for something more to appear on the screen. I didn't have to wait long. Two attractive young women tumbled into the room lugging suitcases and overnight bags. One had long, straight, blonde hair and a handsome, well-structured, mid-twenties face. From what I could tell the rest of her was spectacular. The other girl, woman, was brunette, a little older, pushing thirty maybe, with an expensive, fashionably short haircut and a less ample figure, like a runway model. She had high cheekbones, huge dark eyes and was altogether a striking woman. I didn't know which one was Laurel but my money was on the blonde.

The sound was surprisingly clear and I could make out most of what they were saying. While they unpacked they chattered about how great the room was, their plans for the week, horseback riding, tennis maybe, and how good the authentic Tex-Mex cuisine was supposed to be. Just two friends on vacation.

After the unpacking was done there was talk of showers, not showers exactly, more like one shower. For the both of them. Until now I hadn't been sure but, unless the circus was in town, I thought I had a fair idea of what was coming. I was also sure they had no idea they were being filmed.

They began to undress and I began to glance frequently at the doors. It was kind of silly but if there had been a lock on them I would have used it. Maybe to lock myself out. Once they were undressed they giggled a little at each other, like schoolgirls, and came together in a very affectionate embrace. They broke apart, a Cheshire grin on each of their faces and headed out of frame to the shower. I had seen better-looking women but I was having trouble remembering when. My throat was constricted and I wished again that I didn't have to do this. They were beautiful women, lovely to look at, but what was going on here was private. I felt like an intruder and, soon enough, I would have to face both of them in the, ah, flesh. I was uncomfortable too, that a part of me was responding to them. Not just physically, although that was a part of it, but to their obvious affection for one another. It made it that much harder to watch. There was also the element of the forbidden and my curiosity was aroused in spite of conscience. It was quiet for a little while and then I could hear singing, loud and off key. I couldn't quite make out the song but it sounded like Home on the Range. I had to smile.

After awhile the shower stopped and they came back into the room wearing matching robes with some kind of logo on the pockets, towels wrapped around their hair turban fashion.

It wasn't long before the robes came off and they were on the bed, locked in a passionate tangle. Long deep kisses and small murmurs of pleasure, lots of caressing and touching. After a few minutes, I put the machine on fast forward and watched a kaleidoscope of Sapphic love evolve at high speed. I found myself glancing at the doors often and hoping it would end soon. Like most men, I had imagined what it must be like between two women and, like them, I was wrong. This was nothing like watching two professionals performing for the camera. There were positions and appliances at work in ways I had and had never imagined but the overriding theme was of pleasure given and taken out of deep affection. Perhaps even love.

I tried to occupy my mind with the problem of how they were being taped without their knowledge. The camera angle was facing the foot of the bed, well above eye level. There was a slight distortion to the frame, the outer edges curving slightly, like the picture you get with a wide-angle lens but different somehow, more like looking through a tunnel. The camera had to be hidden in or behind something. Maybe there was a hole knocked out of the wall from the adjoining room. Maybe, but that presented a lot of technical problems for the blackmailers like one way mirrors and drills and saws and maids. And why hadn't the operator used the zoom. It was a possibility but it didn't feel right. More likely, the camera had been set up in the room somehow and turned on in advance. Either way, someone had known which room they would be staying in and when they would be checking in or, at the least, had seen them checking in and turned the camera on. That put the odds strongly in favor of someone on the hotel staff being involved. Anything else left too much to chance. It was a place to start.

Finally they were done and it was time for another shower and dinner plans. I should have listened to the whole tape but for now, I would assume what they said in bed wasn't likely to provide me with any clues. I could always watch it again if I had to. I listened to everything else but nothing seemed relevant; they talked of work, friends, potential parts, more vacation plans, and so on, until they left for dinner.

The interesting part came not long after they left. I heard the door open and close very softly and someone walk into the room. I could hear them faintly but not see them. They were too close to the wall on the camera side of the room. Suddenly the screen went blank. That was it. Whoever it was had turned the camera off somehow and was retrieving their handiwork.

I had a hunch and rewound the tape to the beginning. Sure enough, just after the tape began I could hear the door to the room being opened and closed the same way. I had been too keyed up the first time through and missed it but someone had turned the tape on and left the room. This whole thing had been planned with some care. Whoever did it must have had hotel access and a little technical knowledge. And some luck. They had gotten what they wanted on the first try. Otherwise they would have had to continue coming back into the room just before the girls did and turn on the camera, come back after they left, retrieve the tape and swap it for a fresh one. Not much risk, really, if they were part of the staff.

I fast forwarded the tape to the end just to make sure there was nothing more and then rewound it, put it back in its envelope and put the package back in the drawer. I felt like burning it. I took another deep breath, got up, and left.

5

As I was getting into my car a handsome young man came bounding out the back door. He was closer to thirty than twenty and there was a striking resemblance to his sister. This must be Aaron, the brother and, other, over protected offspring. He was dressed in L.A. casual, a distressed leather jacket, sleeves pushed up, white polo shirt and baggy, faded chinos. His hair was gold blonde, thick and shiny, short on the sides and long on top, brushed straight back like his fathers. A GQ candidate if ever I met one. Up close he was almost too handsome, deep indigo eyes, square jaw, wide shoulders, over six feet, tanned and toned. A real health club specimen. On his sister the face was just right but on him it was almost too perfect. What saved him were tiny age lines, from too much sun, maybe, or too much living. I had a good idea who owned the red Ferrari.

"Dude, you're the P.I., right? Groovy ride, '56 Speedster, right? You should get it painted, it'd be phat. The old man said you'd be around. Wouldn't let me sit in on the meet but it's my kid sister, you know. I want to contribute. I can't believe some scuz is dissing her like this, trying to make bank on her cause she's a lez. She's guava, man, just a sweet kid, the fucking assholes."

It was hard not to stare. I thought I understood what he was saying, sort of, but it was work. I suddenly felt old.

"It's Aaron, isn't it? Listen, right now I know less than you do but if your father tells me it's okay, I'll be happy to tell you what I know. I'd like to ask you some questions, though, you might have some information that could help."

"Yeah, sure, what's new, huh? So how was it, dick, did you get a tingle? I hear the tape's a major boinkfest. Gonna go home now and pop your package?"

I revised my opinion of his age. Fourteen, maybe fifteen tops. He was trying for street tough but he dressed and sounded like a preppie misfit who watched too much MTV. He was too old to spank and I felt like feeding him his Rolex. It had been a repugnant enough task without listening to this. Maybe because there was a little truth in it.

What I did was nothing. I dipped my chin to hide the clench in my jaw and, in what I hoped was a reasonable voice, said, "Aaron, we're on the same side. I know you're angry and frustrated and I know you want to help. The best way you can do that is to let me do my job. Here's my card, call me. I'd like to ask you some questions. Mainly, do you have any idea who could be behind this?"

"What am I, 411? If I knew you think I'd be standing here? I'd jam the motherfucker until he handed over the tapes. Then I'd crate him. The old man never trusts me to do anything, do this, don't do that, wait awhile, when you're ready. Ah shit, I don't want to talk to you. Why don't you just step off, you know, take some air. Maybe I'll call and maybe I won't but you can bet I won't be chilling. I find that fucker I'll cancel his ass."

Lovely. Nothing like a loose cannon running around to spice up a case. Maybe I was judging him too harshly. I hadn't had to grow up in Silverman's shadow and it couldn't have been easy. I wanted to say something to make him feel better but I couldn't think of anything that didn't sound trite. I started the car and drove away under his glare, the coffee and pastries playing field hockey in my stomach.

6

On my way back to the office I retraced the route the Silvermans took the night of the money drop. I wasn't expecting to learn much but I wouldn't know until I looked.

I parked in the vast lot at the Westwood Federal Building and hiked cross-country to the bank of phones Laurel had used and wrote down the number on each. There was a slim chance I might be able to get a trace of the blackmailer's call. While I was doing this a bum came up behind me or, more appropriately in these politically correct times, a homeless person. I doubt the distinction does much to improve the quality of his lot but it makes the rest of us feel better.

The temperature was pushing eighty and he was wearing two or three plaid flannel shirts so dirty they all looked the same color. Underneath those he wore a T-shirt that had been white at one time and over all this he had on a khaki, wool great coat that hit him at the knees. A pair of long johns peeked out the bottom of a pair of pants that were five sizes too big and held up by a piece of rope. He wore knit gloves from which the fingers had either been worn or cut and a pair of high top black tennis shoes so old and so big Wilt might have worn them his rookie season. Just a fellow Angelean out spending his leisure time enjoying the sun.

He stood close to me and it wasn't hard to tell he was sweating under all the clothes. His eyes were wild and intense. "Are ya one a them, huh? Are ya? Ya look like one a them. It's a quart'r ya want tause my phone. Paid n'dvance. Ya gonna use my phone, huh? Ya do it's a quart'r. Paid n'dvance."

"I'm not going to use the phone. I'm just writing down the numbers. I'm a private investigator working on a case."

What I said seemed to agitate him. I have that effect on a lot of people.

"I thought ya's one a them. Ya basturds. Foll'in me around. Whyn't cha get th'hell outa here, leave me alone, huh? Ya basturds."

There was nothing to say. I gave him a dollar, a quarter for each number, and left. They are everywhere these days. More often than not, the fear and abuse of the streets gets to them and, if they don't die, they eventually crack and wind up telling you something like it's a quarter to use their phone. I hoped he got to spend the dollar before someone called the cops. It was sad, sad as hell.

The next stop was a gas station phone booth. Here, too, there were plenty of places someone could watch from and make sure the Silvermans weren't followed. The money drop was a mile north on Sepulveda, a waist high bush, not more than ten feet from a streetlight; the dusty orange ribbon still tied to one of its branches. There were no houses or apartments in view and I knew from experience that this road was deserted at three thirty in the morning. It would take me less than twenty seconds to get out of the car, make the drop, get back in the car and start up the freeway ramp.

I got out and walked over to the bush. If I were them I would have been parked on the side of the freeway above. From there they could see the drop and any cars north or south for a mile. If there were trouble they would have a deserted freeway and any one of a half dozen exits to make a fast getaway. If they took Mulholland they could be out of sight and lost in the maze of those hills in under three minutes. Not bad.

Traffic was the usual gridlock snarl and it was nearly two o'clock by the time I unlocked my office door for the second time today. I was thinking it might be time to order some motorcycle brochures.

This morning was the first time I had been in for a few days and then only a few minutes before Silverman called. The place had that musty feel of disuse. I cranked open a window and let the bay breezes in.

I rent space from a woman attorney who owns the building and specializes in environmental law. She is invariably in the middle of a case against some conglomerate over their reckless and abusive environmental practices and, in spite of being the perpetual underdog, has managed to pile up an impressive record. She is their worst nightmare, a tough, intelligent, incorruptible tree hugger with inexhaustible energy and a law degree. I help her out occasionally, sometimes for free if I like the cause. It helps pay the rent and I can do something good at the same time.

The building had been her grandfather's, a large two-story home and the last of its kind on Ocean Boulevard. Developers kept offering Anne huge sums of money and she kept turning them down. She told me that when she got tired or discouraged all she had to do was look out her window at the ocean and it inspired her to keep going. I knew exactly what she meant.

My office is on the second floor in the converted master bedroom. The original owner had put in a floor to ceiling half moon window and through the giant palms across the street I had a view of the entire bay. Today was spectacular. I could see from Malibu on the north all the way down to Palos Verdes on the south. I think Hemingway would have called the color of the sea today, azure.

Retracing the Silverman's route had been a waste of time unless you counted my giving the bum a dollar. It would increase wine sales and help stimulate the economy. My desk was clear, the cactus watered, my gun oiled and I still had an hour to kill before Laurel arrived. Across the room, the Chief looked as inscrutable as ever. I owned one work of art, a limited edition black and white serigraph titled Film Indian. Mine was numbered ten of one hundred fifty. In it, a lone Indian was sitting, outfitted in full regalia, including headdress. He was visible only from the chest up and his back and shoulders were slightly hunched as he stared at me through sunglasses so dark they looked opaque. You couldn't see his eyes but you knew he could see yours. His expression said he had been sitting that way, watching, since man first walked erect and there was nothing he had not seen. I had been trying to fathom his thoughts for years but was no more successful today than any other. I was pretty sure, though, he was getting a chuckle out of the whole thing.

I called the phone company and asked for a woman I knew.

"Katherine Fields speaking."

"Kate, it's Michael."

"Michael who?"

"I know it's been awhile."

"Maybe if you described yourself."

"Tall, dark, chiseled features, steely blue eyes."

"No, sorry."

"I'll buy dinner, your choice."

"Oh yes, it's coming back to me, but you forgot to mention thoughtless. I'll have to take a rain check on the dinner. I have a date tonight." She sort of punched out the word date. I remembered it was Valentine's Day and I was glad she had a date. I hadn't meant tonight.

"I have a question, it won't take long," I said, hoping for diversion.

"Nothing you do takes very long." You could hear the smile in her voice.

I have found it best to ignore such remarks.

"I was wondering if it's possible to set up a trace on a number if they have one of those illegal ID blocker gizmos hooked up." It was a remote chance the blackmailers would call from their own phone but, if we had to make another payment, it was worth a try.

"That's one I don't know, sweet cheeks. I'll have to ask someone and call you back. Are you still at the same number or has your landlady finally figured out she could be collecting triple what you pay her for that space?"

Going zero for three in under a minute is my limit. I told her I was at the same number I had been for the last, count them, seven years. She laughed, knowing she had scored, and promised to call by the end of the day. I planned to let my machine pick it up. Kate and I had dated briefly but both of us had known it wasn't going anywhere. She had continued dating other people but for some reason I could never fathom, felt she had to act the jilted lover. I liked her and would have seen her more often if not for that.

I dialed the number Silverman had given me. A woman answered with a simple hello. I asked for him and was told, in perfect finishing school diction, that he was in a meeting and could not be disturbed. I gave her my name and she nearly dropped the phone in her haste to assure me that Mr. Silverman would be with me immediately. I felt like Mel Gibson. He picked up and I told him I just wanted to make sure Laurel was coming and arrange to have a recorder placed on her phone. He said she would be here at three and that he had already had some people from the studio rig one up. I told him that it was probably a waste of time but it wouldn't hurt to have a caller ID unit hooked up, too. He said he would and I told him to try and not worry too much and got off the line.

I spent the rest of the hour setting up a file for the case and staring out the window thinking about who the blackmailers might be. Setting up the file was easy; I pasted a label on a folder and wrote Silverman on it. The thinking part was harder.

I got two calls, a recorded message asking me to hold for important information about my financial future, I declined, and one from a Mrs. Hougan, who, it seemed, was certain her husband was having an affair with his new secretary, a "bleached blonde bimbo" named Candy. She had found blonde hairs in his underwear when she was doing the wash. I told her that I didn't do domestic surveillance. It was only a small lie. I rarely do, and then only as a favor for friends and close acquaintances like Barry. It is the ugliest work of all and the meanest. Maintaining dignity in the face of certain evidence that your partner is unfaithful isn't an easy thing to do. Most don't quite manage it, and some, like Mrs. Hougan, don't even try.

7

There was a bashful tapping on the door promptly at three and I told her to come in. She peeked around the door first and then opened it just enough for her to walk through. She had a look on her face that might have been embarrassment or maybe she was just shy. I motioned her to a chair and she sat down, holding on to its sides as if it were a raft in a gale. If I had been expecting a haughty child of privilege there wasn't any evidence of it in her manner.

She wasn't a classic beauty but her face had a frangible quality that was captivating. It stopped you, as some faces do, and it was something that would work well for her on film, at once guileless and natural but at the same time, promising hidden depths. Her eyes were large and round, a deep shade of blue that reminded me of tropical waters under brilliant sun. I had to force myself to stop staring into them.

She had on a simple, white cotton, peasant dress embroidered at the neck and arms in a color that matched her eyes. Her shoes were tan espadrilles, not new, not old. If she was wearing make up I couldn't see it and she didn't need any. On tape she had been attractive, up close she was remarkable.

I tried a smile and she gave me a tentative imitation of one. I could always charm them.

"Is your cat named after Sylvester Stallone or the Tweedy Bird cat?"

She gave me a small, shy smile this time. It wasn't much but it was genuine at least. "The cartoon." Her voice was so soft I could barely hear her. For some reason, I was glad she hadn't said the actor.

"Scary, isn't it, to have someone invade your privacy?" She gave me a small nod.

"I'm sorry I had to see the tape, it took some courage for you to come here today. We'll find these people and make them stop but in order to do that I'm going to have to ask you some questions you may not like. If we're going to put an end to this there's no other way."

She gave me a slightly bigger nod. I was putting her right at ease. I took a deep breath and let it out. I must have considered another line of work at some point in my past.

"Does your friend know about any of this, the tape and the payment that was made?" Nod.

"Has she seen the tape?"

She started to nod again, saw the frustrated look on my face and thought better of it. "You mean Beth, yes, this involves her, too. She has a right to know about it. I showed her the tape."

Her voice was stronger this time but still soft, like silk drawn over polished ebony. There was a resolve in it, though, that dared me to contradict her. It was a voice worth waiting for.

"Yes," I said, "she does. I will need to talk with Beth, too, tonight or in the morning if possible."

"Beth said she doesn't care what they do with the tape. She isn't ashamed of us and she thinks I should talk my father into not paying. She says they will just keep asking for more and bleed him dry."

"What do you want, Laurel? So far I know what your father wants and now I know what Beth wants. What about you, will you be all right if they distribute the tapes?"

She studied her shoes for a long time, fighting to hold back the tears. When she looked up her eyes were very bright.

"Why would someone want to do this kind of thing to my family? It is killing my parents. They've been great about accepting Beth but I'm not sure my mother could take a public scandal. She grew up in the south and appearances mean a great deal to her. She would be humiliated with her friends at the club and at the charity functions she thrives on. It would be very difficult for her.

"My father says he doesn't want my career damaged but I think he's afraid of the scandal, too. It would embarrass him in the Industry. He's a powerful man and he would handle it but the jokes would get to him. It would take a long time for him to get past it, I think. He might not ever. Do you really think the tabloids or those TV shows would use the tapes? It's not like I'm famous and, even if I were, there are a lot of famous people who aren't bothered because of their sexual preferences."

In a town full of them this was much more than just another pretty face.

"They might not, but my guess is that someone would. Your father is prominent in his own right and you and Beth are beautiful young women. It has enough sex appeal for them to try and sell the story big. Even on the off chance that everyone who received a tape kept quiet, word would probably leak somehow. It's the nature of the ignoble beast and the damage would be done. If you do get famous there's not much doubt the tapes would come back to haunt you."

She nodded again but this time it was to herself, as if I had confirmed something she already knew.

"There aren't many choices here," I said. "It's pretty much pay or play as you show biz types like to say. Unless, of course, I apprehend the malefactors before the next phone call."

She smiled again, a little bigger this time.

"Could you really do that, do you think? I mean my father is getting the money together and the call could come any day now."

"I don't want to mislead you, Laurel. I'll find these people but it may take longer than we have before the next payment. I think that brings us back to what you want. I still don't know."

She sat forward and fixed me with a look you could get lost in. "I love Beth and she loves me, we weren't just experimenting with our sexuality. We're going to be together. That's what I want, that's what Beth wants and I don't care who knows it. Maybe people think we're just a couple of dykes, maybe you do to. I don't care."

The certainty of young love.

"Give me a dollar."

She started to ask why but reached into her purse instead and found a dollar.

"Okay. Now I know what you want and from this point on I represent you and only you. We do what you want."

I got that look again, the primate cage one.

"But my father said he gave you a check for twenty-five thousand dollars, you have to do what he wants."

"I'm sure you're used to seeing people do what your father wants and I'll try to do that. Not because he's David Silverman but because you don't want him hurt. In the end, though, it will be your decision, not his."

I reached into my wallet and took out the check Silverman had given me and handed it to her.

"It was way too much money, anyway. You hold on to it and when this is over give it back to him. Maybe he'll want to give some of it back to me, maybe he won't. Either way, I was never going to cash it."

Her eyes softened as she stared at me and began to well up again. Except for the faint whoosh of traffic on Ocean Park it was very quiet. All she said was, "Thank you, Mr. Chambers." I asked her to call me Michael and she did. It was enough.

8

Our affable "Eye in the Sky" reporter was interrupting the music to update motorists about a traffic tie up on the 405. I was nowhere near the 405 and I might have felt grateful except for the fact that I was already at a dead stop in the rush hour traffic on Santa Monica Boulevard. I was on my way to Beth's and had moved maybe four blocks in the last twenty minutes. If there had been a motorcycle dealership nearby I would have abandoned my car where it sat and gone the rest of the way on my new bike.

On the plus side, it gave me a chance to go over what Laurel had told me, which wasn't much. She had no idea who could be behind the blackmail and was certain that none of her friends could be involved. I decided to leave that end alone for the moment and concentrate on the taping. On the pretext of having received some prank calls she was going to contact the people who had her private number and see if any of them had given it out by mistake. She didn't care for the idea much and neither did I but she agreed to do it. It couldn't hurt but it was unlikely that it was going to help either. I was just being thorough. I also asked her to make a list of people who knew she was going on vacation and where. That information figured to be more useful.

I had been right about the hotel. It was The Pueblo in Palm Springs, a glossy take off on Santa Fe kitsch. I was familiar with it. It had enough amenities to attract the occasional celebrity but its clientele were mostly well to do tourists from colder climes. Laurel and Beth had saved awhile for the week they spent there. I was going to make the two and a half-hour drive after I talked with Beth. Silverman's office made the reservation for me and I was impressed. In spite of it being spring break for some of the colleges they got me a room. They even managed to get me the same room the women had stayed in. I could get used to being Mel Gibson.

At Wilshire I turned south into the City of Beverly Hills. They have their own police force and it is the most efficient in the city. Maybe in the country. They are always on the alert for unsightly vagrants. I was dressed well enough but my paint job was a dead give away. I made sure to stop completely at all the lights. Ugliness is a felony in this town.

I turned right just past the Beverly Wilshire Hotel and drove down one of the quiet, tree-lined side streets that run between Wilshire and Olympic. The hotel was a stately old girl and I liked her better than all the sleek new upstarts. Even she wasn't immune to progress, though. I had stayed there not long ago with an out of town acquaintance and been given a room in the new wing. The decorator must have worked on the set of A Clockwork Orange. About all that was missing were the female nude coffee tables. It was a jolt to see one of the city's best efforts decked out like a Sunset Boulevard hooker. They had let us change rooms for an extra fifty dollars and it had been worth it. I still have the complimentary robe. I'm pretty sure it was complimentary.

Beth lived alone in a two-story apartment. There were only two units in the building and from the look of the landscaping and fresh paint it was probably a condo conversion. Dwarf palms were planted in strategic places along the front, surrounded by miscellaneous ferns, flowering palms and birds of paradise. Multicolored spots were aimed skyward into the palms and it was just dark enough for me to get the effect the landscaper had been after. It was all pleasing to the eye and the payments were no doubt steep. She was expecting me and answered almost before I took my finger off the bell.

"Come in, Mr. Chambers, have a seat while I change. I just got home from work. There is beer and soda in the refrigerator and some liquor in the cabinet under the picture in the living room."

The picture was a Paul Jenkins gouache and must have cost upwards of ten thousand dollars. That probably meant single malt scotch in the cabinet. Too bad I had a long drive ahead.

Sitting on the cabinet, protected by a glass display box, was one of the most unusual works of art I had ever seen. It was a glass sculpture, tubing mostly, in a variety of sizes from pinkie width to some no larger than a needle. Each tube had been bent and twisted and fluted so that, taken together, they formed a sort of abstract tree. Branches and trunks intertwined and wound around one another and then shot off on their own to end in a profusion of delicate shapes and forms. What made it so unusual was the pale, pastel liquid trapped inside each tube. Each held a different color, sometimes just a shade different from the one next to it but still different. No two colors were the same but they had been blended and juxtaposed so harmoniously that it was like looking at a single, ineffable hue. It was a dazzling array, intricately beautiful and utterly remarkable. I took a long look before moving on.

The kitchen was well-appointed, copper pots and pans hanging above the stove serving as the centerpiece. It could have been yuppie pretension but they were too beat up for that. I bet myself a dollar she cooked often and well.

There were several saran wrapped dishes in the refrigerator and looking at them I realized I hadn't eaten since the pastries. I found a Moretti among the imports and uncapped it. Be still my heart. Italian. Hard to find but worth looking for. I meant the beer but could just as well have meant the girl. I went back into the living room and had a seat on the couch while I looked around. It was tasteful and stylish but, like the kitchen, was too lived in to ever grace the cover of Architectural Digest. The room was a collage of earth tones that gave it an almost masculine feel.

She came into the room hopping on one foot as she finished slipping on a shoe. She had changed into a man's white dress shirt, tails tied at the waist, snug blue jeans and huaraches with no socks. Like Laurel she was even better looking in person. The same high cheekbones I remembered, beautiful dark eyes, full lips and a boyish, carefree haircut. Her hairdresser probably called it sassy. In an evening gown she would stop traffic.

I started to say something but she beat me to it.

"There, much better. Have you eaten yet? I have some chicken marinating in a sauterne with lemon and capers. I was going to fix it with some turmeric pilaf and home made pita bread. It will only take a few minutes to fix. Why don't you come into the kitchen and we can talk while I cook." I owed myself a dollar.

After fighting the rush hour traffic I couldn't think of anything finer. Laurel had called Beth from my office to make the appointment for me and I suspected she must have talked to Beth again after she left. Beth was going out of her way to be hospitable and I realized it wasn't going to be easy staying objective on this case. I liked them too much.

I sat in the breakfast nook and accepted another beer after she refused my offer of help. Her movements were so fluid and graceful it was like watching choreography. I was being careful, though, about keeping my eyes focused on her face. Not an easy thing to do. She knew I had seen the tape and I was still uncomfortable about it even though she seemed at ease with the situation.

During a break in the cooking she poured herself a glass of wine and leaned back against the counter.

"So, Mr. Chambers, I have never met a real private detective before. It is such an unusual occupation. How did you come to be one?"

"Please, call me Michael." She smiled and said she would.

"It's a dull story and there are actually quite a few of us around."

She didn't say anything but kept looking at me. It was one of those silences where whoever spoke first, lost. Silly game. Juvenile. Proved nothing.

"Okay, just before I was scheduled to ship out for my tour in Vietnam, I was recruited to work for one of those government agencies. I'm sure you know the kind. I didn't exactly have the pedigree they look for but it was wartime and it turned out I had an aptitude for some of the more practical aspects of the job. I was given a lot of training to refine those skills and plenty of opportunity to use them. I survived my two years and turned them down flat when they offered me two more. They transferred me home and then weren't quite sure what to do with me. Like most everyone back then, I was sick of the war and more than a little disillusioned. When I mustered out I decided that if I was going to risk my neck again it was going to be for something or someone I at least understood." I took another swallow of my beer. Mmm.

"And being a private investigator allows you to do that?"

"It allows me to do what I'm good at but, more importantly, to do it for those whom I choose. Maybe most importantly, to do it how I choose. That is another way of saying I would have made a lousy cop." I did a Groucho imitation with my eyebrows. "This isn't something I'm comfortable talking about. You have disarmed me with alcohol and promise of sustenance."

She laughed and then became very still again. Her huge, dark eyes stared down at me over the rim of her glass.

"How can you do something on your terms when someone else is paying you? Aren't you obligated to do what they ask you to?"

Laurel must have told her about the check.

"It isn't that simple. I can only work one way and occasionally that may conflict with the wishes of my client."

"And what do you do when that happens?"

"Look, this gets complicated and it isn't something you can easily put into words. On the simplest level, I try and do what is right. Unfortunately, I'm not always sure what that is. The only measure I have is how it feels afterward. Someone much smarter than I once remarked on that. Mostly, though, it works out."

"I'm not sure I understand but Laurel told me you gave her back David's check. I guess that has something to do with what you just said and maybe a lot to do with who you are. I don't think I have ever met anyone like you."

I shrugged but didn't say anything.

"So why is it, Michael, that you have chosen to help Laurel?"

"You, of all people, should know the answer to that."

She smiled again, slowly, and nodded almost imperceptibly, more to herself than to me.

"Yes," she said, "yes, I do."

With that she turned back to her stove and began serving motions. She spoke over her shoulder as she worked.

"Now it's your turn. What would you like to know that might help with this? Wait. Before you say anything, you should know that I'm against paying the blackmailers. It isn't my money and it isn't my career but I know that David and Helen would rather pay than suffer a scandal. I think that is their primary concern and I think they are wrong. I'm not convinced, either, that Laurel's career would be damaged.

"I'm not a crusader but it seems obvious to me that the longer we hide the longer we will have to. Can you understand that? There was a time when, just because you are straight, I would not have been able to talk with you about any of this. I wasn't secure enough not to worry about what you might be thinking, what dirty little pictures you were conjuring up in your mind. I won't live that way anymore. Laurel knows that about me and it doesn't matter to her. She agrees with me but she doesn't want to see her parents hurt."

She paused for a breath but before I could say anything she turned back to me and continued, "And, in case you are wondering, I know you're straight because you haven't even glanced at what most men consider some pretty interesting geography. If you were gay you wouldn't be so self-conscious about having seen the tape. It wouldn't have turned you on."

I did a Yosemite Sam imitation and sputtered out half my swallow of beer. I felt like a fifth grader caught passing a love note and I could feel myself turning red.

She thought it was hilarious and kept breaking up while she was serving me. I kept my head down and concentrated on the smells. The chicken was superb. Eventually she stopped and when I could look at her I said, "Jesus Christ." This set her off again and she clamped her hand over her mouth. Her eyes were very bright above her hand and it was all she could do not to go off again. When she could speak she croaked, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to embarrass you. It's just . . . the look on your face," giggle, "and your beer . . ." giggle, giggle.

"Making fun of me will do nothing to further your cause."

She tried very hard but it didn't work and she went off again. When she was through I gave her an exaggerated leer and moved my eyes slowly up her body. I gazed at her like a matador might size up his bull and said, "What a waste." It stopped her cold. Her face froze and her body tensed. I couldn't keep the gotcha smile off my face and I snorted. Her laughter came slowly and when it did it was playing catch up to mine. I decided to save the questions for later and we finished our dinner between fits of giggles. Hers, not mine. Tough P.I.'s don't giggle.

9

I was sitting on the couch again sipping a little Drambuie on the rocks and feeling pretty swell. Too bad I wasn't getting any closer to finding out who was blackmailing the Silvermans.

Beth had been an obvious, if cynical, possibility. After meeting her she didn't seem like any kind of possibility at all. Someone knew a lot about these women and it would have been an easy solution. Too bad I was sure she meant it when she said Silverman shouldn't pay. I could have cracked the case in a day and my future would have been assured. I could change my card to read 'Michael Chambers, Celebrity Detective', underneath that I could put, 'No Star Too Small, Solutions While You Wait'. Too bad she was actually in love.

She was from Laguna Beach and her father was a successful, meaning, well to do, architect. She made six figures a year herself selling baubles to the wealthy on Rodeo Drive and had once been a model. She had done well, had loved the money and saved it because she had hated the life. As a blackmail suspect she ranked just ahead of me. She did, however, know some things I didn't. Like who had done the glass sculpture for example.

"Actually, it's mine. It's sort of a work in progress. Perpetual progress. I've been fiddling with it for years."

"It's remarkable, I've never seen anything like it. You have real talent."

"I don't know about that but thank you. I studied art in school but you know how that goes. Almost no one ever makes a living at it. I guess I wasn't willing to starve for as long as it takes to be recognized and I couldn't very well marry a rich husband, could I?" She smiled and continued, "This is a way of keeping my hand in. It's supposed to be a representation of all the facets of life; race, culture, sexual orientation," she smiled again, "all of life's vicissitudes and vagaries, everything, intertwined and coexisting together in harmony. How's that for artistic pretension?"

"It's a beautiful notion."

"But unrealistic."

"Doesn't make it any less beautiful."

"No, I guess it doesn't. I suppose that's the point of it. Whenever I get upset with how things are I add another branch. It gives me hope for the future."

"How do you get the colors? You didn't find them in a food coloring kit."

"No, most of them are the same dyes the Navaho blanket makers use. Everything from nature."

"I'm not qualified to judge but it seems to me you are underestimating yourself. I can't believe something like that wouldn't sell."

"You're as qualified to judge as anyone. That's the thing about art. The good work has universal appeal and, sooner or later, gains recognition. I may try it someday but it's enough for now to do it for myself. Anyway, thanks for noticing it."

I had a case to solve and, reluctant as I was to ruin the mood, I made an abrupt segue.

"How did you and Laurel first meet?"

"Mmm, yes, on to more pressing matters. It was at a party her brother threw. He's very active socially, if you know what I mean, and a friend of mine knew a friend of his and like that."

"How did you know that she was . . . that she liked women?"

She grinned at me again, "You mean how did I know I might score?"

"You aren't the kind of woman who scores. How did you know that she was . . . that the two of you were, ah, sexually compatible."

"It's hard to describe how I knew. By the way, I'm a lesbian and it's all right to call me one. It's like I knew you were straight. Maybe when you're gay you have an extra set of antenna or something. Anyway, I knew and so did she. We spent the evening talking together and it just clicked. We've been together ever since. That was two years ago."

"I guess what I'm trying to get at is who else knows she's a lesbian. Is it common knowledge or does someone have to have your antenna?"

"Actually, she's bisexual, I'm not, and she thinks you're kind of cute." I could feel myself getting red again. She gave me a mischievous grin and went on, "To answer your question, I think only a few people knew. I'm not sure Laurel even knew for sure herself. A few schoolgirl experiments but no one like me. Her family knows about us, of course, and our close friends. We both have a large number of acquaintances, though, that don't have a clue. They think we're just good friends. We have told our friends that, if it comes up, not to hide it but for her parent's sake it's best left unadvertised. My parents have known since I was quite young."

"Someone sure knows. This thing took some planning. If you had to guess, who would it be?"

"The truth is, I can't imagine. Certainly none of our friends could be behind it or our families. I think it must be someone who neither of us knows and who somehow found out about us. How they knew about our vacation plans and managed to be there I couldn't say."

"Well, that narrows it down. Probably no one outside of the greater L.A. basin is a suspect."

"Could it have been random, someone at the hotel that does this kind of thing and got lucky with us?"

"Possible but I don't like it. This thing feels too well planned and, besides, security would be too good in a place like that. Even if it weren't, sooner or later they would have picked on the wrong people. No, I don't think it's a realistic possibility. When you were in Palm Springs did you notice anything out of the ordinary? Did anyone seem to be watching you or taking a special interest in you?"

"I don't want to sound immodest but when we're together Laurel and I do attract a fair amount of attention. I'm not sure we would have noticed."

"How about your reservations, did you make them yourself or use a travel agent?"

"I called myself. I had been there before on a shoot. It was a fun place."

"Did you reserve a specific room or did they assign you one when you arrived?"

"I asked for the same room I had before. It was on the top floor and had a great view of the mountains. It was a corner room and had windows all around. I couldn't remember the room number but the reservation clerk helped me figure out which one it was."

"So anyone on the hotel staff could have punched your name up on the computer before you arrived and found out your room assignment. How far in advance did you make the reservations?"

"About three or four weeks, I think. It's the season down there but there are so many hotels and time shares that most of them are never completely booked."

"Did you tell anyone about your plans before that? Did anyone at work know where you were going?"

"I might have mentioned it at work but I think I just said I was going to Palm Springs for a week. If I told someone which hotel I don't remember doing it."

"Think, Beth, this could be important. Did anyone know what hotel you would be staying at?"

She didn't answer right away but sat there sipping her brandy and thinking. After awhile she said, "I can't think of anyone who knew that could possibly be a suspect, truly. We weren't trying to hide the trip it but it was supposed to be sort of a lost weekend. Except longer. Only our close friends and family knew where we would be staying. I suppose they could have told others but that's about the best I can do. We have thought about this you know, who it could be, and we can't come up with anyone." It was much the same answer that Laurel had given me.

"Had Laurel ever been to the hotel before? Did either of you know anyone on staff?"

"No to both. She had never been and we knew no one. Not the staff or the other guests."

I asked a few more questions but I had probably learned as much as I was going to and it was only a little more than I already knew. I had a long drive ahead of me and I said I should be going. I thanked her for the dinner and the hospitality and told her I would let her know how it went. She walked me to the door and as we were saying good night, I said, "Just one last question. This lesbian thing of yours, does it mean there's no chance for us?"

She threw her head back and laughed out loud, a healthy, unselfconscious, girl laugh and told me to drive safely. She was doubling over as she shut the door. Inside, I could still hear her laughing. I walked to my car with a silly grin on my face. Well, she hadn't said no.

It was after seven when I left Beth's and the rush hour traffic had thinned. I took Olympic down to La Cieniga and that south to the 10. I pointed my nose east and I was away. All the traffic was traveling west and I made it through downtown and into the night without a hitch. It was easy driving and my thoughts wandered back to dinner.

It was strange, being attracted to a woman with whom I knew I had no chance. It wasn't a matter of chemistry or money or looks or charm. It wasn't a matter of anything I had ever known before. It was an odd feeling, at once familiar but, at the same time, as unfathomable as the night sky. Overhead, the stars winked at me, as if they were in on it. Some cosmic practical joke that everyone but me knew the punch line to. After awhile I stopped thinking altogether and put in a tape. It was one Anne, my friend/landlord, had given me for my birthday, a fresh young singer named Sarah McLachlan. Her music was personal and poignant and I let it carry me into the night and the dark desert landscape. Together they held me in a gentle thrall where time and trouble no longer mattered. There was only the road and all I had to do was follow it.

10

I arrived at the hotel shortly after ten and pulled into the parking lot instead of stopping out front. I only had an overnight bag and I figured I could manage it alone. I was stiff from sitting so long and I walked around for a minute to loosen up. While I did I took in the architecture. Pale, adobe like buildings were interconnected by short-mirrored glass walkways. The glass was coated in reflective copper to keep the sun out. At night, you could see the guests inside the tunnels making their way from one building to another. The building looked as much like an authentic pueblo as the people did real Pueblo Indians.

Inside was more desert motif and Southwest art lined the walls. Giant clay pots guarded the lobby arches and there were smaller pots here and there and all were painted with the geometric bands indigenous to the style. Some of them supported desert palms and others a variety of spineless cactus, queen and dwarf palms. The decor was much the same as that I had seen on the tape. Everything blended harmoniously and wasn't the least bit disagreeable. It was decorator perfect and it all had about as much character as tract housing.

The young woman behind the check in desk had a tag pinned to her abundant chest that told me her name was Traci and she was as cute as a bug's ear. Her suit jacket and skirt were snugly tailored and she wore no jewelry on either neatly manicured hand. I couldn't see her legs but I bet they were good. She perked right up when she saw that my reservation had been made by Silverman's company and gave me a big smile. It lasted until I showed her my private license. Her eyes got very big. I lowered my voice to almost a stage whisper.

"I'm investigating a matter for Mr. Silverman and I was wondering if I could talk to you. Maybe we could have a few minutes when you get off shift?"

She backed up a little and stared at me. Maybe she was disappointed that I wasn't a casting director. Or maybe she thought I was trying to hit on her.

"What's this about? Maybe you should talk to the manager."

I thought about telling her my best friend was Lynn Stalmaster but I didn't like to lie. Instead I said, "I intend to talk with him or her but it would help if I could talk with you first. Managers can be recalcitrant. I promise not to ask you any compromising questions and if you aren't comfortable talking about something just tell me. I almost never use my black jack on someone I have just met. And, I will buy the drinks. I will even tell you about the time I single handedly held off a band of Israeli tourists and saved Planet Hollywood from going kosher."

She gave me a curious look, "You are strange. Does this work very often?"

"I don't know, no one has ever let me tell the story."

She almost smiled.

"Hard to believe, isn't it?"

She did smile this time.

"Weird. Definitely weird. But I guess it would be all right if I talked with you for a few minutes. I like this job, though. You understand?"

"Just a few questions."

"I get off at eleven but we aren't supposed to fraternize with the guests. I'll meet you at Toni's about midnight; I want to go home and change first. It's in town. Just ask anyone how to get there. And I wouldn't use that line again if I were you. A lot of people around here are Jewish and they might take it wrong."

"Some of my best friends are Jewish."

She lowered her eyes and smiled again as she shook her head. "I'll see you at midnight. In case you have trouble finding me, I'll be the one wearing a Star of David."

11

On the drive over I had given some thought to how I should handle the hotel staff. I knew from experience that trying to find out anything useful and still keep my presence a secret was futile. Any large hotel staff has an information network good enough to be the envy of Reuters. If I could get anyone who knew something to talk about it, it wouldn't be long before the rest of the staff knew. After that, it would only be a matter of time until the blackmailers found out about me. I reasoned that they would find out eventually anyway and I was betting they wouldn't kill the Silverman goose just because of me. Not at this point. They already had one payment in hand and a shot at a much bigger one. I figured I would have to get a lot closer to them than I was before I became worrisome.

I decided on the direct approach. I told anyone who would listen that I was here as a guest of David Silverman and that I was a close friend of his daughter. I told them I knew she and Beth had stayed here a few weeks ago and she had told me all about their stay. That's why I had come. I was even staying in the same room, imagine that, the one on the top floor with the great view. I told the bell captain and the bellhop and room service and the waiter who brought my beer. I told house keeping when I ordered extra pillows and the maid who brought them. I told the laundry service and the valet who picked up my clothes. I thought about telling the potted palms but they didn't seem any more interested than anyone else. By the time I unpacked I knew how the Hari Krishna felt working the airports.

The first thing I did after tipping the bellhop was to try and find where the video camera had been hidden. It didn't take long. With all my training and years of experience I found it on the first try. I stood at the foot of the bed and looked up. There was an air duct high on the wall above the closet doors. I brought a chair over from the desk to get a closer look. The grate was held in place by two screws and they had bright, tiny scratches on them.

"Aha!" I said to no one. I took out my key ring and loosened the screws, slipped a key under the edge of the grate and pried it loose with no trouble. I was careful not to handle it except around the edges. One never knows. Inside was a standard duct made of galvanized steel sheeting. It would be simple to set a camera up, replace the grate and run a test shot for focus and frame. I did just that with the video camera I had brought along. I knew professional cameras were bigger but there looked to be plenty of room in the duct for anything short of a film crew.

It took me a few minutes and I had to prop up the back of the camera to get the angle right but I managed to get a clear picture of myself walking back and forth and lying on the bed. When I walked too close to the wall I was out of frame. Because the lens was placed so close to the grating, the grating itself was obscured as to be almost invisible on the playback. The picture from the blackmail tape had looked slightly different and I assumed it was because a smaller and more sophisticated lens had been used but the angle looked about right. From where I lay the camera was virtually invisible. I knew it was there and I still had trouble making it out.

I now knew, with reasonable certainty, how the tape had been made. What good the information was I couldn't say. I even timed myself entering the room to see how long it would take to get a tape out and replace it with a fresh one. On my second try I did it in under two minutes.

Thirsty work. I opened one of the Dos Equis I had ordered and called my answering machine. Kate from the phone company had left word that the trace I asked about was possible. She also hoped I wasn't upset with her from before. She had just been teasing. And this would only cost me brunch. In Malibu.

The next voice I heard was Silverman's. He wanted to know if I had found anything out yet and to please call. He was also wondering if I would be back in time to help with the next payment.

I was working on the assumption that we had at least two days before the next call would come. The first note had allowed seventy-two hours to get the hundred thousand together and this time they wanted a million. I called Silverman at his private number but got no answer. It was just as well. Especially since, technically, I wasn't working for him anymore. Good word, technically. Justifies all kinds of behavior. Like, technically, I didn't cheat on my wife; the streetwalker was really a cop.

I called his office instead of his home number, knowing I would get the service. I asked them to tell him that Sylvester had called and that I was at the hotel and had just received his message. Nothing new to report and I planned on being back in time to help with the money. I didn't think he would have too much trouble figuring out who Sylvester was, unless maybe he and Stallone were talking a deal.

I drained the last of the Dos Equis and looked regretfully at its unopened partner still sitting in the ice bucket. If there is a better bottled beer in the Western Hemisphere I have yet to taste it.

"Later," I said, "I'm running behind." It was eleven thirty and I needed a shower if I was going to be with people.

Before I left I took some hairs from my brush. I put my suitcase on the bed, zipped it closed and laid a hair across the zipper. I put a twenty underneath the miscellaneous contents of my travel kit in the bathroom and put a second hair across that zipper. The last thing I did before leaving was wedge a small folded piece of hotel stationary between the door jamb and the door about six inches from the floor. None of my precautions would fool a pro but I was reasonably sure I wasn't dealing with any.

By the time I finished it was close to midnight and I hurried out of the hotel without asking directions. Dumb. On the street I must have asked the only three people in Palm Springs who didn't know where Toni's was. It was almost twelve thirty by the time I walked into the place. It was trendy but much more low-key than I had been expecting. Stucco walls and arched doorways outlined with a double layer of used brick. There were candles and fresh flowers on the tables and the chairs were those peacock shaped, high back rattan ones that look nice but are impossible to get comfortable in. Like at the hotel, plants abounded. Maybe it was a city ordinance, one plant for every five tourists.

The lighting was dim and I couldn't see Traci at any of the tables. I was squinting into the corners and cursing myself for being late when someone touched my arm.

"Hey handsome, what happened, did the JDL stop you for goy walking?"

I turned around and she hadn't been kidding. If it weren't for the Star of David nestled in her cleavage I might not have recognized her. Her hair was long and loose, parted in the middle and swept back. Even in the dim light, I could see she had worked on her make-up. Her eyes were bigger and her lips fuller. She had gone from cute to knockout. Her dress, what there was of it, displayed a great set of legs by Stair Master. I had taken her for maybe twenty-four or five but right now she could pass for an in shape thirty. Her perfume and her presence were a little intoxicating and I was feeling all of my years standing next to so much healthy young woman. I could have been her father telling her to go find the rest of her dress. Only I wasn't.

"Actually, it was a bunch of sorority girls here on spring break. They forced me into their car with obvious carnal intent but before they could have their way with me I managed to distract them with my Planet Hollywood story and make good my escape."

"Uh huh, that must be some of them over there," she said, pointing to a table in the corner where a half dozen gray haired matrons were knocking back martinis and giving each other high fives.

When I turned back she was grinning.

"The light in here is kind of dim, it's hard to tell."

Her grin got bigger.

"Come on, I have a table over here. I came with some friends but they went dancing. I'm supposed to meet them around one so we still have time."

Once we were seated she took a polite sip of her drink and said, "Okay, what is it that you wanted to ask me? Half the reason I stuck around is because I was curious. We get a few celebrities in the hotel but never a private eye. Please don't tell me you made this up and you're really one of those sleazy magazine reporters looking for a story."

"Word of honor," I said. "What's the other half?"

"The other half of what?"

"The reason you stuck around."

She gave me a demure look.

"Never mind about that. Now tell me, what is it you wanted to talk about?"

"I need to find someone on your staff. The person I'm looking for would have room access and could move around the hotel freely without being noticed. And they would have been working here at least three weeks ago."

"The hotel must have over a hundred and fifty employees and, besides that, you are going to have to give me a better idea of what is going on. I don't want to get anyone in trouble."

"I can't. All I can tell you is that I represent the Silverman family in a personal capacity. They have a problem I'm trying to fix and it almost certainly involves someone on your staff. If I don't find out who, some very nice people are going to be hurt."

"That's not much of an explanation."

I gave her my most earnest look, "It's more than I should have told you. Let me put it this way. Please."

She smiled and shook her head again, like before.

"I don't know why, but I trust you. Okay, who is it you're looking for?"

"I can narrow it down to the day and probably the shift. It could be a man or a woman but it is someone who could be in the halls and the rooms without raising eyebrows. It would have been on a Friday, January 20th, around 7 p.m."

She thought a moment, "It could be any of the bell hops, room service waiters, the valets and, of course, the maids, although they only have a skeleton staff working after five. Who else? Any of the front desk staff I suppose but only rarely. The office people have left by then. That would be maybe thirty or forty people."

"Good, let's forget the front desk staff for the moment and concentrate on the bell hops, the valets and the waiters. How many people would that be?"

"Let's see, eight or ten waiters, five to ten bell hops plus the bell captain and two or three valets, a half dozen maids. Maybe twenty five, thirty people."

"Of those, how many do you know by name?"

"By name I know most of them but I am only friendly with a few of the bell hops. They are the only ones I ever have a chance to talk to."

Laurel had told me the caller had a slight accent.

"How about Hispanics, how many have Hispanic surnames?"

She thought for a moment and said, "I couldn't say for sure unless I knew who was working that day but I would guess maybe a dozen, maybe more."

"Could you find out who was working that night and get me the names?"

Instead of refusing immediately, she sat back in her chair and stared at me while she took a big sip of her drink. After a minute she put the drink down. I could see the intelligence working in her eyes.

"Let me ask you something. Why haven't you asked the manager for this information? Why come to me? He could tell you by looking at a couple of records. I'll have to figure out a reason for wanting to know. Remember what I said about liking my job? It still goes."

"Managers are hard to deal with. They ask more questions than they answer and they are too concerned with covering their backsides. I could get the information if I had Silverman apply some pressure through his acquaintances but that is exactly the kind of thing I need to avoid. If you could do it for me it would be done discreetly and no one would ever know where the information came from. You have my word. I know it's a lot to ask. If I thought you were that kind of person, I might offer you money but I think you would be offended. All I can say is that if you knew the people involved and what was at stake I'm sure you would want to help."

She took a deep breath and let it out, thinking. Finally she said. "Okay, I'll try and get the list. I can probably pull up the old time cards on the computer but if this comes back to the hotel I'm out of a job. It may not seem like much to you but I spent four very long years in college for it. Besides that, it's fun. This is a tourist town and people are here to have a good time. The weather is great and I've made friends. I like it here, comprendes? I lived in L.A. and it doesn't suit me. Too much traffic, too many people. I just want you to know what I'm risking if you tell anyone. I'm crazy to agree to this in the first place."

"If it ever comes back it won't be from me. No one but you and I will ever know. And, if you ever need my help, as the saying goes, 'anytime, anywhere.'"

She gave me a thoughtful look. "I think you mean that, don't you? People say that kind of thing all the time but they don't really mean it. Even if they do, when the time comes they usually have some excuse. Even your best friends can bail on you, believe me I know, but I've just met you and I think I could call and you would come, no questions asked. You would, wouldn't you?"

"Yes."

"Strange, you are a strange man."

"I know a few people who would agree with you. How does one so young possess so much insight?"

"Oh, I know about men. When you look like I do you get treated differently, I think. Men are always trying to do things for me and women don't like me before I ever open my mouth. Not everyone, of course, but it happens a lot. It has made me think about people's motives. I've been doing it for a long time, trying to figure out why people act the way they do just because I'm not bad looking. It bothers me. I meet people I would like to get to know but they're afraid of me. And then there are the others who want to get close to me but have no interest in me as a person. They just want to be with me because I turn heads. I could be a complete bitch and it wouldn't make any difference to them. I think I know myself pretty well and there is no reason for anyone to be afraid of me. I also know that I'm not gifted or talented enough to be anything special. I used to think it was me, something I was doing, but then I realized that it really had nothing to do with me. It's what's going on inside other people that makes them act the way they do. They either feel like they don't measure up somehow or they act like they want some of it to rub off, whatever it is they think I have, like being attractive automatically makes you something special."

"Only God, my dear, can love you for yourself alone and not your yellow hair."

Her drink paused half way to her lips and she stared at me.

"Yeats," I said.

"What does it mean?"

"What it says. That people are drawn to beauty and, as worthy as you may be of love, people will love you for the way you look, too. They won't be able to separate the two. I have to admit, I find your yellow hair very appealing myself."

"I'm not complaining about being attractive but I wish it could be different. Strange, isn't it, how I don't even know you and here I am pouring out my soul. I'm not used to doing this. Usually it's the other way around. Would you like to come dancing with us, with me?"

I didn't know what to say. The candlelight brought out the highlights in her hair and made her eyes sparkle. There was no coyness in her voice or in her eyes. No games, just a smart, beautiful, sexy young woman who knew what she was about and what she wanted. She was a vision and any man would be crazy to turn her down.

My voice came out a little hoarse, "I don't think so, Traci. It's a lovely offer and I'm flattered. More than I can tell you. I don't know how to say this in any way that makes sense. Maybe it's just that saying goodbye is too hard for me anymore. I've said it too many times in my life and I think it would be hard to say it to you. Better if we just say good night."

Her eyes grew soft and she leaned forward and put her hand over mine.

"Don't worry, I promise I won't make you dance."

I laughed out loud. When I could, I motioned for the waitress and whispered in her ear. She came back with the tab and a rose. She gave the bill to me and the rose to Traci.

"Happy Valentine's."

Technically, Valentine's Day had ended an hour ago but neither of us seemed to care.

12

Traci had her car, a new Mustang convertible with the five-liter engine. I knew it was five-liter because it said so right on the side. It was bright red and had a spoiler. The perfect vehicle for chasing down Patriot missiles. She put it in gear and rocked me back in my seat as we took off. A pair of headlights followed us out of the parking lot but I couldn't tell if it was intentional. After making a nuisance of myself at the hotel I was hoping for just such a thing. I asked Traci to take a circuitous route to where were going and see if anyone followed. I didn't even have to tell her what circuitous meant.

This was the first time that any of what we had been talking about became real to her. I could see her swallow hard but she didn't ask a bunch of questions or turn around to look. Most people would have. I explained what I had been doing at the hotel and told her not to worry. I didn't think they would bother her. They were just trying to find out who I was and what I was doing.

Because of all the college kids in town, the traffic was heavy for this time of night and it was hard to tell if anyone was following us. I asked her to find a convenience store and go in and buy something. She knew of one on the way and as she pulled into the parking lot, I pretended to be looking for something in her center console. I was looking hard peripherally but I didn't see anyone pull over and no one followed us into the lot. A few minutes later she came out with a pair of panty hose and a cup of coffee and handed them both to me.

"These aren't my size," I said.

She smiled and I adjusted the rear view mirror so that I could watch our back as we left. As she pulled onto the street a pair of headlights came on about a block behind us and moved into traffic.

I didn't say anything. I told her it looked clear and to head for the dance club. She put her foot down and bounced me back a second time and in a few minutes we were there. I kept watching the same pair of headlights all the way and, as we turned into the lot of the dance club, they drove on past instead of following. In the mirror I made it for a banana yellow Camaro. It was a new model but had been tricked out with custom wheels and pin striping. It was too dark to make out the driver but the car might as well have been painted in day glo. Good to use a nondescript car when you are tailing someone.

We parked and went inside. She knew the bouncer and he had a message from her friends. They had gone to another club and we were to follow if it wasn't too late. Traci thought we should have a drink and then decide. The crowd was thinning a bit and we found a table away from the door.

"The bouncer seemed to think you wouldn't be alone when you got here."

"You misunderstood," she said, her grin matching mine.

I asked her to sit facing the entrance and keep an eye out for any of the hotel staff she might recognize but after about five minutes no one she knew had come in. I spotted an exit along the far wall of the club and told her I would be back in a few minutes.

The back door was open for air and the bouncer guarding it was a slightly smaller version of the one at the front door; Hanz and Franz, two hundred thirty pounds of engorged muscles, shaped and toned into a perfect wedge at the cost of great pain. I squeezed my way past him into the parking lot and took my coat and tie off and rolled up my sleeves trying for a little disguise. I walked casually but stayed in the shadows until I was out of the bouncer's sight. Just another tourist out for some air. I was scanning the lot for a yellow car but didn't see one and began to wonder if maybe I had been wrong about the tail. I made it to the end of the lot and was about to give up when I spotted him. He was parked half way down the block in the darkest part of the street. I couldn't see any details, just a dark shape sitting behind the wheel. I could probably sneak close enough to get a license number but it was too dark for a good look at him and I wanted one.

At this distance, I didn't think he would recognize me and I ambled back towards the door. There was a high, cinder block wall separating the club from the adjacent property and I hauled myself over it. I landed on the edge of one of those extravagant condo developments that are the lifeblood of this city. Acres of green lawn and angular stucco town homes fronted by a score of date palms.

Tanned women in pastel polo shirts and snug shorts would be inside, their hair in ponytails or cut short and held in place by bright plastic golf visors. They would be sitting in a tight group talking about their children and vacation spots and, mostly, about absent friends. Their husbands would be there too, grouped closer to the bar, wearing loud shirts and pastel slacks that would embarrass a poodle with any fashion sense. When they weren't grousing about the liberals and bragging about real estate deals they would be talking handicaps, swapping lies about their latest round and whacking each other on the back, telling dirty jokes and glancing over their shoulders to make sure the ladies were out of earshot. They would be on the fifth pitcher of Martinis by now and the laughter would be loud. In the morning they would switch to Bloody Marys and start over. I would rather spend the rest of my life watching Jerry Springer. Hard not to be smug when you're a hotshot detective sneaking around in the dark, risking arrest and working for a dollar.

There was a guardhouse at the gate, maybe fifty yards away, and someone was on duty. I was about to climb back over the wall when I had an idea. I walked along the wall back into the property another thirty yards and made for the main driveway, keeping as many trees and bushes between myself and the gate house as possible. When I reached the driveway I stepped from behind one of the giant palms that lined the drive and began to stroll casually down to the main gate. I started to whistle a tune no one had ever written and the guard turned so he could see me. I walked with a slight weave to my step and gave him a big wave, drunken tourist being friendly. He raised an indifferent hand back and when I reached him I gave him a big lopsided grin.

"Beautiful night, huh? Nothing like this desert air."

"Yeah, nothing like it." He lowered a copy of "Guns and Ammo," using his finger as a page marker and looked me over. He hadn't seen me before but he wasn't sure if he should brace me or not.

"Yes sir, I could get used to this. Can't believe how much grass there is out here in the desert, ha, ha." I laughed like I had said something very funny. "Jeannie and I are going to find a place just like Bob's here when we retire. Maybe buy Bob's from him. Can't beat it here, no sir."

Evidently there was at least one Bob on his list and he relaxed and wished only that I would go away.

I gave him a sly wink, "I think I'll go see what's shakin' at that club next door. Don't get this kind of scenery back in Pocatello, if you know what I mean."

He nodded indifferently and went back to his magazine.

I weaved out the drive and made some shuffling steps in the direction of the club. I stopped against the wall, waited a few beats and then came hustling back up to the gatehouse. I wore a worried expression and poked my head inside the door. I shoved my face close to his and raised my voice, loud, "Hey, some guy is sitting in a car out there that's been parked there since we came back from dinner. I noticed it then because it's bright yellow. The guy's been sitting in it all night right outside the gate. You think maybe he is casing the place?"

The guard winced when I said "casing" but he sighed and grabbed a flashlight from its hook. Easier just to look than argue with a drunk.

I stayed behind him as he moved toward the car. He flashed his light on the plates and I was able to see them clearly. Then he walked casually to the driver's side of the car. I stayed in the shadows on the sidewalk and moved forward enough to get a good view of the driver's face when the guard flashed his light on him. He was a young Hispanic kid with a feathery bandito mustache that needed to grow in a lot. It was hard to tell but he didn't look more than eighteen. Maybe that was why he hadn't followed us into the club. He was surprised and even a little frightened. He wasn't a professional bad guy but then I had kind of guessed that from his choice in transportation.

The guard asked him what he was doing and I could hear him say he was just waiting for a friend at the club. The guard asked him why was he waiting back here in the dark and why had he been waiting all night. He said, all right, he was really following his girlfriend to see if she was cheating on him. It was quick thinking and the guard bought it. He told him to wait somewhere else and the kid started the car and pulled out. The guard headed back toward the gatehouse and I waited in the shadows, not wanting the kid to see me. After he left I went back to the gatehouse, pumped the guard's hand and told him great job. I said I'd see him later and started walking back to the club. He didn't seem transported by my praise.

The kid had parked about a block down the street to resume his vigil. I showed my stamp to Hanz and went back to the table. Traci was drumming her fingernails on her glass and I could see she was worried about me and a little angry at being left alone so long. I apologized and told her what I had been doing. I asked her if she had a pen and if she knew anyone at the hotel who drove a yellow customizedCamaro. She dug in her purse and handed me a gold Cross pen. It weighed about ten pounds but it seemed to work as well as the Bics I was used to. I jotted down the license number, stuck it in my wallet and handed her back the pen. She said she had seen the car, it was too gaudy not to notice, but didn't know the owner's name. She was sure, though, that he had only been working at the hotel for a few weeks.

I told her not to worry about getting me the list of names and asked her if she could find out who he was and where he lived. She said it should be easy and she wouldn't have to get any records from the office. I could see she was relieved and it made me feel better too. She had been willing to take a lot of risk for someone she didn't know and I was all too aware that it wasn't because of my fatal charm. She was a genuinely decent person. I had met three of them in one day, four if I counted Silverman, and it made me wonder what my odds were of meeting another before the end of the decade.

13

I wasn't sure what to do next. We were sitting in her car after having had a few more drinks and dancing some of the slow numbers. I had a feeling she was waiting for me to make up my mind. I looked at her in the dim light and the alcohol hadn't made her any less attractive.

"I think I should probably be getting back to the hotel. I have to be up early."

She smiled softly.

"Okay." That was all she said. She started the car and put it in gear. This time though, there was no G force when she let the clutch out. We glided out of the lot and were quiet all the way back to the hotel. Our shadow tagged along but he seemed irrelevant. I thought about following him home and squeezing him a little. He had looked young enough and scared enough that I thought I might get him to talk but I decided to wait until I ran his plates and see what came back. I was certain he wasn't behind the blackmail and maybe he could lead me to who was. If he didn't talk, though, I might scare him off and right now he was all I had.

Traci pulled up to the front of the hotel and stopped. We looked at each other for a moment and then smiled. I leaned forward and brushed her hair gently away from her face and kissed her. It lasted a long time. When we parted we were both breathing heavier and I had second thoughts about going up to my room alone.

"Good night, beautiful," I said.

She reached up and touched my cheek, "Goodbye handsome."

I got out of the car and headed up the walk. I turned once and waved and she drove off. I ignored our friend in the Camaro and went to my room. The paper was still in the door and the hairs hadn't been disturbed. I wasn't sure if I was disappointed or not. My mind was still elsewhere. I spied the Dos Equis and knew I would regret it in the morning but didn't care. I uncapped it and polished it off while I got ready for bed. I lay there for a while thinking about women I had known and how empty my bed had seemed when I no longer knew them. When I finally fell asleep my dreams were filled with images of tan thighs and soft tawny hair turned gold by the sun, of big brown eyes and moist lips that tasted of honey. Sometime in the night I woke up and the room was as silent and dark as the inside of a casket. I lay there with my empty thoughts until I drifted off again. This time, I slept the sleep of the dead and dreamt of nothing.

14

I woke early and surprisingly clear-headed. It was too early to run the license plate number so I decided to check out the hotel's health spa. They had a fully equipped weight room and a respectable collection of stair steppers, exercise bikes and other aerobic contraptions.

The place was deserted except for a gray haired man with a military buzz cut. His tank top was soaked through with sweat though he must have been nearly seventy. Judging from the looks of him he could probably out run and out wrestle most of the frat boys who had taken over the town. It was only eight o'clock but he looked like he had been at it for hours. I nodded hello and hopped on an exercise bike to warm up. It is surprising how much of a work out you can get on one of these things. It wasn't as good as running, say, from Sunset to Mulholland but it was a lot easier on the joints and there were no exhaust fumes. I began pedaling but had no idea how to program the computer. I wanted more resistance and was about to try the stair machine when one of the trainers saw me punching buttons. He came over and offered to help. I told him I wanted about fifteen miles with an up and down course. He asked if I was sure I wanted that much.

"Do you think that gentleman over there could do it?"

"Oh sure, he's been in every morning for a week and does twice that."

"Just put in the fifteen."

"Whatever," he said, and punched in the numbers.

I work out regularly with weights and jog three or four times a week but when I finished the fifteen I was glad I hadn't asked for thirty. Buzz cut was a tough old bird. After the bike marathon I was ready for a circuit on the machines.

I concentrate on form and full extension more than how much I can lift. Three sets of twelve to fifteen reps at each station. Slow reps using only the muscle group you are working. No jerking and no help from the body. When you can do fifteen smooth reps on the last set it is time to move up the weight.

You can find zugledons working out in pairs at any gym. The spotter will put on the entire stack for his buddy and then stand on that to add another couple hundred pounds. You can hear them bellow all the way to Santa Barbara each time they do a rep. What they often get for all the effort are blown knees and stress fractures. They wear tank tops and tight T-shirts and the intimidation factor is usually enough to keep them out of trouble. The small scars on their foreheads are from forks. They help, too.

Watch any heavyweight fighter train and see if he busts a gut trying to bench press double his body weight. Time how long he jumps rope and hits the speed bag and the heavy bag. Then tell me who you would rather go toe to toe with, the heavyweight or one of the lifters.

"Hey, you worked up a real sweat, huh?" It was the trainer again.

"Uh huh."

"Bet you're glad you didn't go for more than fifteen? If you want I can show you how to use some of these other machines."

"Thanks but I'm just going to sit here for awhile, catch my breath." He shrugged his shoulders and left.

As soon as he left I started with some crunches and then worked my way through the routine. Abs, legs, lats, traps, delts, biceps, pecs and so on. I was slick with sweat and blowing like a sperm whale by the time I finished. Adios, Dos Equis.

As I was toweling off the trainer came back again. He had a couple of thirtyish women in tow, both of them decked out in shiny pastel leotards, ponytails and headbands. All three of them had on pristine white shoes. I was dressed in faded navy shorts, a torn gray T-shirt with the sleeves cut out and a pair of battered Nikes. The women gave me a wide berth but the trainer paused to slap me on the back and give me a thumbs-up.

"Atta boy, good work out. We'll see you next time and show you some more." I leaned a little closer to him and dripped sweat on his sneakers. It was the best I could do.

It was after ten by the time I finished showering and ordering up some breakfast. While I was waiting I made a call to a cop I knew in the West L.A. Division.

"Homicide, Detective Grant."

"Hello, Ulysses."

"Don't call me Ulysses, goddamn it, and don't ask for the General when you call, how many fucking times do I have to tell you?"

"You should be proud, it's a name replete with historical significance.

Besides, your grandmother gave it to you."

"I know who gave me the fucking name."

"A little touchy today, are we?"

"Yeah, sorry, we caught a bad one last night. Guy popped his wife and little girl. The wife caught him doing the girl and went crazy but the guy was bigger. Beat them both half to death and then used a knife. Didn't have the balls to do himself. He sat there crying like a baby. Right before he asked for a lawyer. I haven't been to bed all night. Wouldn't matter though, if I had. Some of them still get to me. Pretty little girl, about the age of my niece."

"Sorry, Sam."

"Yeah. So what do you want that doesn't take more than two minutes?"

"I need you to run a plate for me."

"Hey, no problem, let me get rid of this homicide eye witness on the other line and I'll get right on it for you."

I sensed sarcasm.

He put me on hold while he ran the number and came back in less than a minute.

"It's registered to a Manolo Ortega at a Hollywood address. I looked him up and except for a few speeding tickets he's clean.

"Thanks Sam, I owe you one."

"One? You're missing some zeros but who's counting? I gotta run."

His name really is Ulysses S. Grant. To my knowledge, no one but myself has ever called him that twice. He was raised by his Mississippi grandmother and, although she hadn't been born when Mr. Lincoln abolished slavery, she felt she owed her freedom to him and, more so, to General Grant, whom, she felt, had done the real work. She hadn't known that the S in Grant's name didn't stand for anything and decided it must have stood for Samuel.

Sam and I went back more than twenty years. Back to a starless night in a wet jungle and an ambush that had wiped out a third of his platoon by the time I showed up. They were outnumbered badly and it was only dumb luck that I walked into the middle of it. I was on my way back from an aborted covert op and, conveniently, I had a rifle equipped with night scope, flash suppresser and silencer. I had some other fancy killing gizmos in my bag as well. His platoon was pinned down but I was able to maneuver around to the flank and take out enough of them to help turn things around. Sam says I saved his life that night. Maybe. What I know I did do was kill some ill equipped, under trained kids who had wives and parents they would never see again. If I hadn't, it would have been our guys lying dead in the bushes.

You leave those dark thoughts alone if you are wise. You leave them back there in the jungle where they belong. Sometimes though, they sneak up on you, silent as midnight. When they do they give no warning and there is nowhere to run. I shook them off as quickly as they came. Sam and I would probably see more of each other but for them.

While I had been talking my message light came on. I dialed the front desk and was told someone had left a note for me. I asked if they could have it brought up and I started packing. By the time I heard the knock I was done.

The note was from Traci. It said the kid's name was Manny Ortega and he lived at an address on Chula Vista. She had also given me her home number and address and told me to call if I was ever in town, we could go 'dancing' again. She had drawn a little smiley face heart over the "i" in her name. Yeah, well, it was still sweet. I smiled and tucked the note in my wallet, looked up a florist in the phone book and ordered a bouquet delivered to her address. On the note I had them write, "'Beauty is not caused. It is.' Don't lose my card." The florist said, "I like that, is it yours?"

"Just the part about the card. The rest is by Emily Dickinson."

Up to now the blackmailers had been playing things smart. Tailing me so clumsily had been dumb. I could have sniffed around the hotel for a week and if I hadn't been followed, I might never have found out who was working the inside. It bothered me. I didn't know what to make of it but something didn't make sense.

There was another knock and my breakfast arrived. Eggs Benedict with a side of bacon and toast and fresh fruit. My cholesterol count was a little low the last time I had it checked. The Bernaise sauce is the key to good Eggs Benedict, that and the firmness of the eggs. Too little butter in the sauce and it's bland, too much and it overpowers. This one wasn't bad and I cleaned my plate with a satisfied sigh and sat back to reflect on my next move.

One of the things I wondered from the start was how the blackmailers had put someone on the inside. Assuming the kid had been the one doing the taping, and it was a reasonable assumption, he must have been hired just for that purpose. Only a few weeks on the job. It was too much coincidence. So how did they get him hired? I decided to go ask.

15

The manager's name was Leslie Stoddard. A he not a she. I was catching up on the latest developments in hotel room security while I waited for him to see me. The magazine article made a very convincing argument in favor of encoded card keys versus the old fashioned metal kind. It seemed that employee master keys could be encoded with the date and time of entry into a room, thus deterring would be thieves and greatly reducing the problem of employee theft. As a bonus, the cards were hard to duplicate and the codes were changed often, making the old ones worthless to potential buyers, again, unlike the old fashioned regular kind. The article didn't mention surreptitious video taping of guests but it seemed to me that it would have reduced that problem too. Maybe Leslie had missed the article. Probably too busy with his long distance calls. That's where he was now, on long distance. His secretary had graciously informed me of that fact but, so far, had ungraciously neglected to offer me a cup of coffee from the oil drum sized brewer behind her.

I could see her getting up from her desk to come out and tell me that Mr. Stoddard would see me now. She could have motioned to me through the window but I imagine that would have been gauche. Waiting is my worst thing. It makes me cranky.

She ushered me into Stoddard's office with a disdainful look and left. I gave her a big grin as she closed the door.

She was a charmer compared to Stoddard. He gave me a fish eyed stare through the palest eyes I had ever seen. His hair was fine, blonde and thinning noticeably. He had on a light beige gabardine suit, white shirt and cream tie. The most colorful thing about him was his tan. It was too perfect to have come from the sun and I bet he "fake baked" at the health club. In the desert he would have been invisible from twenty feet. He didn't offer to shake hands or ask me to sit. Probably figured I was tired of sitting by now.

"What is it you wish to see me about Mr., ah," he made a stagy glance at my card, "Chambers? My secretary said it concerned an employee but that you wouldn't be more specific. If you have a complaint perhaps you wouldn't mind taking it up with Mr. Kincaid, the assistant manager. He oversees that area of our operation."

"Who would I see if I wanted to get a job here?"

"You wish to apply for a job?"

"No, I wish to know whom I would see if I did wish to apply for a job."

He had to think that one over a minute and I could see he was getting impatient. He was going to kick me out if I didn't get to the point.

"I do all the hiring and, I might add, all the firing in this hotel, Mr. Chambers. If you do not wish to apply for a position then what is it that you want? I am very busy and I don't wish to be rude but please state your business or allow me to get on with mine."

"Manolo Ortega, his friends probably call him Manny, drives a banana yellow Camaro."

His eyes widened at the name and I could see the fear flicker for just an instant. He recovered fast, though, sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers under his nose.

"I am familiar with that name, as I am with the names of all my employees. What about Mr. Ortega, has he committed some offense?"

"No, not at all. His taste in transportation may be a little questionable but otherwise he's been very friendly. In fact, he's been following me all over town just waiting to see if I need anything. I'd give the service five stars. I wanted to congratulate you on it."

His composure wavered again and the veneer began to fold in on itself. It was like watching a movie set being struck when you find out the pretty facade is nothing more than cardboard and glue. He knew Manny all right.

"I'm afraid I don't understand what you are saying. Could you please get to the point, otherwise, I am going to have to ask you to leave. I have a number of things to attend to."

"I think you understand perfectly, Mr. Stoddard. I would like to know who told you to hire Ortega."

The tips of his fingers began to turn white and he couldn't hold my stare but he wasn't ready to give up.

"I'm afraid that I can't discuss information of that nature. It is company policy."

"Is conspiracy to commit blackmail also company policy?"

He started and then froze. "I don't know what you are talking about. I would like you to leave."

"The Feds love it when someone gives them that line. They will do a rumba up your backside wearing golf shoes and spelunking helmets. If you keep up the charade you are going to be able to verify this personally."

It was an idle threat. I couldn't prove anything yet and the Feds were nowhere near this case, but he didn't know that. He wasn't sure what to say. I could tell I was scaring him badly but it might have been that he was more afraid of something else. I didn't think he was involved with the blackmail scheme. Ortega's name and the mention of the Feds had startled him too much. If he were in on it he would have had a story prepared and been a lot cooler than he was. My guess was that he had been asked to hire Ortega either for money or for some other, less pleasant, reason. He probably didn't know what was going on and, maybe, since nothing had happened, he had convinced himself that everything would be all right. And then I come along.

"Mr. Stoddard, Ortega is involved with some bad people and they are making life very difficult for a client of mine. You are way out of your league with these people. I don't know how much you know but this thing could get ugly. If the cops get involved it's going to screw up your life whether you had anything to do with it or not. If things get tricky for them, these people might decide you are a liability." I had no idea if what I had just said was true. "If you talk to me now I'll make sure that this is as far as it goes for you. This will be the end of it. If you don't talk to me then I can't protect you." Chambers, more powerful than a locomotive.

He slumped in his chair and looked at me out from under his eyebrows. He wiped his face with his hand and his voice came out in a defeated whisper, "I knew this was going to happen, I'm sorry, I can't talk to you. Please believe me, I don't even know who they were, not their names, where they came from, nothing. I swear. I have a wife and a little girl, I . . . please, you have to leave. I can't talk to you."

I growled at him for effect, "I'm not going to pussy foot around with you, I don't have the time. This is your only chance to talk to me. Either you talk now or I make sure you get put through the ringer when this thing breaks."

He sat there and shook his head, not looking at me.

"I can't, they said they would hurt my family. They knew where I lived and where my daughter went to school. If you had seen them, the kind of people they were. My God, they will do it. They were like animals. I can't talk to you. I shouldn't have told you this much. You must leave, please."

He looked like he was about to cry and I felt like the schoolyard bully. Whoever "they" were they had scared him worse than any threat I was making. I had been bluffing about how bad the blackmailers were but his reaction had given me something to think about. I gave him my card and told him if he needed help to call. On the way out I stopped at the secretary's desk. I told her that her boss could probably use a couple of aspirin and a glass of water. I also told her she made a mean cup of coffee. She ignored both my comments and stared through me as though I were invisible. It wasn't a new experience.

16

I decided it was time to see Manny and find out who had put him up to this. Something wasn't making sense. He was too raw to be involved with the kind of people Stoddard had described. If I went and saw him I would be letting the cat out of the bag when maybe I didn't have to but I didn't have many choices. I needed to find out what was going on. I knew Stoddard wouldn't say anything. He was too scared and that was what bothered me. I asked the concierge for directions and headed over to Chula Vista.

It was unseasonably hot, even for the desert. The thermometer was pushing ninety and it wasn't eleven o'clock. I took off my shoulder harness, placed it on the seat beside me and covered it with my jacket. It wasn't enough. I loosened my tie, rolled up my sleeves and put on a pair of Ray Ban Aviators that were only a little newer than my car. I was wishing I had waited to check out until after seeing Stoddard. I could have gone back to the room and changed. The steering wheel was too hot to hold on to and I had to switch hands as I drove. My back and the backs of my thighs were sticking to the seat before I made it out of the parking lot.

Normally, I like the desert. It has an austere beauty that can't be found anywhere else. I suppose one of the things that appeals to me most is its efficiency. There is a simplicity and a purity to life here that is rare, even in nature. Nothing is wasted because there is precious little to waste and to do so is almost always fatal. This is especially true as it applies to us humans. The natural enemy is the temperature. A gun or a spear isn't much use against a hundred twenty-degree heat, or against nights that can freeze.

Man has been so ingenious in his taming of nature that few places offer him much discomfort anymore. We have become so mechanized and so insulated against its hardships that most of us have little or no experience with them, let alone any ability to survive them one on one. In the desert, something as simple as running out of gas in the wrong place can kill you.

I wasn't liking it all that much today, though, dressed as I was. Maybe Manny would offer me some lemonade.

I found Ortega's address on a quiet side street off one of the main arterials, a one-story house of the flat roof design that is prevalent here. It was small but well kept and I was surprised. I had been expecting an apartment or at best a duplex. He wasn't making enough as a valet to afford the rent on a place like this.

His car wasn't in the driveway but there was an attached garage and the door was closed. There was no lawn, just a yard full of crushed white rock surrounded by a tiny picket fence that wouldn't hold a gerbil for long. I pushed open the gate and walked the twenty feet to the house. The curtains were drawn and it was impossible to tell if anyone was home. It was very quiet in the noon heat and I couldn't hear any sounds coming from inside. Even the insects had given it up. I pushed the bell and could hear it chiming but that was all. No hurried footsteps to answer the door. Casually, in case the neighbors were watching, I strolled around to the back of the house. I could see into the kitchen but there was no one there and I moved to the small window at the end of the garage. I cupped my hands around my eyes and could make out the yellow Camaro inside. Maybe he had company and didn't want to be disturbed. Maybe he was out with friends making another blackmail tape. One thing was for sure; it was too damned hot for him to be on foot.

I slipped my wallet out, went back to the kitchen door, knocked again and tried the handle. Nada. No sleuth worth his salt leaves home without his lock picks. I took out a tensioner and selected a pick. It was a cheap lock and I opened it in about the time it would take with a key. Most of them aren't that easy. I turned the knob and went in as if I had every right to. I had slipped my Beretta into my belt when I left the car and I took it out now and quietly chambered a round. After what Stoddard had told me I didn't feel the least bit silly.

The place was as quiet as a church on Monday. There is no silence quite so still as the one inside someone's home when you have entered uninvited. I could hear the dust settling. The front door was visible through the archway leading to the living room and there was a hallway dividing it from the kitchen. I couldn't see very far into it but I guessed that it lead to the garage. I took a pair of calfskin driving gloves out of my pocket and slipped them on. I have never worn them in my car but they come in handy for breaking and entering. I moved slowly, listening for any sound and moved into the hall. I kept my back to the door that lead out to the garage and kept my eyes focused down the hall. With my free hand, I pulled the door open behind my back and ducked my head in quickly and then out. No one. I pulled the door open wider and stepped in sideways. The light was dim but I could see that, except for the car, it was empty. I went over and felt the hood. The car hadn't been run in the last few hours. I moved back into the house and made my way through each room but found no one. If he was here he was in the attic or under the bed.

I took a quick look around and it was clear that he hadn't moved in for the duration. The cupboards were bare except for unopened packages of paper plates and plastic utensils. There was a six-pack ofTecate, some limes and a dozen or so tortilla shells in the refrigerator. Bachelor living in all its grandeur. I was thirsty and the beer was tempting but I settled for warm tap water. Judging by his car, I would have expected Corona.

There were none of the personal items you would expect if someone has set up house keeping. The place was as impersonal as a Mid-Town cab. His only belongings were his clothes. Besides his work outfits, he leaned toward tailored slacks with no pockets and wide collared silk shirts. He liked shoes and had a number of pairs, all of them expensive and black with pointed toes. Disco might be dead but Manny hadn't heard yet.

I had been hoping for some mail, with luck maybe a phone bill, and it was frustrating when I didn't find any. On the other hand, the Spartan lifestyle was a good indication he was my man. I decided to search the place. Mostly because I didn't know what else to do. Maybe I would get lucky and find a copy of the tape. I went through his clothes and shoes but didn't find anything. I looked in every cabinet and cupboard, under every cushion and piece of furniture. I looked in the toilet tank, under the bed, inside the light fixtures and the wall outlets. Nothing. I went deeper. I emptied the medicine cabinet and tried prying it loose. It was stuck tight. The two items it held, a bottle of Excedrin and a small jar of rubber cement were just what the labels said they were. The cement puzzled me but I moved on. I took the bedding apart, flipped the mattress and box springs, turned the furniture over and looked for evidence of sewing, opened the cushions and felt inside. I took the cover off his boom box, examined the baseboard and floor for saw marks and tried peeling back the carpet in the corners, all to no avail. Given the time I would have gone through each room methodically, a square foot at a time but I didn't know when he would be back so I searched the most logical places first. It was slow going because I had to put everything back as I found it. I didn't want him spooked.

It was nearly an hour before I found something. The felt on the bottom of one of the lamps seemed loose. I shook the lamp and thought I could hear something. Something soft. I peeled back the felt and knew immediately what the rubber cement was for. A roll of cash was stuffed inside along with a small, crumpled baggy with maybe two grams of cocaine inside. It had been stepped on and was strictly for his personal use. The bills were all hundreds and I counted forty-six of them. It could have been his tip money. Almost five thousand dollars in less than a month? Maybe at the Plaza.

Rolled up inside the bills was a slip of paper with a phone number on it. No name or area code, just the number. It must be important for him to keep it stashed in with the money. It might be a girlfriend's phone number but it could just as easily be something else. I found a pen, copied the number and put everything back exactly as I had found it, re-glued the felt, and continued my search. I found nothing else. He could depart on a moment's notice and leave no trace. The only thing left to search was the car and I went back to the garage.

The door was unlocked and I got in the passenger side. There was nothing of interest in the glove box. The center console was full of cassettes by groups with names like Eminem, Smashing Pumpkins, Porno for Pyros and Nine Inch Nails. Generation X and its easy listening sound. Their anger at the current state of things is so profound that it overwhelms nearly every aspect of their lives. No peace signs for them, just a giant, collective, middle finger raised high in the air and pointed straight at us. Who, but a Congressperson, could blame them? I looked inside the pouch he kept on his sun visor. The car was registered to Manolo S. Ortega with the same Hollywood address that Sam had given me. There was also a proof of insurance form with the same address. That was it. I searched under the seats and found nothing else of interest. He was neat whatever else he was. The house had been clean and the car was the same.

It must have been a hundred ten degrees in the garage and there was no air. My shirt and pants were soaked through and I was about to leave when I noticed a faint smell. It was only a whiff but in that instant I knew where I would find Manny. I had been concentrating too hard on looking and, at the same time, listening, in case he came home. I pulled out my picks and went to work on the trunk lid. The smell was stronger back here. Trunk locks are surprisingly tough and it took me a few minutes to hit all the tumblers. The lid popped open and the smell grew worse. There is no other smell in the world like it.

He was curled up on his side and there was a small neat hole behind his ear, a twenty-two. I knew he had been shot at close range because of the stippling on his skin from the powder burns. His bowels had released and stained his slacks but there was very little blood. If he hadn't been sitting in this oven, it would have been awhile before the smell grew bad enough for anyone to notice. It wasn't bad now but I was too familiar with it not to have noticed. I knew why there hadn't been anything in the house or in the car. The killer or killers had taken it with them. Maybe the phone number I found was just a girl friend's but, more likely, they had missed it. If they had searched the place they had done it quickly because little had been disturbed.

Whoever it had been, the hit was professional. Clean and neat. Twenty-two's are the weapon of choice for a number of reasons. They are light, easy to conceal and they aren't very loud. And they are deadly. When you shoot someone behind the ear with one the bullet doesn't exit. It stays inside the skull and ricochets off the walls, rattling around tearing hell out of everything. The bullet hole wasn't what told me, though. I knew because the gun was lying beside him. The cops could do all the tests they wanted with it. It would never be traced back to the killers.

There wasn't anything I could do for him and my car had been parked out front too long. I went back into the house, retrieved the money, wiped my prints off the back door knob and left. I didn't see anyone and I hoped no one had seen me. It would be very hard explaining what I had been doing here without mentioning the Silvermans.

After seeing Manny I had planned to stop for gas and put on a T-shirt and shorts for the drive back to L.A. Instead, I drove ten miles east to Indian Wells, the opposite direction from L.A., until I found a sleepy self-serve station. I pulled into the outside pumps so my car was partially hidden from the attendant's view and put in exact change. I messed up my hair, put on my glasses and slouched to hide my height. He didn't get more than a two second glimpse of me as I handed him the ten and left. He looked so bored I could have walked in naked and stood the same chance of being recognized again.

It was an extra twenty miles out of my way and probably a waste of time but when dead bodies are involved I prefer to err on the side of caution. If the cops ever checked, there would be one less person who could pin down my whereabouts at a specific time. I wasn't worried about being charged with the murder. I had been with Traci until late and people had seen me go up to my room. Manny had been killed after that. No one would be able to testify that I had left again because I hadn't. I was more concerned with having to answer some tough questions about my interest in Manny. And, if someone had spotted my car parked in front of his place, why I hadn't notified the cops when I found the body.

I was counting on Stoddard to keep quiet about our visit. If he told the cops I had been asking about Manny he was smart enough to know he would be answering a lot more questions than he wanted to. His best bet was to act surprised and saddened and keep his mouth shut. I was betting a lot on his silence but he was more frightened of Manny's friends than the cops could ever make him and I didn't think he would talk.

It was a long, hot drive back to the city but I hardly noticed. I kept seeing Manny Ortega in the back of that trunk. Like those other young men back in the jungle, he had resembled nothing so much as a sleeping child. Except for the bullet hole.

17

The first thing I did when I got back was stop at a pay phone and call the Palm Springs Sheriff's Office. I wanted to be a hundred miles away when they started looking for suspects. I dialed the main number to avoid the recorder. I decided to disguise my voice anyway. I would rather have them looking for one of the local desert rats than some guy who sounded like he was from the city. Someone who sounded like me, for example.

They call them desert rats because, essentially, that is what they are. Most of them are old timers who have spent their lives scavenging out an existence on the fringes of society. They collect cans, bottles, paper, anything they think they can sell. Some of them do odd jobs for people and, occasionally, some of them will steal from the vacation homes that are left empty half the year.

It seemed like the perfect front. I coughed a few times to roughen my voice and tried to put an old man's crack in it. I didn't bother asking for the Sheriff; I spoke to the first person that answered the phone.

"You got yerselves a dead body. Git yerself a pencil and write this down cause I'm only gonna say it once." If the cop was excited he hid it well. His answer was a laconic, "Who is calling please?"

"I ain't tellin' nuthin' cept where this here body is. You ready or ain't you? Cause here goes."

I gave him the address, where to look for the body, and enough details about the wounds and the gun to make it believable. The cop on the other end tried to say something but I cut him off.

"That's it pardner, this ain't no joke. You best high tail it on over there fore long. That meat ain't gonna keep too well in this heat." It was a crude thing to say but it was in character. Chambers, master of a thousand guises.

I had one more call to make. I used my normal voice this time. Traci was getting ready for work when I caught her. I told her what had happened and, for the second time, was impressed with her self-composure. She was shocked but she didn't get hysterical or interrupt with a lot of inane questions. I told her that the police would be questioning the hotel staff and that I thought it safest for her to tell them she didn't know anything. If it came up, to tell them I asked her out for some drinks and she accepted but to skip the part about Manny tailing us. Afterwards she drove me home. That was it. I told her there were some very bad people in this thing and I didn't want her name linked to Ortega's in any way, that the less she knew the safer she was going to be. I think I frightened her a little but she listened to me quietly and when I finished all she said was, "I'll do whatever you think is best." I could have hugged her and it sort of made me wish I had. I also told her I didn't think she was in any danger but to call me if she saw or heard anything that looked suspicious no matter how silly she might think it seemed. She said she would and I rang off and drove home. I wasn't too worried about her. I didn't think anyone knew about her except Manny and he wouldn't be saying much. If his killer or killers had asked him any questions before he died I would have seen some bruises or other marks on him. There hadn't been any and everything about him pointed to a kid in over his head. Right down to his silly disco clothes. They had probably just wanted him out of the way.

Home for me is a one bedroom bungalow located several hundred yards north of Sunset in one of those small canyons you find just before making the climb into Pacific Palisades. The only way in is a one lane road, most of which is unpaved. Overhead is a dense canopy of leaf trees that all but block out the sky and the feeling is not unlike driving through a tall green tunnel. The road twists and turns and there is room for only one car at a time. On those rare occasions when I have met someone, there is a short, courteous, stand off while we decide which of us has the easiest job of backing up. There are two large homes nestled back in here plus my cottage, which sits by itself on the furthest corner of the property. The original owner was a writer and this is where he did his work. Over the years it has been used for everything from a guesthouse to a storage shed. I'm told it was even used for a time in the forties as the secret love nest for a couple of Hollywood legends who were married to other people.

The current owners had decided to rent it out and I happened to be in the right place at the right time. I was seeing the woman who lived in it when she decided to give up her acting aspirations and move back home to Tennessee to pursue a law degree. She gave her last and best performance selling me to the owners.

Once they looked me over and checked my teeth they had kind of liked the idea of having a P.I. around. Although we are only minutes from Sunset, the place is isolated. Even the turn off road is hard to find. I have been here almost four years and in that time have seen the owners maybe a dozen times.

From the entrance the place looks normal but, inside, the living room walls are floor to ceiling glass. Even the door to the small deck outside is glass. The room is spacious and light but totally cut off from the rest of the world by the surrounding foliage. It's a little like camping, without the bugs. I doubt there is a more private or peaceful spot inside the city limits and I have sent Jamie many silent thank you's over the years. I like to think it is due to my winning personality but, in truth, between the office space and the apartment I have been very lucky.

I checked the refrigerator for provisions and found a head of lettuce and some vegetables that were in decent shape. There was a loaf of unbaked sourdough in the freezer and I put it in the oven. I filled the sink with cold water, threw in some ice cubes and set the lettuce and vegetables in to soak. In half an hour you would think I just picked them. I uncapped a bottle of a micro brew I had taken home with me from a trip to Oregon. It was something called Moose Drool. Despite the name it was probably a good thing I couldn't get the stuff in California. I made a quick vinaigrette out of equal parts balsamic vinegar, olive oil and red wine vinegar. I added salt, minced garlic, oregano, basil, rosemary and marjoram. Next I sliced some raw cauliflower and mushrooms and used the vinaigrette for dip. I put some water on to boil and while I waited I called Sam again. I wanted to see if I could get a name and address for the phone number I had found. I thought about trying Kate Fields but our last encounter was still too fresh in my mind.

He picked up and said, "Hang on, I gotta mark this down. They got a pool going in the bull pen, see how many times you call this month."

"It's only a phone number. It won't take you a minute."

"Gimme," he said, and I did. He didn't bother putting me on hold this time. I could hear him punching the number into his computer.

"It's a frozen yogurt shop in Palm Desert. One of your clients missing some milk?"

I didn't answer.

"You want the address?" His voice was full of smiles.

I took it and thanked him and hung up before he could think of another zinger. I was disappointed. What connection would a yogurt shop have with murder and blackmail? None most likely. Funny place to keep the phone number, though. Maybe Manny had been after one of the counter girls. Or maybe he sold drugs to the employees. I would check it out later but it didn't feel like much.

My water was boiling and I fed it two large handfuls of fettuccine, poured in some salt and added a little olive oil to keep it from boiling over. While it boiled I took the vegetables out of the sink and made a salad with the vinaigrette. I saved some of the broccoli, carrots, mushrooms, cauliflower, and red peppers and sliced them all into a bowl, diced a tomato and put it in a separate bowl. In a sauce pan I added vermouth, lemon, olive oil and garlic and let it sauté, seasoned it with a little white pepper and salt and, when it was simmering, added the vegetables. I let the mixture cook for a few minutes more and checked the pasta. It was a perfect al dente. Wolfgang Chambers, gourmet detective. After it drained, I put a good portion of it on a plate, poured the sauce and vegetables over it, put the dish in the oven with the bread for a few minutes and then took everything over to a table by the window. I added the sliced tomatoes, grated some Parmesan over the top and dinner was served. Maybe I should write a cookbook. Call it The Gumshoe Guide to Twenty Minute Meals.

I turned on the game but Shaq and the Lakers were way out in front. I switched it off. Hard not to miss Kareem and Magic. Instead, I put an old Hank Crawford album on the turntable and listened to him skin the notes out of Mr. Blues while I thought about yogurt. Much as I liked the music it wasn't helping me. The sax is for drifting, the piano for thinking. I found a Liz Story CD and slid it into the changer. She plays like a cascade of soft spring rain. Bewitching stuff. Halfway through the first song it hit me. I had given Sam the number with a seven-one-four area code, assuming it was a Palm Springs number. It was so stupid I couldn't even blame it on fatigue.

I had a choice, call Sam back for the third time today or call Kate. I took Sam.

"You gotta be kidding."

"I gave you the wrong area code for the number. Try area codes three-one-oh and two-one-three."

"Hold on."

"Don't you need the number?"

"No."

Cops. He had written it down when I gave it to him the first time in case it turned out to be something. Then again, the service was free and he wasn't Kate.

"It's an outfit in Hollywood called Twilight Productions. Catchy name, huh?"

He gave me the address.

"Don't make any appointments after the sun goes down, not unless you bring along some back up. These guys escaped from their keepers a long time ago. Probably never had mothers, just hatched, like lizards."

"Who?"

"Vasquez."

"Roberto Vasquez?"

"Uh huh."

It surprised me and before I could catch myself, I said, "This isn't his style. His bailiwicks are drugs and prostitution."

"Bailiwick? What the hell is a bailiwick? Anyone ever tell you you're a strange bastard sometimes? You are also behind the times. Vasquez has expanded into some other enterprises, to wit, a little arms dealing, some skin flicks and even some straight real estate stuff. I hear he's big on mini-malls. Those are his bailiwicks now."

Skin flicks. They use video cameras to make skin flicks. This could be a clue.

"How do you know so much about this guy? I thought he was vice's problem."

"Mostly he is, but he's an ill tempered son-of-a-bitch. His idea of problem solving is usually terminal. I've met a few of his ex-employees, parts of them anyway. You watch yourself with this guy."

"When this thing is finished I'll buy you dinner. My friend at the phone company says there's a new Mexican place up the coast that's supposed to be the cat's pajamas."

"So why call me with phone numbers? Never mind, I don't want to know. You need anything else while you got me on the line? I've been thinking maybe I should give you my pager number. That way you could get a hold of me while I'm in the field."

I didn't bite. "Bring a date along if you want. If you can find one who won't charge you."

He tried covering the mouthpiece but I thought I heard him laugh. The last thing he said before he hung up was, "Watch your ass with these people. You get in too deep, you call. I want you around so I can collect on my dinner."

Roberto Vasquez. I couldn't figure out what a kid like Ortega had been doing mixed up with the likes of him. It didn't fit. Vasquez didn't fit either, for that matter. This thing was small change for him. A million dollars might seem like a lot of money to most people, myself included, but the whole thing was too much risk for, what to him, was poker money.

Until the tail, the blackmailers hadn't made a wrong move. Tailing me had been dumb and Vasquez wasn't dumb. If I hadn't been followed it would have taken me a lot longer to find out who was working the hotel. With Manny dead I might never have found out or, if I had, been able to prove it. Besides, if Roberto Vasquez wanted me removed from the picture he would use the direct approach. A couple of forklifts with feet would come around to tell me. Or remove me. One thing was certain, even his heavy lifters would know better than to follow me around in a rolling billboard. It was way too dumb even for them. Something else was going on here.

When I got tired of thinking I watched my neighbors fool around. The larger of the gray squirrels was the male but he didn't seem to be having much luck tonight. Probably forgot to give the little lady a Valentine acorn. I spied the owner's cat slinking through the leaves. He was trying to sneak up on them but they spotted him before he got within ten yards. They moved so fast it was a blur.

He had been seriously outclassed and, if he could have, I think he would have blushed. I tapped on the window and held up a fork full of the fettuccine. With a little tuna, it's one of his favorites. He seems to like Liz Story, too. Cats raised on Fancy Feast are no match for street-smart squirrels. While the cat and I finished the fettuccine I wondered if a certain fancy feast P.I. was going to be a match for some street-smart killers. I planned to find out right after dinner.

18

It was nearly rush hour by the time I cleaned up the dinner dishes and hit the road. I took Sunset all the way and made it to Hollywood a little before five. I was tired from the day's events and the long drive and the pasta was making me sleepy. I wished I could stop the hourglass for a little while but I knew it was wishful thinking. If I was going to find a way to help the Silvermans before the next payment was due I had to find it soon.

Twilight Productions was located on Ivar between Sunset and Hollywood in one of the seedier parts of town, if there is such a thing. The whole place has declined more and more with each passing decade and has become a faded and shabby monument to the glory days.

Hookers of both sexes, and some of indeterminate sex, troll the streets waiting for the next guy with a hundred bucks in his pocket and enough need to edge out his fear of dying. Tourists wander around pointing at the stars set in the sidewalk and matching footprints with the immortals outside of Grauman's Theater, all the while, keeping a wary eye on the natives. They have a shocked and slightly dazed look in their eyes. The brochures didn't describe the place like this. The locals hang out in large numbers, smoking cigarettes, dealing drugs, selling sex and, a few of them, ranting insanely. Most of them have a cynical air of failure about them that is palpable. You wonder where they all came from and where they all are ultimately going. Most of all you wonder why they chose to land here. The majority of them came from someplace else and it's hard to imagine it being worse than where they are now. These days they call the place Hollyweird and it is.

The offices of Twilight Productions were in a run down two-story building with no sign on the door, just the street number. I knocked but got no answer and tried the door. It was unlocked and I went in. The reception area was empty except for a worn couch and a couple of decrepit directors chairs set on either side of a battered end table. The carpet looked like it might be the original and was worn through to the floor in places. The walls were cheap wood grain paneling that had been scratched and gouged so often they looked like a Sam Francis monotone. It was a safe bet the company's profits weren't being poured back into the decor. The back wall was a waist high divider with a sliding, frosted glass window above it. It was straight out of the forties. I raised my voice, "Hello, anyone here?" No one answered. I tried sliding the window but it was latched somehow from the other side. I rapped on it a few times with my keys but got only silence for my trouble. I guess they weren't too worried about someone stealing the furniture.

There was a door to the right of the partition that had a 'private' sign on it. I knocked and then tried it. It, too, was unlocked. I opened it and stepped through to a narrow carpeted hallway that ran to the back of the building. There were doors at ten or fifteen foot intervals on either side of the hallway. The carpet was a fawn color and looked new. The walls were eggshell white, freshly painted, and lined with framed posters of the company's films. Most were of near naked women in a variety of naughty poses and had titles like "Exxxtasy" and "Blue Highway". I couldn't decide on a favorite. The first door was the room on the other side of the glass partition. It contained an oak desk with an ergonomic secretary's chair and some oak file cabinets huddled in the corner. A multi-line phone and an IBM computer and printer sat on the desk. The furnishings were Spartan but expensive. As in the hallway the carpet looked new and the walls freshly painted. After the reception area it was like looking at a before and after picture.

All of the doors were oak, presumably to match the furniture or maybe vice versa. I walked down the hall knocking on each and trying the handle. They were all locked and when I got to the last one I found a carpeted stairway that ran to the second floor. I climbed in silence.

The second floor was a carbon copy of the first except there were fewer doors. As I was passing the first door it opened and a squat, barrel-chested man started to step out. He had a shiny, bulbous face that looked like someone had sculpted it out of dumplings. What hair he had was long and combed straight across in an attempt to cover his baldness. It was held in place with about a pound of hair oil. I surprised him a little and he jumped back a step and made a move with his right hand to reach under his jacket. For a guy his size he was surprisingly quick. He was dressed in an expensive worsted suit, worn over an open collared yellow shirt. In place of a tie, was a thick gold chain. Probably couldn't find a tie long enough to fit around his neck, what there was of it. His hand stopped midway, resting on his chest and a diamond pinkie ring winked at me. It had to be at least a carat. Slick.

"Who the fuck are you? How did you get in here?"

"I'm looking for Roberto Vasquez, the door was open and I couldn't find anyone so I came upstairs."

He looked me over and moved his hand back down to his side. He wasn't at all self-conscious about having almost pulled a gun on a stranger.

"Mr. Vasquez ain't here, he's never here. Anyone who knows him knows that. You got business with him I suggest you call and make an appointment."

Politely, I said, "Could you give me a number where I can get in touch with him?"

"He don't have no numbers."

"Then how could I call and make an appointment?"

He just stared back at me and grinned as if to say, get it? He thought he was a riot.

It made my brain hurt. I could spend all day kibitzing with the guy and get nowhere. It had worked with the hotel manager so I thought I would try it again. "Manny Ortega. Ring any bells? I would like to talk to Mr. Vasquez about him." He didn't blink an eye and I couldn't tell if the name meant anything to him. I could see he was thinking and it wasn't easy for him. If he shooed me away and it turned out I was trouble he might be in some himself.

"Why don't you go ask? It can't hurt and I bet he will see me."

He made up his mind.

"Wait here." He started to walk away, stopped abruptly and came back. He stood about a foot in front of me and said, "Turn around and put your hands on the wall." Up close the pores in his nose looked like meteor craters. I didn't much want to give up my gun but I needed to see Vasquez and it wouldn't do me much good to knock the guy on his ass. By the look of him it might make a fair amount of noise. I did as I was told and he did a thorough job of frisking me. He grunted when he found my Beretta. When he couldn't find anything else he said, "Wait here," again and walked down the hall, my gun dangling carelessly in his hand. He knocked on a door at the end of the hall and went in without waiting for a response.

I was wishing I hadn't given up my gun so readily. These were probably the guys who had killed Ortega. I could leave and come back later. I could call him on the phone. I could always get another gun. And I could cover all the mirrors in my home, too.

The door opened again and Slick came lumbering back my way. My gun had disappeared to somewhere and I wasn't sure if I was relieved or not. He waved at me to follow him and turned around and waited until I caught up with him. He opened the door and motioned me in. I went in and he followed, shutting the door firmly behind us.

I had never seen Roberto Vasquez before. I only knew him by reputation but I knew that the man sitting in front of me couldn't be him. Vasquez had to be pushing seventy and the guy sitting behind the desk couldn't have been much over thirty. He had on a charcoal three-piece suit and a brilliant white dress shirt with a starched collar held in place by a gold stay. You don't see many of those anymore. The tie was a tastefully muted print in deep maroon and his hair was stylishly long, blown dry and sprayed to perfection. He had on an extravagant looking watch that told the time in different cities around the world. Probably important for him to know what time it was in Bogota. He glanced at it once, folded his hands on the desk in front of him and gave me a hard stare. I was supposed to be intimidated. His nails were neatly manicured and I thought about telling him it diminished the effect of the stare.

The silence hung there between us, growing heavier as the seconds ticked by. Behind me I could hear Slick shifting his weight from one foot to another. Blow Dry sat and stared. We stayed that way for what seemed like a long time but was probably only a minute. It looked like it was up to me to get the ball rolling.

"Your reception area could use a little paint and some new furniture, maybe some plants. It would make all the difference when someone walks in the door. You know what they say, you only get one chance to make a first impression."

He looked over my shoulder at Slick as if to say, 'What's with this guy?' and then looked at me, "What the fuck do you want?"

"It was just a thought."

"I want decorating tips I'll hire a fucking decorator, I asked you what you want. If I have to ask again it will hurt. Understand?"

"I'm looking for Roberto Vasquez. I need to talk with him about a private matter."

He sort of smirked when I said private matter and looked at Slick again. "What private matter?"

"It's personal but if it would help, you might mention the name Manny Ortega to him."

"He doesn't know any Manny Ortega."

"I think you might be mistaken and I'm sure he would want to talk with me if he knew what it was about."

His nostrils flared a little and I could tell I had hit a nerve. Not about the name, that had drawn no reaction, but about talking with Vasquez. I wasn't sure why though.

He glared at me hard, "Listen asshole, you break in here and wander around la, de, da like you own the place. I should call the cops and have you arrested for trespassing. Now, I'm telling you, Mr. Vasquez doesn't know any what's his name. You take it out of here while you still can and you forget about seeing him. You got that?"

"The door was open," I said, like that meant something.

Behind me Slick said, "You want I should throw him out, Bobbie? Maybe he gets the point while he's bouncing down the stairs."

Bobbie. Of course. Roberto Vasquez had a kid and I was talking to him. Roberto, Jr. If I had been a cartoon character a light bulb would have appeared over my head. This whole thing was starting to make some sense. I hadn't been able to see how Vasquez fit into this and now I realized he probably didn't. He probably didn't know anything about it.

Bobbie held up his hand to hold off Slick and looked back at me. "What's it gonna be?" I nodded over my shoulder in Slick's direction. "I was just thinking about first cousin marriages. How unfair it is to the children."

Behind me I thought I could hear Slick's teeth grinding. His voice was a growl, "Let me have this asshole, Bobbie. I'll kick his fucking teeth out."

Bobbie's nostrils began to flare more and his face began to redden but he didn't say anything so I said, "You're Roberto's kid, aren't you?" He looked at Slick like he wanted to kill him. Maybe he would after I left. If I left. My palms were beginning to sweat. He rose from his desk and pointed his finger at me and shouted, "Get the fuck out of here, now, and if you want to keep breathing you forget about Ortega and you stay the fuck away from my father. You go near him and you're a dead man. A fucking dead man." He said the name Ortega like he knew who he was. It seemed, too, that Bobbie had inherited his father's even disposition. I was reasonably sure now that I knew what was going on but I wanted to be positive.

"He doesn't know, does he? He doesn't know about any of it." I wished I had my gun. I wished it a lot. He slammed both hands down on the desk hard and roared, "Eddie." Eddie must be the ham hock behind me.

I heard him move and I ducked and pivoted left. He had my gun out and had been planning on denting the back of my head with it. I came up out of the crouch, grabbed his wrist with my right hand and the gun with the left. I twisted the gun and his hand down and away from me, leveraged my elbow under his and straightened his arm while I bent his hand back hard. In the same motion I pulled him to the side and shoved him with my hip. He lost his balance and I yanked on his arm and twisted him around so that he fell on his back. It was no harder than tipping over a dump truck. Still holding the gun hand, I pushed off with my left foot and dropped my right knee into the V below his sternum putting my whole body into it. It must have felt like being hit by a wrecking ball. He grunted in pain and let go of the gun. I stood quickly, racked the slide back and pointed it at Bobbie. It all happened in a matter of seconds but Bobbie was fast. He had his hand halfway out of a desk drawer.

"Don't."

It was all he could do to control himself and I wasn't sure he was going to stop. I didn't want to kill Roberto Vasquez's kid but I wasn't sure he was going to give me a choice. The barrel of a twenty-two looks like a canon when it's pointed at you. He was staring down a nine millimeter but he didn't seem to be bothered much. Eddie was lying on his side curled up in a fetal position, gasping for air and moaning in pain.

"You better get him to a hospital, I probably ruptured something and if he's bleeding internally he could die."

It seemed to work. He glanced at Eddie and his eyes began to focus. He let the gun drop into the drawer with a loud thunk.

"Slow, very slow," I said. He pulled his hand out an inch at a time and when it was out he stood there, hands at his sides, looking at me like I was some new species. Probably not many people had ever gone up against him and it must have been a shock. When you are Roberto Vasquez's kid you probably begin to think you're invincible.

I told him to close the drawer and he did. I didn't know how many more Eddies were in the building and I wasn't in any hurry to find out. I backed up to the door and moved to one side while I opened it behind my back.

"If you make a move for the gun or try to come after me I will kill you." He continued to stare at me and I had no idea if he registered what I had said. I figured it couldn't hurt to try, "Leave the Silvermansalone. I know it's you blackmailing them and if you distribute the tapes I'll have the cops all over you." It was a bluff but maybe he wouldn't know that. With Manny dead I probably couldn't prove anything. That's why he was dead.

He just stared at me, zombie like. I nodded at Eddie, "Call an ambulance," and ducked my head out the door. The hall was clear and I backed into it leaving the door open. I watched him all the way down the hall while I listened for sounds behind me. It didn't take more than a hundred years to get to the stairs and I was moist with sweat by the time I backed down them and made my way out. I felt like running but didn't. Out on the street I put the gun away and walked to my car. I looked up and I could see Bobbie staring at me out his window. I couldn't see his expression but he was as motionless as a statue. For some stupid reason I gave him a little wave as I drove off. See ya, Bobbie. Have a nice day.

19

It had been an eventful visit and it left me with a number of choices. I wasn't too keen on any of them. I took Ivar south to Santa Monica Boulevard and turned left. I headed east on Santa Monica all the way to Vermont and took another left. I needed to think and the traffic was heavy enough that I had to pay attention. I was distracted, too, by the thought that some of Bobbie's goons might have followed me. Unlikely as that was I drove with one eye on the rear view mirror. I don't know what I was expecting, maybe a black limousine to come roaring up behind me and open fire. It was silly but I couldn't shake the feeling.

I wasn't sure I wanted to leave Hollywood just yet and I decided to drive up to Griffith Park Observatory. It would be quiet this time of day. I took the winding road up to the top of the hill and parked. I got out and strolled over to the domed observatory and climbed the outside steps to the roof. It was still too early for the evening show and for the couples who came up here to hold hands and admire the view. Except for a handful of people I was alone and I lifted a leg over the waist high wall and sat on the ledge. The sun was beginning to set and there was a pale orange glow in the sky and city lights twinkled across the horizon. Below me was Hollywood and the Capitol Records building and in the distance I could make out the lights of Beverly Hills and Westwood and, on the far horizon, Santa Monica. It was beautiful and, as always, a little awe-inspiring. The couple sitting down the wall a ways looked like they thought so too.

I had come to Hollywood with an idea in the back of my mind that perhaps I could reason with Vasquez. I hoped that he might see some logic in letting go of the Silvermans now that I knew who he was. Vasquez hadn't made it to where he was by being easily intimidated but he could make a million dollars in much easier and, for him, much safer ways than blackmailing someone like Silverman. I wasn't sure if he would go for the idea but it had seemed worth a try. Now I didn't know what to do. I was reasonably certain that Vasquez didn't know about the blackmail and that his kid was, putting it mildly, a loose canon. I didn't hold out much hope of reasoning with Bobbie. He evidently had little fear of the authorities if he was blackmailing Silverman and it looked as if he had killed Ortega almost as an afterthought. I was probably next if what I said to him had meant anything. I had crossed a line and there wasn't much chance of going back. In the mind of someone like Bobbie there would be one very obvious solution to the problem. Me being the problem.

The kids down the wall were passing a joint back and forth and laughing while they stole glances at me to see if I was shocked. I wondered what they would think if I told them I had found a dead boy in a trunk this morning and had just put a man in the hospital. And come within a finger twitch of killing another. I had a hunch they would move a lot farther down the wall.

As I saw it, I had three choices. I could talk to Silverman and tell him what had happened and try to convince him to forget the tape and let it go. He wouldn't like it but things had changed. I had found out who was doing the blackmailing and they weren't the amateurs I had suspected. They were going about it like amateurs but behind them was Roberto Vasquez. If he came into the mix we had a whole new ball game. Another choice was to go to the cops. Silverman's clout would buy us something but with Manny dead it would be hard to prove anything and Stoddard wouldn't talk no matter how much we pressured him. The way I saw it, if Silverman was willing to pay, Bobbie could keep on blackmailing him and there wasn't much I could do about it.

My third choice was to just keep chipping away and see what I could find that might incriminate Bobbie enough to make him back off. Maybe I could still connect him with the tapes somehow. If not I was going to have to find something else on him. If I didn't get shot first maybe I could.

There was another choice but it was the least appealing of all. I could confront Vasquez with what I knew and tell him I was going to get his kid sent away if he didn't put a stop to things. It was more than just a bluff but it might take awhile. Since Vasquez didn't know what was going on I might just pull it off. Then again I might get him mad at me, too.

All the thinking made me wish I still smoked. The glow was gone from the sky and the stars had come out. It was one of the clearest nights in memory and I wished, too, that I weren't sitting here alone. The view was lovely and it would have been nice to share it with someone. The kids had given up on shocking me and left. Probably off to score some more dope and listen to Nine Inch Nails. I was alone with my thoughts and tonight they weren't very good company. I flipped an imaginary cigarette over the wall and left.

20

The last tumbler snicked into place and I pushed the door open but didn't go in. I stayed to one side and waited. There were no alarms that I could hear and no one came rushing down the stairs. I poked my head in and shone the flashlight along the inside of the doorframe. No wires, no infrared and no motion detectors that I could see. Somehow, it seemed like Bobbie's style, cheap locks and no alarm. He probably thought no one in their right mind would dare to break into his office. He was probably right.

It was too much to hope that the tape would be here but maybe I could find a connection. I picked the locks on the downstairs rooms, one by one. It was slow going. They contained thousands of videotapes. From what I could tell they were all copies of Twilight's stock in trade. A lot of them had titles matching the posters in the hall and others had equally titillating names. I pulled a few down and took them out of the boxes. The labels matched the titles on the boxes. It would take weeks to go through all of them. If Laurel and Beth's film debut was in here anywhere it was well hidden. Two of the rooms held lighting and sound equipment and in one of them I found some professional video cameras. They looked small enough to fit in the air duct at the hotel.

I had a hard time believing that all this equipment and videotape were left for such easy pickings. Any industrious twelve-year-old could have broken in and carted it away. Bobbie and Company must have a bad reputation on the streets to be so negligent and it wasn't a very reassuring thought.

I saved the receptionist's office for last and went through it slowly. If there were secrets to be found they were probably here. It took me a long time to go through the file cabinets. There was nothing in them to help me unless I planned on distributing some home movies. I got the impression that these offices were mostly administrative. A lot of the bookings and sales were handled here but the main distribution facility seemed to be located at an address in the valley. The tapes I had seen looked like they were mostly for promotion. It was an inefficient set up and I assumed that Bobbie had offices here so he could have a legitimate front from which to oversee his other, less legitimate, enterprises in the area.

I went through the desk next and in one drawer I found a folder labeled Current Bills. They seemed to be what you would expect for any business: utilities, phone, and so on. There was one from a florist and one from a jeweler and another from a tailor. The clothing bill meant nothing except that Bobbie liked to look good. The flowers had been sent to a woman at an address in the Marina but the jewelry store had noted only that a woman's necklace had been purchased. No address. I used the copy machine to make copies of the two invoices and the last six phone bills and put everything back in order, locked the cabinet and moved my search upstairs.

I wasn't expecting company but I was still keyed up from my earlier visit and I moved through the upper offices more quickly. There were a few posters and press kits for each of the films in one of the offices and the rest of them seemed to be sales and booking offices. I gave them a cursory search and then went into Bobbie's office. The blinds on the window behind Bobbie's desk were open and I went over and looked out. The lights on top of the strip club were flashing, advertising all nude girls. Judging from the number of cars parked in the lot, business must be slow. Except for an old guy shuffling along with a paper sack in his hand, the block was deserted. Every few steps he would take a drink of something in the sack but he never slowed his pace. Practice. I twisted the blinds closed and began to go through the desk. The center drawer was locked and it took me a little while to open it. There were a few pens and paper clips and business cards, one from a real estate company and another from what was probably another porno producer. In the back left corner of the drawer was an address book. I pulled it out and put it on top of the desk. I went through the other drawers but found nothing else of interest unless you count a hairbrush, a hand mirror, a can of hair spray, some breath fresheners and a bottle of cologne. The only thing missing was the mood music and a pack of condoms. Probably kept those in the back seat of his car.

I leafed through the book quickly; movie producers, distributors, theaters and a few real estate numbers. Many of the entries were for women. I didn't want to take the time to go through the book now so I went back down stairs and copied it, two pages at a time. It took me fifteen minutes to copy it all and my nerves were beginning to stretch. It was time to go. I hustled back upstairs and put the book away and re-locked the drawer. I opened the blinds again, took a quick look around to make sure I hadn't disturbed anything else and left.

I was just starting down the stairs when I heard car doors slam in the back parking lot. I thought about trying to run out the front but I knew I wouldn't even make it down the stairs before they came in. I hurried back down the hall and went into the storage room just off Bobbie's office. As I was closing the door I could hear two or three people coming up the stairs. I pulled out my gun, took the safety off, and waited. There was still a round chambered from this afternoon's adventure.

They were silent coming down the hall except for the heavy thud of steps. It sounded like at least three people. They went into Bobbie's office and shut the door. I couldn't hear a thing through the door and there were boxes stacked against the common wall. I tried pressing my ear into one of the spaces but I was still too far away. They built them well when this old building had gone up and all I could hear was the murmur of conversation. I stayed that way for a few minutes and was about to give up when I heard my name. It sounded like Bobbie and he was yelling. It was hard to make out what he was saying because he was using so many expletives, hitting on them louder. I caught only snatches and every other word was profanity but it wasn't hard to tell I wouldn't be getting an invitation to his next soirée.

What surprised me was that he knew my name. I hadn't given it to him this afternoon and he hadn't asked. I couldn't understand how he had found out in such a short time. My car had been parked too far away for him to read my plates this afternoon. The only thing I could think of was that Manny had told the hitters about me. It didn't go down well but it was the only answer I could come up with. They had gone there to kill him, not for information. There had been no signs of a struggle or that he had been questioned.

The other possibility was that Stoddard had told them about me but that seemed even less likely. He would keep his head buried in the sand until someone yanked it out for him.

Now that I thought about it, why hadn't Eddie lifted my wallet along with my gun this afternoon? And Bobbie had been more intent on warning me off than finding out who I was. Curiouser and curiouser.

Whoever was with Bobbie had apparently calmed him down and I couldn't make out anything else. I settled in on a box of one-sheets to wait. They weren't going to stay the night and all I had to do was sit tight until they left. It was forty-five minutes before I heard the phone ring. They must have been waiting for the call because the door opened a minute later and I heard them start down the hall. I could see the shadows moving past the door. All except one.

"I'm gonna get a poster a that new broad for Tino. He's been bustin' my balls all week about it." The door opened a foot and I raised my gun when one of the others shouted, "Fuck that, get it tomorrow. Let's go."

Someone else said, "Fuckin' A." It might have been me. Something else was said that I couldn't hear and there was laughter and then I could hear them going down the stairs. My would be visitor stood that way for maybe a week, hand on the knob, and then made up his mind. The door closed and I heard him hurrying down the hall. I remembered how to breath and took in a lot of air, waited another fifteen minutes and left.

Outside, the temperature had dropped and it was a brisk walk the two blocks to my car. The better to keep me awake, I thought. Despite the cold, all I could think about was sleep. Breaking and entering is stressful and I had done enough of it in the past twelve hours to skew the crime statistics.

21

It was only eleven o'clock but it seemed like a long time ago that I had been in Palm Springs and I was so tired that, if there had been room to stretch out, I might have slept in my car. Mercifully, traffic was light and I made it to my turn off in a little over thirty minutes. I wanted nothing more than to go inside and lie down but all the way home I could hear Bobbie shouting my name. Sleep was going to have to wait a little longer. Instead of driving up to my house I pulled into the neighbor's driveway and parked. My house was another hundred yards up the road but I took the bushes and began to pick my way carefully through the foliage.

It's funny the tricks your mind can play. The paranoia heightens your sensitivity to the smallest sound or image and up ahead I began to imagine all kinds of things. I started seeing shapes in the bushes and had to make a conscious effort to shake it off. It is better not to anticipate. When you start seeing things that aren't there you can miss the things that are. It took me half an hour to travel the distance to my house and when I got there I squatted in the bushes and waited and watched for another half hour. I closed my eyes and opened them several times to improve my night vision but I couldn't see anything and there was no noise except my breathing. If they were out there waiting they were good. I was getting punchy from fatigue and decided the hell with it. I was ready to shoot my way into the bedroom. I took a step into the clearing in front of the house and waited. I took another and then another. I walked unhurriedly up to the front door and put my ear to it. Maybe they would have my Hank Crawford on and give themselves away. I put my flash on the lock for a moment but there was no sign of it having been picked. I stood to the side and slid the key in as quietly as possible. I pushed the door open and waited. Nothing. I poked my head in and back but couldn't see anyone. It was too dark to be sure but it didn't look like there was anyone in the living room. I was about to go in when it hit me. The red light on my answering machine wasn't blinking. I had expected to find a number of messages on it but there seemed to be none. I poked my head in longer and looked at it again. Just a steady red glow. If someone had listened to my messages and didn't know how to save them the light would be glowing steadily. Like it was now.

I knew I was tired and not thinking clearly but my name coming up at Bobbie's late night meeting was not my imagination. I kept wondering who the phone call had been from. It was hard to conceive he would move on me this fast but, until an hour ago, I had been assuming he didn't even know who I was. I wondered what else I had been wrong about. One thing I knew for certain. The red light wasn't blinking.

I got up and stood in the doorway. I said, "Michael, you home? Sorry to bother you but we can't find the cat." Then I sort of mumbled as if I was talking to myself. "Of course he isn't home, stupid. His car isn't here." I made a calling the cat sound, "Buster, here boy, you in there Buster?" I waited a beat and then pulled the door shut and began to walk back down the road. About twenty yards out I headed into the bushes again and made my way back to the house. I took up a post on the hillside just outside the door. I didn't know if I had fooled them but I thought pretending to be my neighbor might spook them into bolting. It may have saved my life, too. In any event, if they were in there, I figured they would leave before first light. I was going to be waiting for them when they did. Provided I didn't fall asleep first and tip them off by rolling down the hill into the door.

I could go call the cops and report a prowler but if no one was waiting it would be embarrassing. Worse, I would be answering a lot of questions. It might be less painful getting shot.

I got as comfortable as I could and settled in. It was cold and I thought about getting my coat from the car but stayed put. If I got warm I might doze off. Several hours passed and nothing happened. There were no noises from inside or any other sign that someone was in there. I started thinking I should just go in. There were any number of reasons why the message light wasn't blinking. Maybe the power had gone out or the machine was malfunctioning. Maybe no one wanted to talk to me.

I could have been an architect, maybe a doctor. I could have a vacation home in Carmel; drive up Highway 1 on the weekends and go to sleep with the sound of the ocean in my ear. We could take the station wagon, the wife, the kids and me. Right now, it didn't sound too bad, mortgage payments, braces and all.

I shifted around, trying to get comfortable. The temperature had dropped and my joints were stiff from sitting on the ground so long. I would get up every now and then and stretch but it was a losing battle. The longer I sat the stiffer I got. I couldn't walk around because of the noise I would make. My fingers were what concerned me most. I worked them often to keep the blood flowing. It seems like a little thing but it's hard to shoot with stiff fingers. The muscles don't respond or they jerk and pull you off target. That was all academic, of course, if no one was in there. I could go in and take a hot shower and then climb into a nice soft bed. Nobody was in there. No way Bobbie had sent people this fast. He didn't know anything about me. I could be the police commissioner's son for all he knew.

I was getting dopey with fatigue. Any combat grunt will tell you it's the real enemy. It clouds your thinking and can make you so paranoid you don't trust your own mother. You can't remember details or make up your mind about things as simple as eating. The indecision tires you even more. When it happens you have to clear your head and go with your gut. Animal instincts. Every instinct I had told me to sit tight.

The first gray hint of dawn was breaking through the trees when I heard them. Someone turned on the kitchen faucet and I heard the water gurgling through the pipes. It shook me. I had come very close to walking in there.

I knew they would be leaving soon. As secluded as it was back here, they wouldn't want to take the chance of being seen. Their car had to be parked somewhere nearby and they would have to walk to it. I hunkered around and stood up. One of my legs had gone to sleep and I shook it violently to get the circulation back. There was no cover between myself and the door except the bushes but I had the element of surprise on my side. It was getting light fast and it wouldn't be long.

There were two of them. I waited until they closed the door and, in a conversational tone, said, "If I had known you were coming I would have brought home Chinese."

It was too dark to make them out clearly but one of them, the shorter one, looked older. The other one was big and still had a baby fat look about him. Mutt and Jeff. They had come dressed for the occasion and both wore dark clothing.

They stopped but neither of them jumped. Good nerves. Pros. They stood there looking at me through the dim light for a moment and then as if on some unspoken signal began to shift apart, making it harder for me to cover them.

"Guys, I'm tired and hungry and kind of cranky from sitting out here all night. I will shoot the next one of you that moves."

They stopped moving and waited. It was my call.

"Lock your hands behind your head and turn around, slowly, one at a time. You first, shorty." The shorter of the two did as he was told and the larger one followed suit.

"Get on your knees now, slowly. Cross your ankles behind you. That's it. Now, lie face down, hands above your head."

They almost got me. Again, as if on signal, they rolled in opposite directions and began reaching for their weapons. I went for the big target first and shot the larger one high in the chest as he started to turn. He went down but I wasn't sure he was dead. He hadn't even cleared his holster. The smaller man was much quicker and he had his gun out and managed to get off a round before I did. It ticked the leaves just to the left of my arm as I was squeezing the trigger. If he had taken a half-second longer to aim I would be dead. I hit him in the center of the chest and he toppled backward like he had been kicked. I jumped down from the hillside and circled around the little guy towards the first man. He was lying on his back and I could hear him trying to breathe. I had hit him in the lung and the hole was making a sucking sound every time he tried to inhale. He was drowning in his own blood and I knew he would be dead before the ambulance arrived. I didn't have to look at the smaller man to know he was dead. Through the trees I saw my neighbors lights go on and I knew the cops would be here soon.

My knees felt funny and I began to shiver from the cold. I went in and called an ambulance, grabbed a parka from the coat rack and a spare blanket and pillow and went back out. I kneeled down beside him, put the pillow under his head and the blanket over him to help fight off the shock. He was starting to gasp and his eyes weren't working too well but I could see that he was trying to focus on me. He smiled or maybe grimaced and then he died. He had known what it was like to watch someone die, someone he had killed. Maybe it bothered him, too. Maybe he hadn't done enough of it yet not to care anymore. Maybe that was why he smiled. I chose to think so.

22

I had asked for Sam when the black-and-white showed up. They had taken my gun and told me not to touch anything. I said I was going to make some coffee and they told me to wait until the detectives arrived. I ignored them and went into the house. My look must have said something because they didn't follow me and they thanked me politely when I brought them each a cup. We stood around in the morning stillness listening to the birds and now and then stealing glances at the bodies. I could tell the younger of the two hadn't seen many. He stared longer and there was a haunted look in his eyes. Probably wondering about his career choice.

Sam arrived in his own car, dressed in a jogging suit. His hair was matted from sleep and his shoes were untied. He must have been worried they would haul me downtown and start the rubber hose treatment before he got here. The old softy.

"Making new friends, I see. Whose are they, Vasquez's?"

"I don't know. They were waiting for me when I got home."

He gave me a hard look. "I haul my tired ass out of bed because you asked for me and you give me this crap. You plan on sticking with that story you better get in touch with your attorney. Yesterday you call me with Roberto Vasquez's number and this morning there are a couple of zips dead in your driveway. You want me to believe that's a coincidence?"

I didn't say anything. There is no such thing as off-the-record with a cop. If I told Sam about the blackmail he would have to file a report and Silverman would be displeased. If he didn't say anything it would compromise him in a way I knew he would have trouble living with. Better to say nothing.

He threw up his hands. "Okay, it's your funeral." The other detectives had arrived and were waiting around until Sam was finished with me. He waved them over. He stared at me while he talked to them.

"He's all yours. He says it was self-defense and it probably was. That's if you call self defense putting a couple of goobers like those two up against a trained killer." With that he turned on his heel and left. I had never known him to be cruel or small. He was angry in a way I had never seen before.

The detectives had that "I've heard it all before" look in their eyes. The older of the two had a flushed complexion, broken veins on his nose and cheeks. A few more years to retirement. Hanging on until then. His partner at least looked interested.

"Okay," he said, "let's have it."

I told them the same thing I told Sam. They gave me hard stares, too. They teach it at the academy.

"Right, these two guys just happen to be waiting for you for no reason you can think of. Maybe they're from Publisher's Clearing House. Maybe you just aced yourself out of a fortune."

I matched his stare. "I don't know who they are." Technically, I was telling the truth. He sighed and looked at his partner. His partner put away his notebook and said, "Let's go. You can try this story on the captain. He loves being yanked out of bed at the crack of dawn. Why just yesterday he was saying how he's been getting too much sleep lately. He'll probably want to thank you personally."

I asked them if I could shower and change first. They thought that was pretty funny. They put me in the back of a black-and-white and on the way out I saw my landlord standing by the road in his robe and pajamas. He had his arm around his wife and they were squinting at me through the headlights as we drove past. I gave him a big friendly smile and waved.

It was almost ten o'clock by the time I got home and the sun was up for the day, hard and bright. The lab technicians had finished and yellow crime scene tape was strung everywhere. I had to make my way under and around it to get to the house. I slit the tape across the door with my keys and went in. It was a mess, finger print dust was on everything and the search hadn't been a neat one. I have someone come in every couple of weeks to do the heavy cleaning and today was her day. She would be in this afternoon and I hated to leave it like this but I was too tired to start on it. I decided, instead, to leave her some extra money. I didn't think she would mind. The cops wouldn't be too pleased when they found out the place had been cleaned but I didn't much care. It hadn't taken them long to ID the shooters and they had grilled me hard, hoping to get a tag on Vasquez. Either one of them.

The answering machine was blinking furiously at me, bless it's little heart, but I ignored it and went straight to the cupboard and poured myself two stiff shots of whiskey. I knocked back the first one and took the second with me to the shower. I turned the water on as hot as I could take it and stood under it until I was wrinkled. I grabbed the second shot on the way to the bedroom and set it on the bed stand as I finished toweling off. I unplugged the phones and got in bed. When the alarm woke me three hours later the whiskey was still sitting there. All I had to do was drink it and lay back down. It would have been so easy.

I shrugged off the covers, started the coffee, plugged in the phones and jumped into the shower again. I alternated between hot and cold to wake up and was halfway there by the time I finished.

Yesterday afternoon was the last time I had eaten and I was starting to gnaw on the towel around my neck. The coffee was a Sumatran blend I had found at a specialty shop in Brentwood and it was atoss up between it and the one I had been served at the Silverman's. I sweetened it with cream and honey and drank my first cup while I cracked four eggs in a bowl and whipped them to make an omelet. I added skim milk, salt, pepper and a dash of oregano. I used only the whites from the first three eggs and all of the last one for taste. That way I could have real eggs and still save my arteries. What could be better?

I heated a non-stick omelet pan and diced some tomatoes and green onions and sliced an avocado very thin. While it was heating I took some of the bread from yesterday and put it in the toaster oven to heat. When the pan was hot I poured in the eggs and sprinkled some feta cheese over them. I kept pulling in the edges and letting the sides fill up until all of the egg was firm. When the bottom was lightly browned I flipped it over and put the tomatoes, onions and avocado on one half, sprinkled in a little more cheese and folded it over. When everything was ready I poured a second cup of coffee and sat down to eat. I was just taking my first bite when the phone rang. It was Silverman.

"You haven't returned my messages and I haven't been able to reach you at either number you gave me. I expected to hear from you last night. We could have received another call. I am paying you a substantial sum and I expect your full attention to this matter. I hope there is a good reason for your lapse."

I thought about telling him there were several good, albeit dead, reasons but I let it go. He was rattled enough. Instead I said, "Mr. Silverman, what I do isn't nine to five and there are times when it's impossible for me to get to a phone. I wouldn't worry about getting a call real soon, though. I have a hunch it will be a little while."

"What have you learned, Chambers, what reason do you have to think the blackmailers won't be calling soon?"

I looked longingly at my omelet.

"Let's just call it a hunch and leave it at that. Look, Mr. Silverman, I may be on to something but I want to explore it more before I say anything. As soon as I know anything concrete I'll call you. Until then I think it would be a good idea if we arranged for someone to stay with Laurel full time. I can't wait around for the phone to ring and still investigate. I can recommend someone if you like."

"I've been thinking along those lines myself. I can arrange it through the studio."

"You need someone with skills, Mr. Silverman. Not some weight lifter who breaks bricks with his head and pushes around overzealous fans. You need someone who has pulled the trigger. Do you understand what I mean?"

He was silent, as he had been that first morning he called. After awhile he said, "What is it, Michael, what have you found out? Is Laurel in some kind of danger?"

It was the first time he had called me Michael. Barry and me, movin' on up.

"No, I don't think so. It's just a precaution."

He had a right to know who was blackmailing him but I didn't want him panicking and getting the police involved. Especially after I had lied to them. If I could connect Bobbie to the tapes somehow I might still be able to fix this without the Silverman's having to go public. I might be able to stay alive, too. I glanced at my omelet again and the steam had stopped rising from it.

"It's nothing that will make any difference. Let me play this out and then we'll talk. I promise you won't be any worse off than you are now and I may have a way to fix this."

He didn't like it but he finally agreed and we hung up. I went back to my omelet but it was cold. I put it in the microwave for a minute to heat and was putting it on the table again when the doorbell rang. I grabbed my gun from the counter and looked through the peephole. It was a television reporter. Actually it was a number of them. They were standing in a small group talking and glancing often towards my front door, afraid that they might miss a good sound byte. There were news vans, too, and people were pulling cameras and lights out of them. It was easy to tell which ones were the technicians. They were the ones wearing T-shirts and jeans and looking like they had let their health club memberships lapse.

I got a piece of paper from my desk and wrote Mr. Chambers has left town. I am the house sitter and I don't know anything. Please do not bother the Dobermans as you are leaving. I have to let them out to do their business. They have had enough excitement for one day and have become extremely agitated.

I opened the door a crack and slipped the paper out and then shut the door.

I sat down again to eat and the phone rang. This time it was the landlord.

"Hello, Phil."

"Yes, well, hello yourself, Michael. I suppose you know why I'm calling. I mean, gun shots and dead bodies. What in the name of blue blazes is going on? Reporters have been driving us crazy and Michelle is afraid to come home after work. Frankly, so am I."

"It's nothing, Phil. Just a case of mistaken identity. It will all blow over in a few days and things will be back to normal. Absolutely nothing to worry about. Just tell the reporters you don't know anything and they will leave you alone." I hated to lie but they weren't in danger and I wanted to put his mind at ease. "Now that I think of it, you could do me a big favor by telling them I have left town."

"Left town? Are you leaving town, Michael? If you are there are some details we need to take care of. Papers to sign and so forth. It might be best at that. We are quiet people."

I interrupted him before he got too keen on the idea. "I'm not leaving, Phil, I only want them to think I've left." It might be time to consider exercising the purchase option in my lease.

"Oh." I could hear the disappointment in his voice. Chambers, beloved neighbor and tenant. I couldn't really blame him.

"Phil, there's someone at the door, I have to go but I'll talk to you about this later. Don't worry about coming home and don't forget to tell the reporters I left town. Thanks a lot. I really appreciate it."

I hung up and went to the door. It was the same reporter and he was holding up a note and gesturing with it. He wanted to slip it in the door. I opened the door a crack and grabbed the note. It said: We would like to take pictures of the dogs and the interior of the house and just ask you a few questions. Would that be all right? Unbelievable. Maybe I should have said rabid Dobermans. I wrote on the back of the note: You have three minutes to vacate the premises or I will call the police. This is private property and you are trespassing. They would at least have to retreat as far as Sunset.

I went back to my omelet but it was cold again. Twice in the microwave and I might as well be chewing on rubber. I had already washed the omelet pan and didn't want to do it again so I threw out the omelet and got dressed. I put a piece of toast in the toaster and settled for that. I had a call of my own to make.

I dialed Bobbie's number and when the receptionist answered I asked to speak to him.

"Who is calling, please?"

"John Holmes."

She asked me to wait and put me on hold. The name hadn't meant a thing to her.

I was kept on hold for a long time and then I heard someone say hello. I didn't know if it was Bobbie, I had never spoken to him on the phone.

"I think we got off on the wrong foot, Bobbie, it might be good if we could discuss our mutual problem in a civilized manner. No guns this time."

"That you, peeper, you got some nut, calling here." It was Bobbie. He made a noise that might have been a laugh. "John Holmes, that's good," he paused and then added, "'cept the faggot is dead." He emphasized the word dead. "I don't have any problem, though, peeper, I don't know what you're talking about."

"I'm not going away, Bobbie, the cat is out of the bag. I know about you and if you don't back off I'm going to advise the Silvermans to go public. The story will be old news by the time you send out the tapes. I have evidence to connect you with the tapes and Manny Ortega and I'll find more. I'll make you my hobby and when I'm finished I'm going to put you away."

He grunted, "I still don't know what you're talking about but I have to say it again, you got a set on you. A two-bit peeper threatening Roberto Vasquez's kid. I gotta admire your balls, peeper, if not your brains."

It was time to play my trump card. "Speaking of your father, I thought it might be interesting to have a chat with him."

He was silent for a moment and I could almost hear his blood pressure rising. "That would be a bad idea, peeper, a very bad idea."

"How much worse can it get? You've already sent the torpedoes. By the way, the Silvermans don't know about you, just me. Neither do the cops so don't do anything stupid."

"I don't know what you mean but maybe you would get the old man mad at you, you know. Have sort of a double indemnity situation." He made a good point.

"Think about it, sport, I gotta be going but I'll catch you later, know what I mean? Stay lucky." I started to say "It wasn't luck," but he had already hung up.

I hadn't really expected him to back off, especially after last night, but I had another reason for calling him. Now I knew he was at the office and I was going to follow him when he left.

I was reasonably sure he would wait until I was out of the picture before he made the next blackmail demand. It was the smart thing to do. I could be bluffing but he couldn't be sure how much I had on him and once I was gone it wouldn't matter. At least not to him.

23

It was almost three when I parked my rental car in the parking lot of the strip club across from the Twilight offices. It had taken me awhile to find the right spot to watch from. There was no place where I could sit and observe the alley and not be noticed. I finally decided to watch him sitting in his window. His back was to me and I could see him reasonably well. Unless he closed his blinds I should be okay. If he went to the bathroom I was going to be busy circling the block for nothing but sometimes life is a trade off.

The rental car was a Rent-A-Wreck special. A dented '67 Mustang with a stock 286 under the hood. It was a faded green color and in this part of town could pass for a late model, luxury sedan. Its best feature was that it didn't stand out. Bobbie had already seen my car and I didn't have a prayer of tagging along behind him in it. As a disguise I had on my Ray Ban aviators and a well-worn Yankees baseball cap. My tribute to Mantle and Maris and the '61 team, maybe the best to ever take the field. Maris broke Ruth's home run record that year. It took almost forty years for someone to break his.

For comfort as well as effect I had on faded 501's and a washed out Hawaiian shirt. Pulled out, the shirt covered my Beretta and, except for the gun, I could be just any pervert hanging out in the parking lot of a strip club. I had a copy of Larry McMurtry's Lonesome Dove with me to help fight the boredom. Gus was in a pickle with Blue Duck's gang but first things first. It had been twenty-four hours since my last meal. I opened a sack of warm, soft pretzels and munched on one while I made myself a couple of turkey and Swiss sandwiches on dark rye. There is a deli at the San Vicente Market that sells maybe the best turkey breast in town. It is the only place I've ever been that has Dijon mustard in those little packets. I used a plastic spoon to spread the mustard and by the time I finished I was starting to drool on my sleeve. I wolfed the first sandwich and forced myself to take human size bites of the next one. Between bites I kept an eye on Bobbie. I finished with an apple and some seedless grapes and settled in to wait.

The first hour went by slowly, interrupted only by the appearance of a lone club patron. He was a young man, mid-twenties, sharply dressed in a suit and tie. A young stockbroker or sales rep. He was wearing sunglasses just like mine. Hey brother. He glanced around to see if he was being watched, as if anyone he knew would be hanging out in this neighborhood, and then scuttled in the door. No one else came or went for the next hour. The dancers could have been performing in a phone booth with seats left over. I passed the time reading and listening to the radio and watching the locals. Two working girls ambled by on the way to their favorite corners wearing skimpy, skintight skirts and high heels. They were laughing about something and one of them had to stop walking she was giggling so hard. Good to be happy in your work. It made me smile, too, and I wondered what the joke was. Had to be about men. No question.

I had to circle the block once when Bobbie left his desk but it proved to be a false alarm. No cars pulled out of the alley and when I drove around front he was seated at his desk again. It was past five and the afternoon sun was angling off Bobbie's window. The glare was bad and it was getting hard to make him out. It was giving me a headache and I gave some thought to calling in a bomb threat, get them moving in there. Around five thirty, a woman came out and walked north towards Hollywood Boulevard. She must be the receptionist slash office manager. She was conservatively dressed, hair in a tidy bun, and looked like she could be a young grandmother. Jobs must be hard to come by in this neighborhood. Or maybe she had a pair of spiked heels and thigh high leather boots waiting in her closet at home.

It was after seven and I had been sitting for over three hours when a black stretch limo pulled up in front of the building. A few minutes later Bobbie and one of his goons came out and got in. A black limo. Bobbie watched too much television. They pulled out and were almost out of sight before I shook off my surprise. Bobbie could use a lesson in humility and who better than myself to give it to him?

I cranked up the Mustang and took off behind them, staying about a half a block back. They turned right on the Boulevard and drove east at a leisurely pace. At the Hollywood Freeway they took the on ramp south and I pulled back even further. The traffic was heavy and we crawled along past the downtown skyline until we reached the 10 and took that east to the 405 south. They got off on Washington and took it west toward Marina Del Rey.

The flower receipt I found at Bobbie's had a Marina address on it. We continued west and navigated our way to the Marina City Club. The name is misleading. No club, only two apartment buildings, each in the shape of a three-quarter moon. They tower over the landscape and like most of the Marina, are populated by people on the young and single fast track. Never mind that half of them are pushing middle age, they still drive Porsches.

There was a security gate at the entrance and I pulled over and watched Bobbie stick his head out of the rear window and punch in the code. The gate opened and the limo rolled through to the guest parking area. I didn't have the florist's receipt with me but I could remember the name and apartment number. Celine St. James, apartment 817. It seemed significant to me that Bobbie knew the security code. Celine was Bobbie's girlfriend, whoever she was.

I now knew Bobbie had a female friend who was not his wife but I wasn't sure what good the information was going to do me. Unlike myself, a lot of men have girlfriends and something told me Bobbie wasn't married.

Bobbie's bodyguard and driver stayed with the car and for the next two and a half hours the three of us sat and watched the last glow of the sunset turn into night. Occasionally they would talk but mostly they sat and stared. Must be a fun job, hanging out with the boss. Be all that you can be.

About ten o'clock Bobbie appeared with a statuesque blonde on his arm. He had his arm around her waist as they walked to the car. I was too far away to tell, but it looked like Bobbie had outdone himself. The driver got out and opened the back door for them and then got in behind the wheel. The bodyguard moved to the front with the driver and left the two of them alone in the back just like a prom date.

They drove off and I followed but it was a short trip. There are dozens of restaurants in the Marina and most of them are passable. Good food, pleasant atmosphere and reasonable prices. Nothing too exclusive because the locals have most of their money tied up in rent and car payments. The limo pulled into the lot of Carver's and I drove past. The divided road dead-ended in a loop and I u-turned and came back to the restaurant in time to see them go in. I pulled into the lot and found a spot in the corner where I could watch the limo and the front door.

I got out, stretched my legs, walked around a little to loosen the kinks, and found a path that led down to the docks below the restaurant. There was a grassy slope above the sidewalk that parallels the channel and I sat and looked at the moored boats. It was too dark to make out much detail but silhouetted in the lights across the channel were hundreds of sailing masts, a surreal forest of barren trees. Inside the restaurant the diners had much the same view but they wouldn't be able to hear the water lapping against the dock. Then again, they were having drinks and eating lobster.

The channel is man made and each boat is moored in an individual slot. Most of the boats are here year round and a few have live aboard owners. It was quiet and peaceful and I thought the live aboard owners had made a good choice. It's hard to find a simple life in L.A; there are too many people living on top of one another. If asked, we say we live here for the unbeatable weather but, in truth, we stay for more complicated reasons. A lot of us stay to be part of it. Part of the myth. Part of the mystique that is L.A., or Tinsel Town, or La La Land, or Lost Angeles. Whatever you call it, people come here from all over the world in search of their dreams. Any large city is a magnet for the ambitious and the restless, the hopeful and the hopeless, but none in quite the same way that this place is. They come here young and fresh faced, knowing that theirs is going to be the next star on the Boulevard or they come not so young, looking over their shoulder at the ruins. Either way they hope the myth is true. This is the place where anything can happen, where everything is possible and where your dreams can come true.

When people think of Los Angeles they think of Hollywood and they think of weirdoes. Despite its outward flamboyance, it's easy charm and laid back, anything goes attitude, there are strong and subtle undercurrents from a thousand subcultures that make up the real Los Angeles. In truth, it is a very middle class place. What appears to be a huge, sprawling metropolis is really a vast grouping of small towns each with its own distinct personality. To understand L.A. you must first learn about these places and the millions of working class people who inhabit them. You have to take these towns one by one and that involves time. A great deal of time.

What people don't understand they generally mock. It's like the old joke. Why is L.A. like a box of granola? Once you sort out all the fruits and nuts all you're left with are the flakes. Every cabby from Manhattan to Modesto can tell you another one.

The only lasting requisite of this city is that you be the genuine article. Whomever you choose to be, whatever you choose to do, you must be and do it well. Past that, no one much cares. There are too many people in line behind you for it to be any other way. That's not to say there aren't the weirdoes and phonies and flakes, the place is famous for them. But they don't last. Contrary to popular notion, substance is more important than style here. What you are, more important than who you are. And even if you are the genuine article, there is no guarantee you won't over charge and burn out. It's easy to do here. It's almost a requisite of success.

The natives know these things and that's why they are so laid back. It's hard to surprise them, though people try. It's also why it's hard to be too eccentric for this town. I have never known a place like it. You love it or you hate. I have grown to love it. And you can't beat the weather.

I sat there for another half hour and forced myself to think about Bobbie. Waxing philosophical about L.A. was something to pass the time but it wasn't getting me any closer to a solution for theSilvermans. I started thinking about Bobbie and how the cops hadn't been able to put him away. The Organized Crime units had been after his father for years and, as far as I knew, had never been able to charge him with jaywalking. I had a hunch Bobbie's record would read the same. I needed a handle on him that I wasn't going to find by following him around. Mostly, I was interested in his lifestyle and, so far, it was pretty much what I expected. His address book had been filled with women's names and he groomed and dressed like a ladies' man. I bet I could follow him every night for a week and see him doing the same thing he was doing tonight. I was hoping to find out, too, where he lived and how well he protected himself. It might be good to know.

Bobbie and his entourage came out of the restaurant a little past midnight. I was able to get a better look at the woman this time and she was striking. In my opinion, much too attractive for a thug like Bobbie. If I ever met her I thought I might tell her so.

They pulled out of the lot and I followed them back to the Marina City Club where they let the woman out and then retraced the route we had taken coming in. This time, though, we drove north to Sunset before turning east and took it all the way to West Hollywood. They turned left on Sunset Plaza Drive and took the winding path north and up. We were the only two cars on the street and I began to worry about being spotted. I hung back as far as I could and still keep them in sight. Half way up the hill they took a left at Blue Jay Way and then a right at the next block. We were heading up at almost a forty-five degree angle and in my rear view mirror I could see the lights of the entire Los Angeles basin. I stopped halfway up and pulled over. I had been up here before and I knew it was a dead end. There was a small turn around at the top but I didn't want to take the chance on being spotted. I could see them pull into the driveway of a medium sized split-level and all three of them went into the house.

I waited an hour but no one came or went from the house. All but one light had gone off and it was almost two in the morning. It looked like they were in for the night and I decided to call it quits myself. My hunch about Bobbie being single was probably right. His place looked like the perfect bachelor pad. Probably had a bear skin rug and a fake fireplace in there, strawberry margaritas premixed in the cooler just waiting for the next porn star ingenue.

I decided to give myself a reward for the long day and drove up to the turn around and parked. Someone had broken the lock on the gate that was supposed to keep the gawkers out and I was able to walk up to Mulholland and take in the view. The night sky was clear and the stars were out in force. They were juxtaposed against the lights below for as far as the eye could see. It is the most spectacular view in the city and though I had seen it many times, it still gave me the same feeling as the very first time. My life felt small and trivial in the face of so much humanity spread before me. It is a paradox of city life that you can be the most alone when you are surrounded by people. Despite that, there is a sense of connectedness here. Twelve million people live here but, like some giant small town, we all seem to know each other's business. Whether we want to or not.

Tailing someone is a solitary business and it can bring out the maudlin side. I needed sleep before I started pondering the metaphysics of stilt houses.

I started on the long road home and didn't pull into my drive until almost three in the morning. I had inherited an alarm system with the cottage that I rarely used but, with recent events, had set before leaving this afternoon. The light was still glowing a friendly green. I drew my gun anyway. I knew a guy who could bypass my alarm in a heartbeat. Maybe Bobbie knew someone too.

There was no one inside and I undressed and went gratefully to bed. As I was drifting off I thought that, by now, the cops would be asking Bobbie some tough questions about the men I had shot. I hoped that meant he would wait for things to cool down before coming at me again. It wasn't much, but it was enough to carry me the rest of the way to sleep.

24

Sunlight was filtering through the leaves outside my window, dappling the carpet in a kaleidoscope of eccentric patterns and exotic, alien forms. I was reading about my recent visitors in the morning paper and sipping coffee. The neighbor's cat had stopped by for breakfast and was curled up on the sofa purring contentedly.

One of the hitters had been from Las Vegas and the younger one, the one I had put the blanket over, was a native of Los Angeles. Both had records and were believed to have ties to organized crime. Mr. Chambers was believed to be out of town and unavailable for comment. Thank you, Phil. Neither Bobbie nor his father was mentioned. I hoped I was right about Bobbie answering some tough questions. If not from the cops then maybe from his father. Vasquez would know soon, if he didn't already, that two of Bobbie's men had taken their last limo ride.

I finished my second cup of coffee and wondered what to do next. It's something I do often.

I looked at the cat but he was half asleep. He didn't look like he had any ideas anyway and, if he did, he was keeping them to himself. Either way, that put him ahead of me.

I decided to go through the copies of Bobbie's phone bills and address book. It would have been too much to ask to find Laurel Silverman's number listed in the phone charges. The long distance was mostly to the valley and there were a few overseas calls but none to the Palm Springs area. I marked the numbers I wanted to check out, put them aside, and was starting on the A's when the phone rang.

"Mr. Chambers, this is Aaron Silverman. I need to see you."

"I'm glad you called, Aaron, but nothing has changed. I still can't talk to you about the case. If you've thought of something that might help maybe we could get together after lunch."

His reaction was almost panic. "No, no, you don't understand, man. I have to see you, right away. Right fucking now!"

"What is it?"

"Just meet me, man. Okay? Just meet me. Now!"

The Silverman males had a definite penchant for the dramatic. Probably why they were in show business. Whatever it was, it was important to him.

"I'll meet you at my office in half an hour." I started to give him directions but he interrupted and said he knew where it was. I told him to take it easy but I told it to a dial tone. Just as charming and polite as I remembered him. I stuffed the copies into my coat pocket, grabbed my gun and was at the door when I remembered the cat. He looked so comfortable I hated to disturb him but I wasn't sure when I might be back. I had been giving thought to a cat door but it was a big commitment and I still hadn't made up my mind. The accusing look he gave me as he wandered groggily into the bushes decided me. It was only a cat door.

It was another sunny winter day and my spirits lifted just being outside. I was still driving the Mustang and I spun a little gravel as I pulled onto Sunset. You take your fun where you find it. I drove at a leisurely pace and still had time to spare. I had been sitting at my desk for ten minutes when I heard Aaron pounding up the stairs. He burst through the door without knocking and it occurred to me at the last moment that it might be more of Bobbie's playmates come to say hello. I reached for the gun in my drawer but, if it had been them, I would have been too slow. It occurred to me, too, that my door had a perfectly good lock on it.

He was disheveled and his eyes were bloodshot. His jacket and shirt were wrinkled and he looked like he had slept all night in his car. There was a wild, nervous energy about him and, like on the phone, something akin to panic. I told him to have a seat but he ignored me and began to pace the room back and forth. He looked at me and started to say something but stopped and ran both hands through his hair stretching his scalp tight. He did this a few more times, all the while pacing back and forth, head down, deep in thought.

"My landlady just had the floors redone," I said.

He stopped and stared at me stupidly as if I had spoken to him in Farsi. He gazed at the floor and then back at me and finally I saw the comprehension in his eyes. He gave me a sheepish look and stood there, fidgeting with his fingers, not sure what to do. I liked him better this way than at any point since our acquaintance.

"Why don't you have a seat? I'll get you a glass of water and we can talk about it."

He grinned at me like a six-week-old cadaver and sat down. I got him some water from the cooler and when he finished it he sighed and looked around for a place to throw away the paper cup. I held up the trashcan from under my desk and he dropped the cup in without crumpling it. It was the first display of manners I had seen from him. It wasn't much but it was a start.

I sat back in my chair and waited. He started to fidget again and shift in his chair but nothing came out of his mouth. If I waited much longer I would have to tranquilize him.

"It's Bobbie, isn't it? What happened, did you guys have a falling out?"

His eyes popped and he began to sputter, "How the . . .? Who the . . .? Did he . . .? I don't believe this . . . he told you? Why the fuck would he tell you? That was his hole card, he said he would tip my old man if I didn't keep quiet and now he tells you, for Christ's sake, the old man's private dick? What is going on, man?"

"He didn't tell me, I guessed."

It had been a shot in the dark. Something had been bothering me from the beginning. After visiting Silverman and the women my first thought had been that someone close to them was in on the blackmail scheme. The blackmailers had known when and where they were going to stay, that they were lovers and, most importantly, that Silverman would probably pay. They had also known Laurel's private number and they had been on me almost from the moment I checked into the hotel in Palm Springs. And, Bobbie had never asked me my name but he knew who I was and where I lived. When Aaron didn't wait for me to give him my address it clicked into place. What had thrown me off was the women's certainty that none of their friends could have been involved. That and Aaron's little act at the Silverman's. It had been a convincing one and I had taken him out of the equation. Stupid to have done that. I had figured it for someone close to the family that I had yet to meet, maybe a confidant of Silverman's that he hadn't mentioned or a friend of the women that they didn't know as well as they thought they did. I had been planning to ask for their lists but with all that had happened I had been distracted. Finding out about Bobbie so quickly had caused me to focus on him and little else. That looked as if it was about to change.

Aaron pulled his hair tight again and slumped in his chair. He was having a hard time meeting my gaze. I didn't blame him. If what I suspected was true he had probably been avoiding mirrors altogether lately.

"Let's have it." It was the line the cops had used on me but I was hoping for better results.

"First, man, I want you to know I had nothing to do with Manny. That was Bobbie. It had to be. I only found out about it after, you know. One of Manny's friends called and told me he was dead. Murdered. Bobbie didn't say a word to me. He just killed him, Jesus." He stopped and looked at me, "You don't even know about Manny yet, do you?"

"I know."

"How? Manny said you never saw . . ." He clammed up, realizing he was giving too much away. Manny must have called him after following me back to the hotel. The guys waiting for Manny wouldn't have been the type to grant any last requests so he must have stopped at a booth.

"I spotted him. It would have been kind of hard not to. He was with you, wasn't he, not Bobbie?"

"Yeah, we knew each other from some parties. He could always get the goods and I know a lot of people who like to party so it was natural we got to know one another. He bragged too much about what a bad ass he was but I knew it was bullshit, you know, but Manny was all right. He was a good kid."

"I know Bobbie got him the job at the hotel but how did he get involved in this?"

"You know about the job, too? Jesus, the old man said you were good."

It would have been immodest to agree so I didn't say anything.

"Anyway, how it happened, I got really toasted one night and let it slip about how I was going to get major ducats out of my old man soon. Manny wouldn't let it go and kept after me until I told him. I never told him about Bobbie, though."

"I found Bobbie's number at Manny's. I found it when I found his body."

His eyes widened. "You found Manny's body?"

"Yup, and he had Bobbie's number with some money he had hidden."

It took him a beat. "No way, man. He didn't know anything about Bobbie. I told him I had a silent partner but I never told him who it was."

"What about the job? He must have known who got him the job at the hotel."

"He never knew. Bobbie said he would set it up but he didn't want Manny to know who did it. He said Manny was hired help and didn't need to know anything. Once the taping was done we would pay him off and he was out of it. He never knew about Bobbie. I swear."

"Why did he have Bobbie's number?"

"I don't know, man, but I didn't give it to him. No way."

If I believed him, and I did, I wondered how Manny had found out about Bobbie. Maybe Aaron had let it slip somehow and didn't know it. However he knew, it didn't seem too important right now. He had found out somehow and it was a good bet he tried to squeeze a piece of the action out of Bobbie. Probably threatened to tell Silverman if they didn't cut him in. Dumb. Dumber than dumb. And Bobbie had swatted him like a fly.

Keeping Aaron alive, and that is what this meant, and his part in the blackmail scheme a secret, was the important thing now. I didn't want to see the look on either his father's or his sister's face if they found out who was really blackmailing them.

"Let's forget that for now. Tell me how this started, how you and Bobbie met and how this thing happened. Start at the beginning."

"You're not going to tell my old man are you? I don't know what he'd do. He'd go postal. You can't tell him, you have to promise you won't tell him."

His voice had taken on a whining quality, not unlike the sound of a dentist's drill.

"I won't tell."

He leaned toward me. "No, man, you have to give me your word, you have to promise."

"I just did."

His eyes slid away to the floor and he sat that way for a while, hunched forward, head down and then leaned back and took a deep breath. When his eyes met mine again there was something in them besides fear and panic. Better.

"Okay, yeah, okay. I met Bobbie at a party. I didn't know who he was but he came supplied and didn't mind sharing. It was an all nighter and when the sun came up Bobbie and I were the only ones still standing. We talked and found out we knew a few people in common. After that we started to hang together a little. Mostly because we could keep up with each other. He likes the bitches and he asked about my sister at a party. I told him she was taken, you know, but I didn't say anything about her having a girlfriend. He figured that out himself after he saw her with Beth. Never any guys with them. I never admitted it but he said I didn't have to, he said it was a real waste of prime pussy, though. That's how he put it, a real waste of some prime pussy. Anyway, that's how it started. I was never sure what he did but he always had money and plenty of goods. I was bitching about my old man one night, about him not giving me enough responsibility or the coin to do my own thing. I told him I had a great script I could option if my father would turn loose of some cash. The script hasn't been shopped and the guy said he would let me have a first option on it if I came up with the money. It's about a fading star who meets this beautiful, talented young actress. She's got the stuff but doesn't have the connects. He falls for her, hard, and helps make her a star. Meanwhile, his career is fading and he hits the wall. Booze, coke, white, whatever keeps him numb. She loves him to the end, though. That's what makes it so great. I couldn't get my father to even read the script. He said it was a cliché. Had been done already."

"Aaron, do you know who Janet Gaynor is, or Frederic March?" He shook his head, bewildered as much by the interruption as the question. "How about Judy Garland and James Mason?"

He gave me a quizzical look, "Yeah, they're old actors, real old."

I nodded, "How about Barbra Streisand and Kris Kristofferson?"

"Sure, who doesn't?" He still had no idea what I was getting at.

"This acquaintance of yours, the one with the great script, how long have you known him?"

My line of questioning had him baffled and I wasn't sure how to let him down gently. His father was right. It had been made at least three times that I knew of. Four if you counted the one with Redford and Pfieffer.

"For awhile," he said, "not that long really."

I hoped he would get it without my having to spell it out. I didn't have the heart. "Let's get back to you and Bobbie, we can talk about your project later."

"Okay, but you have to understand, this script is the reason all of this happened. Anyway, one night we got really toasted and I started talking about my father again, how pissed I was at him. About how loaded he was and how he wouldn't even read my script. Bobbie starts asking me all these questions about him and my family. How much money does he have, does he fool around on my mother, what kind of hobbies does he have? Personal stuff. He said we ought to rip him off, it would serve him right. At first it was funny and then, I don't know, all of a sudden we weren't joking anymore. I could tell he was seriously thinking about it, trying to come up with ways. It scared me but at the same time I was thinking, why not, I would be getting the money some day anyway. It wasn't like I was stealing from him, I would just be taking my inheritance a little early."

He glanced at me to see what I thought of his logic but I pretended I was one of the sphinges and he went on, "So that's how it started, kind of as a joke. We were kicking around ideas about how we could do it and Bobbie asks about my sister, if my old man knew she was a dyke, his word not mine, and how he felt about it, you know, and if any of his friends knew or was it a big secret? I told him the old man knew but he thought it was a phase she would grow out of. I heard him tell my mother that once. Bobbie asked me what I thought he would do if someone threatened to tell his friends about Laurel. I told him he would eat the guy for lunch and then Bobbie says, what if there was a video tape of my sister with another woman, what did I think my father would do then."

He paused and did the hair thing again and I knew the next part was going to be hard for him. He shifted in his chair and looked everywhere but at me.

"I told him that my father would freak. I knew what he was getting at and that he was serious. At first I said no way, not my kid sister, but he said we would never use the tape, you know, just threaten to use it if my father didn't cough up some cash. I guess that made it sound not so bad and we weren't coming up with anything else. My father doesn't fool around and I'm always hearing about what a straight shooter he is. His only vice is maybe he's a workaholic.

"After I got home that night I sort of forgot about the idea until I saw Bobbie again about a week later. He was still stoked. Said he was sure it could work, all we needed was an opportunity to make the tape and someone to do it. I wasn't too sure but then he started talking about his father and how he wanted to break out on his own, too. He said he could come up with some of the money we needed to get things rolling and he could get the video equipment we needed. I knew if we could just get enough money to option the script and put down some good faith money to get commitments from the director and the actors that we could raise the rest of the money. The old man would have to take me seriously then."

"So you decided to video tape your sister having sex with her girlfriend and use it to blackmail your father." He had probably never thought of it in those terms and it made an impression. He had been rationalizing his actions right up to the point he found out someone had put a hole in Manny Ortega's head.

"Let me see if I can guess the rest. Your sister told you about her vacation plans and you mentioned it to Bobbie. He jumped on it and said it was the perfect opportunity. By that time you had let slip your plans to Manny and he volunteered his services as cinematographer. You told Bobbie about him and he said fine, I bet he was enthusiastic about the idea."

"You're dead on, man, how did you know Bobbie liked the idea of Manny doing the taping? He said it was perfect."

"Because Manny was expendable. A small time dealer who wouldn't be missed by anyone but his mother. Next you have to find out if the hotel will work. Bobbie told you he would get Manny a job there and, sure enough, he does. When you ask him how he did it he told you not to worry about it. Manny checks the hotel out and says it will work. He has a way to do the taping."

"That's right except I drove down and scoped it too, just to make sure. It looked dope. I gave Manny Bobbie's video gear and we were set. Until then, I had been trying to figure out how to set up a camera at Beth's or something but it would have been too hard. Too obvious. They would know it was someone close to them. This way it could have been anyone. It was perfect."

"Perfect," I said.

If he was capable of feeling shame I think he started to feel it at that moment and he hunched forward again, hands between his knees, eyes on the floor. I almost felt sorry for him.

"Okay, so Manny gets lucky on the first try. How many copies did he make and who has them?"

"There was only one copy besides the one Manny made. Bobbie said it would be best if he held on to the original because no one would suspect him. The copy was sent to my sister along with the note. Bobbie took care of all that. He said the less I had to do with it the better. He said they would be looking for people who knew my sister was a . . . who knew about her and Beth." His voice trailed off to a whisper as he finished the sentence.

"What happened to the blackmail money? I bet Bobbie said he should hold on to that too. Just in case."

"Well, yeah, it was the smart thing to do." It came out with no conviction and so softly that I could barely hear him.

"Smart. Just one more thing. You're the one that told Manny I would be checking into the hotel?"

He looked at the floor again and nodded.

"And you told Bobbie?"

Nod.

He looked up at me, startled. Bobbie had killed Manny. Maybe because Manny was trying to put the squeeze on him or maybe because he was afraid Manny would talk. Only Bobbie wouldn't have known about me if Aaron hadn't told him.

He stared at the floor some more and when he looked up again there were tears in his eyes.

"I guess I must look like a real asshole to you?"

"He would have killed him anyway."

He didn't say anything but the pain in his eyes said it for him. This time I did feel sorry for him.

25

Aaron was finishing his story and sipping some whiskey I kept in a drawer for such occasions. The confession had done his soul some good and the whiskey was doing the same for his color.

"Tell me what Bobbie said when you called him this morning."

"He said he already knew about Manny and that it was the best thing that could have happened. He said Manny was the weak sister in this deal and now that he was gone we had nothing to worry about. I told him it was too heavy for me and I wanted out. I told him he could keep the money but that it had to stop right here."

"Did he admit to killing Manny?"

"I didn't ask, you know, just in general about who could have done it. He told me not to worry about who did it, that it wasn't important. Right then I knew it was him. Jesus, I couldn't believe it. Then, when I told him I wanted out he said that would be a big mistake. He said he would tell my father that I was the one blackmailing him. I told him I didn't care. I told him it was his ass too and that's when he told me I had better keep my mouth shut and not ruin a good thing or maybe the same thing that happened to Manny would happen to me. It scared the shit out of me. That's when I called you."

"Did you ever find out what Bobbie does for a living?"

"I . . . no, not really, something to do with import/export. I guess I was too focused on the money to think about it. He seemed like most of the guys I know. A little older, maybe, and he always had his bodyguard hanging around but I figured it didn't matter much, you know, as long as we got the money?"

"Have you ever heard of Roberto Vasquez, maybe seen his name mentioned in Time magazine?"

"No, I don't read Time magazine."

"You know who Don Corleone is?" I thought a movie reference was my best bet.

"You mean like in The Godfather? That Don Corleone?"

"Yes, except think Hispanic. And Vasquez isn't nearly as nice."

He reacted like I had punched him in the stomach.

"Oh, sweet Jesus . . . Bobbie is related to him?"

"His only son."

Aaron stared at me, shaking his head as if denying it was true would make it so.

"Yup."

He swallowed the rest of his drink and eyed the bottle. I poured him another shot and he knocked it back in one motion. He eyed it again but I pretended not to notice.

"What the fuck am I going to do?"

"If I were you I'd let Bobbie think you're back with the program. It will be a lot safer for you and it will buy us some time."

He thought it over, the fear close up on his face. After a minute he said, "I could just split for awhile, you know, maybe go see some people I know in Europe. I could do that, couldn't I?"

"You could. You could dump this in my lap and your family's and leave. You could do a lot of things but if you want my help you're going to stay in this and see it through. If you leave, Bobbie will come looking. He'll know you're running scared and that scared people are unreliable. He'll expend some effort to find you and tie up the loose ends. You and Manny are the only ones who can link him to the blackmail. With both of you gone he still has the tape and no witnesses."

"I was only thinking out loud, you know, considering my options, that's all."

"Your options are pretty limited, Aaron. It's either the cops or you make the call to Bobbie. I think your best chance is to convince Bobbie you're a team player again. For starters, it will keep you alive without my having to watch you full time. And it will give us a chance to find some leverage on him. If we can do that your troubles are over."

What I didn't tell him was that Bobbie might decide to take him out anyway. He still had the tape and he really didn't need Aaron anymore. I was betting, though, that, unless Bobbie was a total head case, he would leave Aaron alone. Killing him would bring down too much heat. Knocking off a bellboy is one thing. Killing David Silverman's kid was another. He would have to be crazy. That was my theory, anyway.

I needed to know one more thing. "Think hard before you answer this question, Aaron, think about it as if your life depends on it. Do you think Bobbie is in this for the money or does he really want to make movies?"

Aaron didn't hesitate. He couldn't say it fast enough. "Movies, he wants to make movies. That's almost all he talks about. That's why we clicked. His old man doesn't trust him either."

I could see the write-ups in Variety. "Triple hyphenate, Bobbie Vasquez, pimp-pusher-producer, takes Hollywood by (snow) storm. Killer virgin effort spells graveyard for competition."

26

"I don't know if I can do it. I mean, before, when I didn't know who he was, yeah, I could have no sweat but now, Jesus, I don't know. What if he doesn't buy it? What if I can't pull it off and he figures out that I'm scamming him. He'll kill me, just like he did Manny."

Aaron was having second thoughts about calling Bobbie. I wanted him to do it from my office so I could be sure of what he said. He was right to be nervous. Damocles had been a piker. But then, Damocles had only been an ingenuous gossip; he hadn't been blackmailing his father and sister.

"It's your choice. Either you make the call or you tell the police what you told me. I don't see what other choices you have unless you want to tell your father everything. He might decide to let your sister go public and that would be the end of it. We would have to convince him, though, not to prosecute. You're the only witness against Bobbie and we'd be back where we started, keeping you safe. If you go to the cops they'll make you testify. The Feds will be brought in and they'll offer to put you in the Witness Protection Program. No matter what, you'll have to testify. Or go to jail. They want guys like Bobbie, it makes good press."

I was scaring him and I felt bad. He had really screwed up and his entire family was paying the price. By the look of him I could tell he was beginning to understand that fact. It wasn't a game anymore. His eyes were moist and his hands were trembling, maybe not so much with fear as with remorse. I felt rotten but I was trying to save his life. Maybe in more ways than one. It was a harsh way to suddenly have to grow up and, mostly to myself, I said, "What does not kill me . . ." I don't think he even heard.

I filled his glass one more time. He accepted it gratefully and this time he sipped it. I took it as a positive sign and took out another glass and joined him.

"It's not as bad as it seems, Aaron. This can be fixed so that maybe your family never has to know what really happened and Bobbie leaves you alone. But I need some time and you're the only one who can give it to me. You either have to go to the police or hang in there with Bobbie. I can't tell you what to do or that it won't be dangerous. It's your call."

He sat there for a while, staring past me at the ocean and the palm trees. I couldn't tell what he was thinking but a sense of calm seemed to settle over him and finally he looked at me.

"I have really screwed things up, haven't I? I can't believe what I was trying to do. If it comes to it, and there is no other way, then it's all right if my family finds out. Somehow I'll make it right. I don't know how but I will. I think, though, that I would like to nail that son-of-a-bitch. Can we do that, Mr. Chambers?"

"Call me Michael, Mr. Chambers was my father. Maybe. Maybe the best we can do is get him to back off and give us the tape. It's not a slam-dunk but it may be all we get. With a little luck maybe we nail him for Manny, too, but the priority here is protecting your family and keeping you alive. If we can do that I would put it in the win column."

He returned his gaze to the window and very quietly said, "Yeah." That was all he said for a long time while he continued to stare. I didn't interrupt him, I swiveled my chair so I could look out too and we sat that way for a while. It was beautiful out, bright and blue. There were hundreds of wholesome looking people down on the beach, surfing or swimming or just laying around, soaking up the sun, all of them taking advantage of the uncommon winter weather. I bet Aaron was wishing he were down there with them. I was sort of wishing it myself. I bet none of them knew anyone like Bobbie.

Aaron was gone and I was alone again. It was quiet save for the faint traffic sounds and it struck me how accustomed I had become to solitude. It takes a long time to learn how to be alone without being lonely. About a trillion years. Aaron had an appointment with Anne for later in the day. He was going to tell his story again and sign a statement. It wouldn't be enough by itself to convict Bobbie but I didn't expect things to come to that. I had other plans for it.

His call to Bobbie had gone better than I hoped. The fear in his voice had been real and he truckled enough to allay any doubts Bobbie might have had about his sincerity. He and Bobbie had agreed early on not to discuss anything about the blackmail on the phone but Aaron had tried to draw him out anyway. I shook my head violently when he did and made a slashing gesture across my throat. Up until then it had gone smoothly. Bobbie would be listening for any false note and I didn't want Aaron tipping our hand. Bobbie had proven he didn't need much reason to send the welcoming committee.

He had listened calmly enough and I even thought I detected a note of relief in his voice when Aaron started talking about the movie. Maybe Bobbie really did want to be a Hollywood hot shot. They talked for a while about the movie and rang off with a promise to get together soon.

Before he left, I told Aaron never to meet Bobbie alone. If he went to a party he was to go with friends and leave with them. I told him not to come to my home or office and to use pay phones when he called. I told him to make sure he wasn't being followed when he did and to memorize my numbers and throw away anything that had my name on it. He promised me he would. I didn't ask, but he promised me, too, that he would stay straight. No drugs and easy on the booze. I could tell from his look that he meant it.

He was going to take a long drive later, making plenty of stops. I told him what to look for. Not just the same car behind him but the ones up ahead, too; cars pulling out into traffic behind him, sudden turnoffs and stops, the same car showing up in a different spot. If they are watching, it's almost impossible to tail someone without being spotted and I figured Aaron could handle it. If he saw anyone following him he was to come straight back to my office. If it looked like he was clear he was going to come see Anne and give her a deposition. Either way, he would call.

If Bobbie was having him followed I would have to give serious thought to telling Silverman everything and encourage him to let the tapes go public. It would not be my best moment but it would take Aaron out of danger. At least I wouldn't have to give him a refund.

27

While I waited for Aaron's call I took out the copies of Bobbie's phone bills and address book and started going through them. It would have been too much to ask to find a call to Sylvester Silverman. There were a few foreign country calls but none to area code seven-one-four. I circled the ones that looked interesting and moved on to the address book. Most of the names were of companies that I assumed Bobbie was doing business with. Some I recognized and many I didn't. They ran to real estate agencies, film distributors of one kind or another and others I had no idea about. Some were obvious, like the listing for Pussycat Theatres. Here and there was a name with no company affiliation and one of these was written as the abbreviation R.V. There were four numbers for the listing and I picked up the phone and dialed the one marked private. An elderly female voice answered.

"May I speak to Roberto, please?"

"I'm sorry, he is out and I don't expect him until late. This is Mrs. Vasquez, may I tell him who called please?" Her voice was older, polite but not stiff. She sounded like a nice lady. It made me wonder if she knew what her husband did for a living. Hard to imagine she didn't.

"John Gotti."

"Would you care to leave a message, Mr. Gotti?" If she recognized the name I couldn't hear it in her voice.

"That's okay, I'll call him back later, thank you." I hung up and dialed another of the numbers. This one didn't have any notation beside it. A man answered this time, not nearly as polite, "Yeah?"

"Roberto in?"

"Who's this?"

"Vinny."

"Vinny who?"

"You know, it's me, Vinny. Is he in?"

He hung up so softly that I barely heard it. No threats, no angry words, just a faint pop and the line went dead. I would have felt better if he had yelled at me. I knew how to get in touch with Vasquez now. If I wanted to.

I kept going through the pages, copying down those numbers without a company affiliation. At the end I had fifty-nine numbers, not counting Vasquez. Of these, all but a dozen were women. Beside each name was at least one star. Others had two stars, some three stars and so on. There were two that had five stars. It seemed that Bobbie was what you might call a babe hound. The stars must have represented some type of ranking system and it looked as if the entire women's movement had passed Bobbie by unnoticed. Calling him an anachronism would have been giving him too much credit.

One of the numbers was for Celine St. James, the woman he had visited in the Marina. She had five stars beside her name. I sat and thought about her for a while. Five stars. Aaron would have called her a "Betty" and from what I had seen of her she could skew the ranking curve.

I was still thinking about her when the phone rang.

"Hey, Michael, it's Aaron. I've been driving around for an hour and I haven't spotted anyone. I think everything is cool." He sounded relieved and I breathed a little easier myself.

"Maybe, but don't get careless. I want to hear from you several times a day."

"No problem, I'm going to be your phone pal." I said good and we hung up.

The afternoon light was fading and it wouldn't be long before sunset. The sunsets are almost always beautiful over the bay and it would be nice to just sit and watch. Or I could call Celine St. James and see if she would meet with me. Watching her might be just as nice.

I dialed her number but got a recording. On the way to my car I tried remembering the last time I had called anyone in Los Angeles and not had a machine pick up if no one was home. By the time I pulled into traffic I hadn't been able to think of one.

28

I took Ocean Park down to the Marina and got to see my sunset anyway. It wasn't as peaceful as it would have been from my office but it wasn't bad either. The biggest drawback was continually looking around to see if I was being followed. I thought about Aaron. In spite of his recent actions, he seemed like an intelligent young man. I told myself he would have spotted a tail.

I made it to the Marina without incident and parked where I could watch the entrance to Celine's complex. I found a nearby pay phone and dialed her number again. Still no one home but the machine. I looked at my watch. It was a little after five and if she worked I probably had at least a forty-five minute wait. I didn't have time for a restaurant but I knew of a sidewalk stand not far away that served a respectable falafel. I had two with extra tahini sauce. The owner was maybe forty-five, dark and graying, clearly from the Middle East and had a large irregular scar on his cheek. It looked like a sizable patch of flesh had once been removed by a chunk of brick or something equally delicate. He had a quiet manner about him, as if not much could surprise or bother him. While I waited he gave me a subdued smile and asked how I had been. I was surprised he remembered me. I had only eaten here twice before. I smiled back, "Good." He nodded and gave me my change in his measured, quiet way. I tried to tip him but he refused to take it. I told him I would give the money to a worthy cause and he smiled again. Two of the Ayatollah's legacies, falafels and dark, quiet men with scars.

I walked back to the car and settled in to wait. The sun was gone and everywhere there was the flicker of artificial light. It was Friday night and the single among us were getting ready for the hunt. The watering holes were filling up with the lonely, the desperate, the horny and the indifferent. They would soon be crowded together in darkened places with no morning wake up call to inhibit the volume or the fun. It made me glad to be sitting right where I was.

I was feeding the meter for the third time when Celine St. James pulled up to the security barrier in a late model Mercedes. She reached out a long, elegant arm, punched in her security code and drove on through. Instead of driving down the ramp to the tenant parking she pulled into a visitor's space and strode quickly but gracefully to the entrance. It looked like she was just stopping to change before going out again. I hadn't planned on this, though I should have. She was a Marinaite or whatever they called themselves and obviously single. And it was Friday. I couldn't make up my mind about calling her. She would be in a hurry if she was meeting someone and would want to put me off until tomorrow. If I told her enough to get her to speak with me I still couldn't be sure she would take the time. If she didn't, Bobbie was likely to hear about my call before I had a chance to see her again. That would not be good.

I decided to wait and see if she came out again and follow her. If she went to meet Bobbie I would be killing two birds with one stone. If not, I might get a chance to talk with her.

I didn't wait long. She came out fifteen minutes later in a snug dress made of the season's hot new fabric, a shiny, clingy synthetic material that draped itself over every line and curve. Twenty years ago the stuff had been the signature fabric of cheap discount clothing stores. For my money it could have stayed there.

She wrapped her long limbs in behind the steering wheel and took off as if one of Bobbie's goons was after her. I had no trouble keeping her in sight; I just followed the fastest car on the road. My biggest worry was that I would get stopped for speeding. She evidently didn't share my concern. She raced up the 405 to Sunset and took it east almost as fast as she drove the freeway. We made it to Hollywood in less time than it takes to say Mario Andretti. She pulled into the lot of Granville's, one of the new hot spots according to an article in The Los Angeles Times. I hadn't read the article, just browsed the list and I hoped the place wasn't what it looked like from the outside; neon slashes striped a warehouse-sized building faced in whitewashed concrete. The entrance was cordoned off and there was a line of people waiting to get in. They were dressed in every imaginable get up, from Celine's sheik outfit to thrift shop grunge and thirties knockoffs, complete with fedoras and veils. Many of the women were underdressed and showing a lot of skin. I didn't mind, though I still wasn't used to seeing comely young women wearing dresses with Doc Martens, those over the ankle, military style, black boots. I thought it looked silly but what did I know; I was dressed in jeans, a dark blue polo shirt, brown leather bomber jacket and black, Nike running shoes. Suitable attire for breaking and entering but not for clubbing. On top of that, I was considerably older than anyone I could see and I could almost hear them thinking, Uncle Pervy.

Celine hadn't yet stepped into line. She was waiting for someone and kept looking up and down the street. Occasionally she would glance at the line as if judging how long it was. I hung back in the crowd, leaning against the building, staying half hidden. I avoided eye contact and pretended to study the crowd. Through the wall, I could feel more than hear the thump of the base beat pounding away at the hearing of all those young people and I had no desire to wade into what was happening on the other side.

The line had begun inching forward when a car pulled up to the curb by Celine. An attractive brunette leaned across the passenger seat and she and Celine held a conversation through the open window. It looked like they were sizing up the line and debating whether or not to stay. The girl finally nodded and gave a little shrug. She pulled out into traffic and made a U-turn that would have cost her a day in court and a hundred bucks if a cop had been watching. She roared up to the valet and slammed to a perfect stop. She and Celine must have gone to the same driving school. She stepped demurely out of the car and handed the keys to the attendant, giving him a dazzling smile. He did a very uncool thing and grinned back like a love struck schoolboy. He wasn't alone. Every male head was turned her way as she swayed to the back of the line. Maybe she didn't have to worry much about traffic tickets. One thing was certain, paying for her own drinks tonight would be optional.

There were a dozen people behind me in line and after making brief eye contact with Celine's friend, I turned around and glanced at them only peripherally from time to time. It took a good half hour for my spot in line to reach the entrance. The bouncer looked me over and for a moment I thought he wasn't going to ask for my I.D. When I gave it to him he barely glanced at it and handed it back with no reaction. "I'm doing research for a piece in Rolling Stone," I said. "It's called 'Stripped: X At Night.' It's about the kids on The Strip at night?"

He smirked at me. "Sure thing," and nodded towards the entrance.

"You guys ever let in more people than fire code allows?"

He looked up at me, surprise and a little worry in his eyes. If he was like most doormen, he took bribes all the time to let people in over the limit. I smiled and moved past him to the door.

The music hit me with a physical force it was so loud. There was a young woman seated on a stool taking money for the cover. She was wearing a snug cotton top that coordinated well, I thought, with a long print skirt. She wasn't wearing makeup and a few strands of her light brown hair had been braided down the middle of her back and were held in place by a single wooden bead. She was as wholesome looking as a glass of milk. I had been expecting fish net stockings and spiked hair.

She held up both hands showing me ten fingers. I handed her a ten and she stamped my hand with some kind of invisible ink. I noticed, too, that she wasn't wearing any jewelry or earrings. Earth mother. Her only accoutrements were a pair of yellow earplugs. I would have gratefully given her another ten for them. It's always nice to watch a professional at work and I smiled at her. She didn't fall off her stool but she smiled back. Standing guard at the doorway was another jumbo-sized youth. Beside him on a stand was a small purple light and I put my hand under it. The stamp glowed brightly and he nodded me through just like his counterpart out front but without the smirk.

It was still early by club standards but the place was wall to wall with healthy young bodies, writhing and jumping to the music. No one seemed to be doing The Twist or The Bop. The dancing was so athletic it gave me the impression of a giant aerobics class. On acid. There were colored lights and strobes and bright red lasers pointing in every direction. Videos were playing on giant screens, a lot of computer animation, most of it too weird to describe. One of the videos looked like a vintage lesbian porn film. The women had on pointed, bulletproof brassieres and those old cotton panties that reached from just above their navels to an inch below the crotch. It had been made long before women discovered aerobics. The film was scratched and the movements jerky. It must have been at least fifty years old and the women never removed their undergarments. It would have been almost quaint if it hadn't reminded me so graphically why I was here.

I moved away from the entrance to let others through and wandered in a few feet staying close to the wall while I admired the dancers. All of them seemed good and some of them were remarkable. It was plain that I wasn't going to talk to Celine on the dance floor. Even if she could hear me above the music I couldn't have done the steps with a foot chart. I thought about waiting for her outside but decided to see if she met anyone.

The music was making my teeth grind and I was sure my ears must be bleeding. It was what the kids call "Industrial". There were no discernible instruments, just a manic, synthesized drum beat behind a sound that reminded me of an old Volvo commercial. The one where the two guys are banging away at the underside of a car with sledge hammers. It was that sound speeded up and repeated over and over at ear splitting volume. It made me long for the sound of silverware in the disposal. I wondered if Bobbie came here much. He probably liked it, probably thought it was hip.

Celine and her friend came in and found a table on the far wall by the bar. Once again, nearly all of the men and more than a few of the women did double takes as they walked past. They were seated for maybe thirty seconds before two guys came up and started talking. They looked young and were a little too eager. A waitress came by and the taller of the two made a show of taking everyone's drink order and dropping a bill on her tray. After the waitress left the guys gave each other a sly, "high five" look. What they didn't see was the brunette give Celine a small shake of her head. The guys were fighting out of their weight class and as soon as replacements arrived they would be history. I felt bad for them. I'd been there myself.

29

It was a year later and I was still standing along the wall, practicing weight shifts from my left foot to my right and back again. I had a St. Pauli Girl in my right hand but I saw no need to practice shifting it to my left. It was my third and my right hand seemed to be working fine. The two young men had been asked to leave after one drink. Celine and her friend had taken turns writing something down on a napkin, handing it to the one who bought the drinks. I had a hunch the Animal Shelter would be getting some strange calls in the next few days. Maybe not. Maybe I was just being cynical. The women had successfully evaded a dozen other advances and were sitting alone now and seemed to be in the throws of deep ennui. I empathized with them mightily.

Celine leaned forward and said something to her friend and they both stood up. Before it registered, they were almost to the exit. I moved quickly to catch up and was only a few feet behind them when they hit the door. Outside, the traffic noise sounded like a Mozart concerto.

The parking valet smiled stupidly again and hurried off to get their cars. They each tipped him a buck. When it was my turn he took his time and didn't bother to smile. I didn't take it personally; women aren't the only victims of sexism. When he handed me my keys I gave him two quarters.

I broke a few laws trying to catch up with them and was halfway to the 405 on Sunset before I spotted them. At Copa De Oro they turned left and drove into Westwood. Much better. There were people over thirty in Westwood. The women cruised the streets for a while looking for a parking space and finally parked in a lot. After paying they strolled the tree-lined streets, window shopping and talking. They stopped in front of Yesterday's and, after some discussion, decided to go in. I hung well behind them but I needn't have bothered. They never looked back once.

Yesterday's is in the heart of Westwood, a few blocks south of UCLA, and has a large college clientele. It also has a magnificent carved oak back bar, solid oak tables, original artwork and real plants. The lighting is low-key and everywhere you look is a piece of memorabilia. Best of all, it has an outside balcony overlooking Westwood Boulevard. It is a pleasant place to pass an afternoon sipping beer and watching people. The college kids hang out in large numbers but so do a lot of sharply dressed, unseasoned yuppies from the nearby high rises. There are seventeen theater screens within a three-block radius and on any given night you will see people here from every part of the city. Many of them stop at Yesterday's. A jacket and tie work but a T-shirt and faded blue jeans work just as well.

The women climbed the stairs to the balcony, turning, if possible, more heads than before, and found an empty table. I made my way to the bar and ordered a beer and two glasses of white wine. Before anyone had a chance to take their order I placed a glass in front of each of them and pulled a chair over from another table. I caught them off guard and they gave each other startled looks.

"I don't mean to intrude but I need to talk with you about something very important, Ms. St. James, and I didn't have time to call for an appointment. It concerns Bobbie Vasquez."

It's not hard to panic a young, single woman in L.A. The town is full of tightly wrapped wannabe's, a number of whom come unwrapped every year but, after her initial surprise, Celine St. James gave me a world class poker face.

"How do you know my name?" Her voice was tight.

"From your association with Bobbie."

Before I could say anything else the girlfriend decided to be helpful. "Hey, I saw you in line at Granville's. You've been following us, haven't you? Who the hell are you? You better get out of here, creep."

While she talked she was looking around for a bouncer and before she finished she spotted one and jumped up from the table.

I took out a card and handed it to Celine.

"I don't want to interfere with your evening but if you could give me a few minutes of your time I would appreciate it. It's important. I'm working on a case that involves your friend Bobbie and two women that I represent."

"What is this? You follow us around like some weirdo and then sit down at our table like we're old friends. Now you want me to talk to you about a friend of mine? I don't think so. You better leave."

Out of the corner of my eye I could see the friend coming back with the bouncer in tow. I was about out of time.

"I know how this must seem but Bobbie Vasquez is a bad man. It isn't my business and you have no reason to believe me but I hope you will reconsider your relationship with him. He can only hurt you. If we had time, I would try and convince you of that."

She started to say something but the bouncer interrupted her. He put a ham sized paw on my shoulder. "Okay pal, let's go. Out . . . now." He was bigger than most defensive linemen but not nearly as nice. His hair was shaved to a quarter inch and he had a scar across the bridge of his nose. He did his work in the trenches, probably for the Bruins. I tried a smile. "You guys going to the Rose Bowl this year?"

He ignored my question and gestured with his thumb, "Out." Tough. He probably was but not in the way he thought. He was sure he could take me. I was just a nuisance. I stood slowly and slid back my chair. I wasn't planning on doing anything, it was time to go. I have never been much for bar fights. I turned back to Celine, "I would have tried this a different way if I had the time. Please call me. I need your help."

The bouncer dug his hand into my shoulder and started to spin me toward him, I shrugged it off, spun the other way and was behind him before he knew what was happening. I grabbed his arm on the way and twisted it with both hands until it was locked painfully against his back. I gripped his belt for leverage and he couldn't move without hurting himself. His arms were as thick as my legs and it surprised the hell out of him that I had been able to immobilize him. I whispered in his ear so no one else could hear.

"Speed is important too, Sparky. I'm going to let go of your arm and leave, quietly. If you try and get macho on me you're going to miss some spring ball; it could play hell with your scouting reports."

He tried twisting free, maybe out of pride or maybe stupidity and I cranked his arm hard. He grunted in pain and I eased up a little and whispered again.

"Let it go. I'm in a bad mood tonight. You did your job, I'm leaving." His chin dropped and he nodded. I stepped back quickly and let go of his arm. He kept his back turned to me and started to rub his shoulder and then stopped but didn't turn around.

"Hope you guys make it to Pasadena," I said. I watched him peripherally until I was down stairs but he didn't move. I looked back upstairs just before I went out the door and he was standing there staring down at me. "Young blood must have its course, lad, and every dog its day." Good how I could make new friends so easily. Sparky?

Out on the sidewalk I took some deep breaths. The pressure had been building and I had come close to venting it on someone who didn't deserve it. He didn't even look like Bobbie. My frustration was starting to show. The Silvermans were no better off than before calling me, maybe worse off. Now there was the strong possibility Aaron was in danger. There were three people dead and who knew how many hitters waiting for a chance to kill me and, best of all, I didn't have a clue how I was going to change any of it. Some hot shot detective.

It was late but I didn't feel like going home. I didn't feel like creeping through the bushes and sleeping with one eye open and a gun under my pillow. I walked the block and a half to the Monty's building and took the elevator to the restaurant on the top floor. It was late and the crowd had thinned. The room was dimly lit and I took a seat at the bar and asked if they had Dos Equis. They did, bless them, and I ordered two. The bartender wore a white shirt and black bow tie, black vest and pants. He served me politely, placed a bowl of peanuts within reach and moved far enough down the bar to give me privacy but near enough to hear me if I wanted to talk.

Monty's is sort of an institution in Westwood. The building it sits atop is old and small by high-rise standards and the decor is dated and prosaic, reminiscent of a Denny's restaurant. On the other hand the tablecloths are linen, the food is good, the drinks are honest and the view is superb. All the walls save one are glass and outside is a striking panorama of the West Side. My stool stood at the end of the bar, facing east, and I could see the traffic on Wilshire Boulevard winding its way down into Beverly Hills, beyond which, the lights of the Hollywood hills twinkled at me. To the west, Wilshire carved a straight line all the way to the Pacific. Like the bartender, Monty's has its own brand of panache.

I had been spending too much time lately staring at city lights and pondering imponderables. Tonight, at least, I had a warm place to sit and good beer for company. There was even an attractive blonde sitting alone and talking with the bartender. Maybe when she left I could sneak around and follow her. Maybe I could ask her if she thought I was a creep, too.

30

I woke up with a klieg light in my face and it took awhile to realize it was the sun. It took awhile longer to realize I couldn't be in my own bed. The covers were twisted around me and if there had been a fire I would have burned to death before I could untangle myself. I sat up, shielded my eyes and looked around. It was a hotel room and a nice one at that, pale peach and ivory decor, bright and comfy. It made the clanging in my head all the more painful.

I wrestled myself out of bed and made for the drapes. I stubbed a toe on the way and invented some new expletives before I fumbled them closed. The room plunged into blackness and instead of opening them a crack I felt my way across the room and banged a shin before I found the light switch.

An acquaintance of mine with a Ph.D. in Physics recently explained to me over drinks that, contrary to popular belief, alcohol does not kill brain cells. It causes the brain to swell that, in turn, causes one's head to hurt, but, he says, no cells actually die. The next time I saw him I intended to tell him he was . . . that he had better check his source.

I found some complimentary stationary and learned that I was a guest of the luxurious Westwood Contessa. Flashes of the previous evening came back to me but it wasn't until I was in the shower alternating between hot and cold that I remembered all of it. I remembered talking to the blonde sitting down the bar and at some point during the evening she had given me her number. I may have suggested she come home with me but, if I had, she evidently declined. The bartender was the one who had been kind enough to make the hotel reservation and then call a cab to make sure I got here. He was also kind enough to cut me off. The last time I had gone this far out I was a freshman in college. It had been a bad enough experience that, until now, I hadn't repeated it.

I had no razor and all I had to wear were the clothes from last night. The shirt was badly wrinkled but, with my jacket on, most of it was hidden. There was nothing I could do about the jeans, they had been balled up on the floor and looked it. I put my underwear and socks in a plastic bag, stuffed them in a coat pocket, checked myself in the mirror and left anyway. I was pale, my eyes were bloodshot and my five o'clock shadow had passed midnight. When I stopped at the front desk to pay my bill the clerk acted as if all his guests looked like me. He didn't register the slightest surprise at my appearance or the fact that I had no luggage.

"I hope your stay with us was satisfactory, Mr. Chambers?"

"It was perfect. Except for the klieg light."

"Sir?"

"Nothing, I was having an inner dialogue."

"Yes sir, sometimes those can be the most illuminating." He said it with a perfectly straight face.

I signed the slip and asked him if he had an envelope I might have. He said certainly and handed me my copy of the bill and an envelope with a discreet smile.

"Thank you for staying with us and please come back again." Amazing. They must train them at Oxford.

I said I would and, looking neither left nor right, I made for the door and walked out into another brilliant, sunny day. The air was crisp and it helped clear my head but the sun was blinding and I wished I had my sunglasses. I walked the few blocks to the parking lot, paid the ransom to liberate my car and started toward home. I risked double parking at Monty's and ran upstairs to the restaurant. I asked the day man who had been behind the bar last night and borrowed a pen. I wrote the man's name on my envelope and slipped a twenty inside along with a note of thanks. It was the least I could do.

I was starving but too grungy, even by current standards, to stop at any of my usual favorites so I took Wilshire, planning to find a fast food place still serving breakfast sandwiches.

I found a McDonald's midway home and turned into the drive-thru window. The sign on the golden arches said 85 billion served. I could remember when it said 3 billion. Back then I hadn't thought of it as sort of an inverse benchmark on how much of the rain forest was left. Thanks to Anne, my attorney friend, I now did. She had given me permission to eat here since McDonald's grew their own beef herds, which was fine, but now, every time I bit into a hamburger, no matter who prepared it, I felt guilty about the rain forests. When I told her it was un-American, "for Christ's sake," not to enjoy a hamburger, her response had been, "Oh, pooh."

I ignored my conscience and ordered two sandwiches and a jumbo coffee. Instead of driving off right away, I pulled into one of the alfresco dining spaces. I was munching on one of the sandwiches and watching traffic when I noticed a dark blue Mercedes drive slowly by on Wilshire. It looked like one that had been a few cars behind me. There were three men in the car dressed in sport coats but no ties. If my head had been in less of a fog I might have spotted them sooner. They could just be businessmen on their way to a meeting. Maybe they were trying to find an address. Maybe they hadn't circled the block to come up behind me again when I pulled out of the drive-thru. If they had, I threw them off when I parked to eat. When they didn't see me ahead of them on Wilshire they had come looking. I took my gun out, racked a round into the chamber and laid it on the passenger seat. I pulled out of the parking slot and turned onto Wilshire to follow them. At the corner they made a right turn and I pulled over to the curb. They were going to circle the block again.

I got out of the car and stood leaning against the door, my arms crossed, hiding my gun. The Mercedes must have been moving fast. It pulled back onto Wilshire not more than a minute later and when they came up on me I smiled and waved with my free hand. The driver almost slammed on the breaks but recovered and tried pretending he was looking for a parking spot. The surprised look on their faces told me all I needed to know. They pulled over a few cars ahead of me and parked. Nobody got out and nobody turned around to look at me. I didn't think they would start shooting in the middle of Wilshire Boulevard, too many witnesses. I could see the driver pick up the car phone and make a call. Maybe he was asking Bobbie if he could take the bullet out of his pocket and put it in his gun. Maybe Bobbie was telling him to go ahead. I got back in my car and started the engine. I sipped some coffee and waited. I didn't have to wait long. The driver hung up the phone, turned to his associates and made a "you-got-me" gesture with his hands and three doors flew open at once.

They must have had my car staked out at the parking lot in Westwood, which meant they had been following me last night. It bothered me I hadn't spotted them. It meant too, that Bobbie knew I had been following his girlfriend. I must have really upset him by talking to her. These guys were making a daylight run at me on Wilshire Boulevard.

I slammed my car into reverse and backed up into oncoming traffic. Cars were honking and swerving around me to avoid a collision and I silently apologized to them. I backed into the first driveway and got a good look at the three of them running up the sidewalk toward me. There were no guns in sight but I knew they had them. The guy in front stopped suddenly, realizing he would never catch me on foot and debating whether to take a shot. He turned and waved the others back to the Mercedes just as I spotted an opening in the traffic. I made the decision for him and squealed out of the driveway, made an illegal left turn across two lanes of traffic and headed back up Wilshire.

I could see the Mercedes attempting the same maneuver in my rear view mirror and it wasn't long before he found an opening. I floored it and started weaving my way around cars. I could never outrun him on a straightaway but I had the advantage in traffic and I widened my lead. I judged every opening and took every opportunity, sometimes to the sound of angry horns and squealing tires. I was two blocks ahead of them when the light turned against me at Wilshire and San Vicente. There was too much cross traffic to run it and I had no choice but to wait; I was blocked on all sides and I could see them coming up fast. By the time the light changed they had closed to within a few cars and I had lost my edge. I power shifted through the gears and managed to keep them from coming alongside. I maneuvered into the right lane with the idea in mind of taking Sepulveda down to Santa Monica and heading straight for the West L.A. police station. It was all I could think of to do. There were two shooters back there who didn't have to worry about driving and I was no match for them this way.

All of this was going through my mind when I took the on ramp to the 405 freeway south. I did it on impulse and evidently I had a plan. I think my plan was hoping they wouldn't be able to make the turn behind me. It almost worked. The driver had to cut off two lanes of traffic and must have been doing fifty when he went up on the curb. He was good. He managed to keep from going through a cyclone fence and came down off the sidewalk and onto the on ramp without slowing down.

The morning rush was over and traffic was light. I had room to maneuver but trying to out run them was hopeless. They were coming up fast again and were on my bumper in no time. I switched lanes, cutting in front of another car and they weren't able to follow. I gunned it again, gaining some ground before they could find an opening.

We played cat and mouse like that for maybe five miles. They would catch up to me and I would manage to block them or squeak through an opening and escape. I would be doing over a hundred at times and then be forced to slow down behind traffic. They would catch up, sometimes so close I thought they were going to ram me and then I would find an opening again. My palms were sticky and I kept looking around hoping a cop would stop me. Never one around when you need one.

I didn't take the Santa Monica Boulevard exit that would have taken me to the police station. I could have made it but something stopped me. Maybe it was okay if providence lent a hand and a cop pulled me over but I couldn't bring myself to run to them. Maybe, too, I didn't want to answer all the questions they would ask.

We were past the airport and traffic was beginning to thin. It was going to be hard staying ahead of them now and I floored it thinking I would get off at the next exit. I was doing close to one-twenty but they were closing the gap like I was driving a wheel chair. I watched them in the mirror and waited. Acting more on instinct than thought, I eased up on the accelerator a little and helped them catch up. They had to be going flat out, as fast as the Mercedes would go. I eased up a little more. When they were close I switched lanes so that I was in front of them and they slowed to keep from ramming me. I geared down and I punched it.

If my transmission held I had an idea. I gained fifty yards on them and could see the Mercedes leap as the driver floored it again. They must have been confident they had me now, come along side and the two shooters open fire. When they were about six car lengths back I stood on my brakes. The Mercedes didn't have time to switch lanes and the driver had two choices, ram me or lock up his brakes. As soon as I saw him brake I gunned it again and pulled away. I could hear his tires squealing and in the mirror I saw the rear ones break loose and the Mercedes start to drift sideways. Anti-lock breaks have their limits. Even traveling sideways he was gaining on me and it looked like he was going to hit me broad side. I pulled away at the last second and he missed me by less than a foot. I got a good look at the three of them and their faces were paralyzed in fear as they skidded by. The Mercedes did a slow one eighty as it slid across all three lanes of traffic. The driver was pulling hard on the wheel, trying to correct, but he had been going too fast. I watched in mild horror, expecting to see someone hit them at any moment. By some miracle, all of the following traffic managed to miss them and the Mercedes came to a stop against the center divider, off the road, facing backwards into oncoming traffic. I hadn't intended to cause a wreck, just scare hell out of them and buy some time. It had worked far better than I imagined and I still couldn't believe they hadn't been hit. I floored it but I needn't have, the Mercedes just sat there, not moving for as long as I could see it in the mirror. I bet the boys had wet themselves. I would like to hear them explain that one to the boss.

31

My hands were shaking a little and not just from the hangover. I had been unreasonably calm during the whole episode but now that it was over I realized how close it had been. And how lucky I was. I couldn't keep counting on my luck. Sooner or later it runs out for everybody. I was going to have to do something to get Bobbie off my back. Shooting him was one thought that crossed my mind.

I drove south a few miles, took an exit that looped back onto the northbound lanes and looked for my playmates across the divider but didn't see them. When I passed the spot where they had done the one-eighty, I could see the skid marks clearly and marveled again that they had avoided a collision.

I kept a careful watch but the rest of the drive home was uneventful. I didn't think they would try again today. Not without asking for a raise. There were no unfamiliar cars near my turn off and none in my driveway. I pulled up right to my front door and got out quickly, using my car as a shield from the bushes. Just because I didn't think Bobbie would make another try didn't mean he wouldn't. I would never have believed he'd make a daylight run at me on Wilshire Boulevard. The green light on my alarm said everything was fine inside. I punched in the code and whipped open the door, gun in hand. I was beginning to feel kind of silly doing this every time but there was no one back here to see me and after what had just happened, silly was just fine. There was no one under the bed or in the shower or anywhere else and I celebrated by drinking two large glasses of ice water.

This was getting old. Worse, it was a distraction. I needed to concentrate on nailing Bobbie and it looked as if I was going to spend my time keeping him from nailing me. I couldn't call the cops except as a last resort and I wasn't ready to go that far. Not yet. If I did, the Silvermans might as well go public. Bobbie would circulate the tapes anyway. I had no doubts. Besides, the cops weren't going to chase Bobbie down because I asked them to. They prefer to have a reason and Aaron Silverman was the only one who could give them one. His father would be brought in and, worse, his sister. It would be a terrible blow to them. It wouldn't be much fun for Aaron, either.

Hunger was beginning to gnaw holes in my stomach and I rummaged through the kitchen and found enough supplies for a late breakfast. I heated some olive oil in a pan and added garlic and butter. While it was warming I cubed some potatoes, sliced an onion and some peppers and put them in the pan to sauté. I used mostly Serranos, a few Jalapenos and threw in a Habanero to test my manhood. I intended to ask my friend with the Ph.D. why I craved spicy foods after a night of drinking, see if he had any theories about that.

I had thrown away my breakfast yesterday without taking a bite but I wasn't one to give up. I separated some eggs and made a reasonable facsimile of yesterday's omelet, steamed some broccoli and by the time I was done the potatoes were ready. I popped four slices of whole grain sourdough into the toaster, poured a large glass of milk, some orange juice, some coffee, and sliced a honeydew melon. If the Gospel Mission ran out of food I could give them some. Last, and most important, I turned off the phone.

While I ate I thought things over and I spent a long time doing both. By the time I finished I had the beginnings of a plan and my plate was so clean I could see my reflection. I looked hung over. I didn't have seconds because there weren't any.

32

"You want me to loan you a million dollars in cash?"

"Not loan exactly, more like let me use."

"But you won't tell me what for?"

"Huh uh."

"That's it, that's all you have to say?"

"Un huh."

"Goddamn it, Chambers, I have gone along with you so far, haven't I? You asked me to trust you and I have. I haven't pressed you for details or tried to interfere in any way but, for Christ's sake, don't you think you at least owe me an explanation?"

"Yes. I do."

"Well then, that's better. Let's have it."

"Nope."

I was sitting in Silverman's study again and he had seemed pleased to hear from me when I called for the appointment. It was hard to understand his change in attitude.

He leaned back in his chair and scowled at me. His face was flushed and I could tell he wanted to call me on the carpet like one of his subordinates. Only I wasn't, and he couldn't.

"Have the blackmailers called again?" I said.

He gave me a speculative look.

"No, they haven't. Have you done something to stop them from calling?"

I tried to look inscrutable.

"Maybe, not so much stop as inhibit. It doesn't mean they won't call but my guess is they will wait until they have taken care of something first." I didn't tell him I was the something.

"Look, Mr. Silverman, I could explain to you why I need the money but it's in your best interest that I don't. I know it's a great deal to ask of you on faith but I think I may have a way to fix this for you so that you won't be bothered anymore. Right now that's all I'm willing to say. It's probably all the explanation I will ever give you. I imagine you have been putting together the cash for the next payment and all I'm asking is that you let me use it for a little while. If they call before I'm through with it and you still want to pay them I'll give it back to you."

"I'll be a red headed son of bitch, Chambers, if you aren't the most infuriating bastard I've ever met."

"Everyone should be good at something," I said. He sat there for a moment thinking it over. I took his calling me names as a sign he was warming to me. It was inevitable.

"For some reason she won't explain, my daughter thinks you hung the moon." He was thinking out loud more than talking to me.

"All right, I'll go along with you, but understand this, if something happens to that money and I'm forced to pay an additional sum to the blackmailers I am going to hold you personally responsible."

"Would you like a receipt?"

The absurdity of my question wasn't lost on him. I think he almost smiled. Hard not to like a guy who will trust you with a million bucks and smile about the possibility of losing it.

"I'll have the money delivered to your office before five. I assume that will be soon enough." It was a rhetorical question and I nodded but didn't say anything. People have told me I should do more of it. The not saying anything part.

Silverman looked at his watch and stood up. "If there is nothing else . . . I have to get back to the studio."

"Thank you, Mr. Silverman." I said, and meant it.

He gave me a hard look and then I thought, for the second time, that he was going to smile.

"You're welcome. Now get the hell out of here before I change my mind."

Laurel was waiting for me in the rotunda. Today she had on faded Levi's and a Hard Rock Cafe T-shirt. I did my best to ignore the way she filled out both but didn't quite manage. Underneath the Hard Rock logo it said Acapulco. The jeans had a hole in one knee and on her feet were a pair of white Converse high tops. They looked just like the ones I had owned as a kid and like me, had seen some wear. In spite of the way she was dressed she looked as fresh and pretty as spring's first bloom. Her appearance contrasted sharply with the palatial setting and I wondered, not for the first time, how she had stayed so unaffected. A burly young man I took to be her bodyguard was standing nearby and he shifted his weight a little as I approached, getting set. He had done it reflexively, without any conscious thought. It looked like Silverman had picked a good man.

She gave me a shy smile and I was struck again by the ethereal quality of her. Instead of stopping I walked past her toward the parking area and motioned for her to follow. The bodyguard came too. Once we were outside I opened the passenger door of my car. "Why don't we sit and talk."

She started to get in but stopped. "Would you like to take a walk? It's such a beautiful day. We could go down to the garden." I told her I would love to.

"Let me go tell Paul." Paul was the bodyguard. She went and told him what we were going to do and he looked me over thoroughly.

"It's all right, I'll be with her."

He finally nodded and went to stand beside the back door where he could keep us in sight. We strolled behind the house and into a lush garden that contained every color of the rainbow. Purple Hyacinths and Morning Glories lined the path along with Roses and Tulips of every hue. There were Zinnias, Snapdragons, Lilacs, Geraniums and a dozen others that I didn't know the names for. It was an ocular assault and the combined fragrances were like a fine, heady perfume. It was so peaceful and serene I forgot for a moment that we were still in the city. Further on was what looked like a miniature arboretum and in the middle of the trees was a wooden bench. We walked down to it and sat, neither of us saying anything for a moment while we took in the view.

Finally, she looked at me. "You look tired." It was a question more than a statement but I pretended not to notice.

"What a beautiful place, it makes you forget you're in the city."

"Yes, it is, isn't it? It's my mother's. I mean she designed it and does a lot of the gardening herself. She calls it her therapy. I come here when I want to unwind or when I'm feeling blue. It always cheers me up." I nodded in agreement.

"I got your message."

"We were just wondering if you had found out anything, I mean, about who the blackmailers are. Beth and I have sort of been waiting for the other shoe to drop since the second letter. I guess we just wanted to know if there was any news, good or bad."

"There's a little of both. I've found out who the blackmailers are and they aren't any of your friends or acquaintances." Technically, I wasn't lying. "They are some dangerous people, though, more than I expected. I don't want you to know anymore than that. It's safer for you that way."

Her eyes got large. "Would they hurt us? Would they harm my father or Beth if they found out about you and got angry?"

"They already know about me. So far their anger seems to be directed mostly at me and I don't think you or Beth or your father are in any danger. They want the money and hurting you won't get them anything except the police."

She looked me over again.

"Have they tried to hurt you? You look so tired. It makes me worry. I don't want you to be hurt. It isn't worth it. My father could pay them or maybe Beth and I should just come out."

"Let's wait a little while and see what happens. I won't tell you not to go public but I have an idea I would like to try first."

"Will it be dangerous? Could you get hurt?"

"There's some risk but I don't see how I can get them much angrier than they seem to be already."

Her brow wrinkled in a frown.

"I don't like the sound of that. It sounds as if you are in some kind of real danger." She looked directly into my eyes, searching for the truth. Before I could answer she said, "You are, aren't you? We have to stop this. If Beth and I go public then this will be over. You will be out of danger, won't you? And my father won't have to pay."

I smiled at her and took her hand and squeezed it and let it go. "It won't make any difference, sweetheart, I think it has gone too far. They know I know some things and as long as I do I'm a threat. The blackmail is only part of it."

What I said frightened her and I wanted to kick myself. I tried to make light of it.

"I've been in tighter spots than this, don't worry, I have them surrounded." It was a lame effort and she almost flinched with concern. Way to go, Chambers. With the hangover it was like thinking through oatmeal.

"Do they know that?" she said, and tried to smile but didn't quite make it. Bobbie Vasquez's world was light years from hers and her next words confirmed it.

"Why is this happening, Michael? How can these people do this, be so evil?

Why can't Beth and I just be together? Why does it matter to people?"

I wished I had an answer for her but it was too big a question. All I could think of to say was, "I don't know, Laurel. There is no simple answer. People are mostly afraid of what they don't understand. If I had to guess, I'd say they think it threatens their way of life, but most people don't think about it at all. They're hostages to a mentality. The truly ignorant ones take out a bible and start thumping it without ever opening the cover. I do know that the people blackmailing you don't care about you and Beth. How you are together doesn't matter to them. It's just a way to exploit you. The thing that matters to them is the money. And maybe the power."

"I feel like this is all my fault. You're in trouble and my father is going to lose a lot of money or be humiliated all because of me. I don't know what to do but I think the best thing is for us to just come out."

"It may save your father some money but don't do it because of me. By now these people know that I won't let this thing go. They'll keep coming at me until they get me or until I find a way to stop them."

She shook her head. "Why can't you just quit? If we go public why can't you tell them you're quitting? It's stupid for you to risk your life for nothing. Just quit. Please."

"I don't think of it as nothing, Laurel. I wouldn't be very comfortable with myself if I just walked away. I don't think I would sleep well."

She wanted to argue with me but I guess the look in my eyes told her it wouldn't do any good. She shook her head again.

"So what should we do? What should Beth and I do?"

"The hardest thing of all," I said, "you wait."

33

Now that I had done such a swell job of putting Silverman at ease and comforting his daughter it was time to put my plan into action. For that I needed Aaron's help and the right place to set things up. I also needed a safe place to stay. I couldn't do what I needed to and always be looking over my shoulder. If I found the right place maybe I could kill two birds with one stone.

I drove to the office and when I was sure none of Bobbie's men were lurking nearby I went up and pulled out the yellow pages. I put a mark by all of the motels in the general vicinity of Bobbie's office and started dialing. I wanted something cheap for fiscal reasons but not so run down that Bobbie wouldn't set foot in it. Having him set foot in the place was the key to my whole plan. I thought he might be more comfortable with a place that was close to him and it occurred to me, too, that his back yard might be the last place he would be looking for me. I dialed the first one on the list.

A sleepy voice answered, "Broadway Motel."

"I'm looking for a suite with an adjoining bedroom on a weekly rate."

"A suite, huh? We got beds with clean sheets. You can have it any amount a' time you like, long as you pay in advance. Hell, you can even have it by the hour. How's that sound?"

"Thanks but I need a suite."

"Try the Hilton." Click.

I called a few more numbers with equal success and learned that, in spite of lethal disease, the world's oldest profession is still flourishing. Marital fidelity seemed to be running a poor second. I found what I was looking for on the seventh try.

A pleasant female voice answered, "Star Motel, how may we help you?"

I told her what I wanted and she assured me that she had just what I was looking for. We negotiated a price for a week with an option for another. She asked for a credit card but I told her I would be paying with cash, in advance. She said that would be fine and she would hold the reservation until six. I had my new home.

Next I dialed all of Aaron's numbers and got him on his car phone. He sounded glad to hear from me until I explained to him what I had in mind. He agreed to try it but, even on a cellular, I could tell his voice was tight and I wondered if I was making a mistake. I wasn't sure he was up to the task.

I told him where I would be staying and asked him to meet me there at seven. I told him to borrow a car and to drive around until he was absolutely sure he wasn't being followed. If Bobbie's men spotted us together it would be bad. Worse for him. The last call I made was to a friend of mine who helps me out from time to time. We were in Vietnam about the same time and had been trained by the same people. We hadn't met until a few years later but it had given us sort of an instant history. We had been friends for a long time. Unlike me, he had been offered a career position but had turned them down. He says he prefers self-employment, something I can relate to, and, although he is only slightly younger than me, he still hires out to fight in other people's wars. It was hard to imagine being out there in the jungle all these years and I had pressed him once about why he still did it. He had given me a far away look and didn't say anything for a long time. He answered me, finally, but I knew it wasn't because he felt obligated to. He never explained himself and in the eighteen years I had known him I had never heard him apologize for anything. I had also never known him to do anything that required one. Maybe as a concession to our long friendship or maybe because he was having a weak moment, he said, "It's what I'm good at," as if that explained everything. It was all he said and I never asked him again. Maybe because I didn't have to. I knew what he meant. I had been good at it once, too. Maybe I still was and didn't want to admit it.

When he wasn't soldiering he taught martial arts at a gym he owned in Venice. There were no beginners in his classes and no women. Most were hard-faced men, working at keeping their edge. Sometimes a young comer would hear about the classes and mistakenly enroll. It usually didn't take him long to realize he was out of his depth. These men didn't care how high he could spin kick or what belt he had. What they cared about was whether he was someone they wanted covering their backs. Most of the young men stopped going after a few classes. They weren't even sure why, only that these men were different somehow and he would never be of them. It takes a special breed to kill for pay, without remorse, to do it simply because you are good at it.

A deep male voice answered, "Jake's."

"He in?"

The phone hit something hard and a door squeaked open in the background. Maybe he didn't have time to say "Hold on." Maybe terrorists had mounted a surprise attack on the gym. Before the door closed I could hear him shouting Jake's name. A minute later Jake picked up.

"Jake."

"I'm with the Blue Bonnet Society and we are organizing a bake sale in your neighborhood for disenfranchised mercenaries. We are hoping we can count on your support?"

"What?" As in, what the hell did I want.

"It is customary in this country to offer a greeting and inquire about one's health." I got only silence for my trouble.

"How would you like to impersonate a drug dealer and maybe get to shoot someone in the bargain?"

"When?" I knew the part about shooting someone would get him.

"It will be a few days. I thought we could get together tonight and go over it, maybe talk about old times."

"Where?"

"Seven o'clock, the Star Motel. I'll be registered as Holden Caufield." It was hard to tell but I thought he might have made an amused grunt. Progress. I gave him the address and he hung up without saying goodbye.

Four words. He had spoken four words and made four complete sentences. There might be something to learn from that.

I spent the next couple of hours paying bills and typing up a report about everything that had happened since my phone call from Silverman. I signed it, made copies and sealed them in envelopes. I put one aside for my safe, mailed one to my home and addressed another to Anne along with a cover letter asking her to open it only in the event of my death.

It was almost five o'clock by the time I finished and I was beginning to wonder if Silverman had changed his mind when I heard someone running up the stairs and then a loud knock on the door. I took my gun out, held it under my desk, and told them to come in. A kid not much out of high school bopped in carrying a large, aluminum attaché case. His movements were quick and jerky and when I told him I was Chambers he slapped a form on the desk in front of me, handed me a pen and asked me to sign for the package. When I was done he whipped a small sealed envelope out of his pocket and handed it to me.

"What's that?" I said.

"The combination."

"Oh."

He ripped off a copy, handed it to me and was charging down the stairs before I could blink. Off to battle Los Angeles rush hour traffic "with miles and miles to go" all against a deadline. Whatever they're paying you, kid, it isn't enough. I wondered what he would have done if he had known what was in the case. Probably nothing different.

I opened the envelope and took out the slip of paper with the combination and turned the tumblers to match. I stopped then and took in a breath. I had never seen a million dollars before. I lifted the lid and there it was, neatly bundled stacks of hundred dollar bills, one hundred hundreds to a bundle, ten thousand dollars each. I counted them. There were a hundred bundles. A million dollars. Hola, Senor Silverman, greetings from Cabo San Lucas. Sorry you can't be here.

When I opened my safe I saw Manny's cash sitting there. I had almost forgotten about it. It didn't look like so much anymore. I moved it aside and put the case in along with the combination. Before I did I signed a statement saying that the money was Silverman's and put it in the case on top of the money. I put my sealed report in beside the case and took out an ankle holster and a twenty-five caliber Beretta. It was so small it fit into the palm of my hand and I had filed the hammer down to keep it from pinching the web between my thumb and forefinger when I fired it. It looked a lot bigger, though, when you were standing in front of it. I took extra clips and rounds for everything and looked around the office to see if there was anything else I might need. The gun seemed to be about it. I surveyed the street from my window but didn't see anyone carrying a violin case or polishing their gat so I went down to my car and drove home.

I packed light. If I had to stay away long I could buy what I needed or send out for cleaning. When I was done I buttoned the place up, put some food and water on the steps for the cat, set the alarm and left. It had taken me less than twenty minutes. Could you take the measure of a man by how long it takes him to pack?

Instead of driving directly to the motel I took a tour of the hills in Silverman's neighborhood. The streets were as deserted as before and it would be impossible for anyone to tail me without my spotting them. I even backed into a driveway once and waited. I waited almost five minutes but no cars went by. Once I was sure I wasn't being followed I took Sunset into Hollywood and found the Star Motel. It was on Sunset between Roxbury and Sweetzer, nestled into the hillside and fronted by the omnipresent palms. It didn't look too bad. It had large sweeping balconies and was tall enough to have a view of the south coast but still small enough to retain a little Southern California charm. I had been expecting a stuccoed box. The name was obviously a concession to the tourists.

When I gave my alias to the desk clerk he didn't bat an eye. Evidently not a literature buff. The hardest part was signing the register with what looked like practiced ease. Holden Caufield is a long name. In the space where it said occupation I thought about writing "Catcher in the Rye" but decided I might be pushing it. The clerk gave me my key and directions and I left. The courtyard had a pool just about big enough to bathe a St. Bernard. I wasn't here for recreation so it was only a small disappointment.

I was given a room on the Sunset side with a balcony. It was a basic motel room; bed, table, TV and drapes but it was clean and the bed was firm. I set my bag down and opened the doors to the adjoining suite. Better. The woman had not lied on the phone; it would suit my purposes well. I went in and looked around. Inexpensive but tasteful chairs and tables and a matching couch were arranged for conversation. In the corner there was a mini-bar and I could see into the kitchen through the pass through. It looked to have the basics. There was even a microwave.

I unpacked and when I was done I still had an hour to kill before my guests arrived. I found some Cutty Sark in the mini-bar, mixed it in a glass with soda and ice and took it out onto the balcony. The traffic noise was loud and constant but after awhile I got used to it, like white noise, and I sat there and sipped my drink and watched the setting sun splash a pastel tapestry across the Western sky.

34

There was knock on the door a few minutes before seven.

"Who?"

"J.D. Salinger." It was Jake.

I put my gun away and opened the door. He was alone or he wouldn't have answered.

His appearance is deceptive. Whenever I tell people about him, describe his history and what he does for a living, they are invariably surprised when they meet him. They are expecting a military hard ass with a buzz cut, dressed in camo fatigues and khaki T-shirt, sporting a two-day stubble. Instead, Jake is almost mild looking. He has boyish good looks and his face is remarkably unlined for the mileage it has seen. There is nothing soft about him but you can't tell at first glance and his manner of dress heightens the illusion, running to baggy chinos and long sleeve oxford button downs with the cuffs rolled back. He could easily be mistaken for a college professor or a laid back actor. The illusion lasts until you look into his eyes. When he speaks or if, for some reason, he removes his shirt, it is shattered completely. His hair is unfashionably long and he wears it however it dries. The style never changes and he always looks a few weeks overdue for a haircut. Nothing could be further from the truth. Jake makes time for everything in his life that is important to him. I wasn't sure, though, that anyone but Jake knew what those things were. It's easy to underestimate him but to do so is a bad mistake. I met all kinds during my stint with the agency: patriots, heroes, loners, psychos and cold-blooded killers, good men and bad. They all shared one thing in common. They were good at it. I have yet to meet anyone better at it than Jake.

"You're early." Instead of answering he showed me his watch. It was a military Rolex, utilitarian luxury and accurate as hell. It showed fifteen seconds after seven. I would give odds it was in sync with Greenwich Mean Time.

"Come in and have a beer, there's someone else coming."

He walked in and did a quick survey, went to the mini-bar and pulled out a Heineken, twisted the top off and took a measured sip. When he finished he went out to the balcony and I followed.

"Who are you hiding from?" Perceptive guy, Jake.

"Bobbie Vasquez. He's made a run at me twice in the last few days. You may have heard of his father, Roberto. I'll tell you the rest when the kid gets here but I don't want him to know Bobbie has come at me. He's scared enough." He nodded and took another pull on his beer. He didn't ask why or who the kid was and I knew he wouldn't bring it up again until I did. We stood there for a while, taking in the view, comfortable with the silence. After a few minutes there was another knock and I pulled out my gun again and went to answer it. Without saying a word, Jake took a Colt Commander off his ankle and went to stand in the kitchen.

"Who's there?"

"It's Aaron."

I looked over at Jake and he nodded. I yanked open the door and Aaron was standing there alone, a surprised look on his face. I waved him in and then ducked my head out and looked down the walkway in both directions. It was empty.

I closed the door and found Aaron staring at Jake. Jake was holding his gun at his side and when I motioned it was okay he lifted his foot onto the counter and re-holstered it. Aaron watched every move and then turned to me.

"What's going on?"

"Are you positive you weren't followed?"

"No sweat. I'm sure."

"Tell me."

"You mean how I know?"

"Yes."

"Well, I called a buddy of mine and had him drive his car down to a parking lot in B.H., then I met him in a bar and we swapped car keys. I went out the back door and walked around the block before I went to the lot. I took his car and drove around for a long time and made some stops, you know, like you told me to before. Then when I got here I parked down the block and went into a bar and then left the back way again and walked through the alley until I got here."

Jake gave me a raised eyebrow look that said, "not bad" and then left, closing the door quietly behind him.

"Good, Aaron, you did good."

"Who was that man?"

"His name is Jake. He's going to help us."

"Where is he going? Why did you have your guns out? Does Bobbie know I've been to see you?" There was a small note of panic in his voice.

"No, Bobbie doesn't know anything. Jake will be back in a few minutes. He just went outside to look around. We had our guns out because we are cautious types."

I told him to help himself to a drink and he mixed a strong vodka and tonic. He started to go out to the balcony but I asked him not to. Jake came back and shook his head at me, all clear. We refreshed our drinks and sat down to talk.

"Jake, this is Aaron Silverman. His sister is being blackmailed by Bobbie Vasquez with a video tape of her and her significant other, a woman named Beth."

I explained everything that had happened, leaving out Aaron's part and Bobbie's attempts on my life. Jake would hear the whole story later but I saw no point in embarrassing or scaring Aaron in front of him.

When I finished, I said, "We're going to set Bobbie up. I have a million in cash, Aaron, and I want you to tell Bobbie you have a coke buyer who has a lot of money to spend. Better not to mention the million to him, it might get him thinking about coincidence. Just tell him it's something in the high six figures. Jake is going to pose as the buyer. I want you to set up a meeting between Bobbie and Jake in this motel room. I'll be in the other room taping the buy. With the video we have what, in less politically correct times, would be called a Mexican-standoff. Our tape cancels Bobbie's. He leaves you and your sister alone and we don't go to the cops." I gave them a winning smile. "Simple."

Aaron looked like he had swallowed a frog and Jake's look said, "the kid will never pull it off." I was afraid he might be right but it was the best plan I could come up with. Hell, it was the only plan.

"I don't know, Michael, I don't know if Bobbie will go for it. What happens when he figures out I'm setting him up?" He hesitated, then said, "Where did you get a million in cash, anyway?"

"Your father."

A look of real fear crossed his face. The worst Bobbie could do was kill him.

"You didn't tell, did you?"

"I told you I wouldn't." His face uncoiled and he took in some air.

"Jake will look after you until this is over."

"No offense but, I mean, Bobbie has a bunch of killers on his side, you know?"

"You couldn't be in better hands, except maybe for mine." Jake snorted.

Aaron wasn't at all convinced.

"Our options are somewhat limited here, Aaron. If you don't think you can do this, okay, but hear me out before you pass on the idea."

"All right, I want to do it, you know, I want to get the bastard, I'm just a little scared is all."

"Only a fool wouldn't be, Aaron, but Jake and I can handle Bobbie until this is over. When it is, you won't have to be afraid. The hard part, though, will be convincing Bobbie to make the buy personally and to do it here. That's why we need you involved, Aaron, to make sure he comes to us." I was losing him again.

"It will work. If we do this right it will be over and you and your family can get back to living again." He didn't look any more convinced but he gave me a resigned shrug.

I laid it out for them. Jake's cover would be that he hung out at Industry parties, tolerated more than accepted, because he could supply quality drugs. He wanted to take the next step and was getting tired of waiting. He wanted to get a property of his own into development and for that he needed money. Instead of dealing to individual clients he had plans to start wholesaling. Less risk, more and faster money. For that he needed a direct supplier.

Aaron knew him socially somehow. Maybe an old friend of the family. Something that would give Aaron a long acquaintance with him and make him someone that Aaron could vouch for personally. I thought Bobbie might bite a little harder when he heard about the movie plans and all the big names Jake was going to drop. Make him a little more eager and get him to let his guard down.

"Any questions?" I said, when I finished.

"I'm not sure about my character's motivation," Jake said. "Could you explain that part again, about his motivation?" I ignored him. Now that he had heard it all I could see Aaron was more comfortable with the idea, saw that it could work.

"This doesn't sound too bad. I think it might be even better if Jake could somehow offer to help Bobbie with his movie plans. I think that would do it."

"Okay, that's what we'll do then. In the meantime, I need to get my hands on some special video gear. Something that can be easily concealed and turned on and off by remote. Something very small or that has a very small lens, something hard to detect."

"I can get what we need," Jake said.

Aaron said he might be able to get some, too. I said fine but it didn't matter. If Jake said he would get it, it was already here.

We went over a few more details, approximate times and dates, how and where the camera might be rigged and so on. Most of the detail could be left until we had our fish on the line. I knew Bobbie wouldn't go for the deal over the phone. He would want to meet Jake, get a sense of him and have him checked out. If he looked too close the game was over but I was counting on his greed and Aaron's sponsorship to keep that from happening.

We agreed to meet again the next day. Jake was going to track down the video equipment and Aaron was going to think up a plausible story for Jake.

Jake walked Aaron to his car and came back up.

"He's clean."

"You want another beer?"

He nodded and I got one for each of us.

"Kid's going to crack if this thing gets tricky."

"I know but he's all I've got. When I tell you the rest of it you'll see why I'm letting him do it. Besides, he'll have you to look out for him."

"What's the pay rate for guardian angels these days?" He looked around the room. "Did David Silverman produce a couple of turkeys recently?"

"Silverman gave me a check for twenty-five thousand but I gave it back to his daughter. She paid me a dollar, I'll split it with you."

He shook his head. "How about expenses?"

"I'll cover them."

He gave me a wry smile. "You ever think about doing this for a profit?"

He didn't expect an answer and I let it pass. I told him about Aaron's involvement in the blackmail and about Laurel and Beth, about the tape, about Silverman and the rest of it, including the shootings and the car chase. When I finished he was grinning.

"And you wonder why I still hire out. It's child's play compared to this shit. And it's honest and it pays better."

It surprised me. I thought he had forgotten about the time I asked him.

"But does it have a retirement plan?"

His face grew serious.

"Sounds like Bobbie Vasquez has yours all figured out."

35

I had breakfast the next morning in a nearby coffee shop. No Hollywood agents asked me if I wanted to be a star, in fact, for a long time, no one asked me if I wanted anything. I made it through the front page and was pulling out the sports section before anyone acknowledged my presence. The waitress who finally poured my coffee was straight out of Central Casting. Bright henna hair piled high and held in place with a gull wing red barrette. Her orange uniform was stretched tight over a voluptuous body but it would have looked better before she gained the extra fifteen pounds. She had on horn rimmed glasses with little star shaped jewels on the points and her lipstick was the same shade as the barrette. It was only a little past eight but wisps of her hair had come loose, as if it had been a long day already. She was in her mid thirties and tiny age lines were beginning to show. Up close she had on very little makeup except for the garish lipstick. Her nametag read Donna. I prepared for the worst but she surprised me with a big smile.

"Sorry about the wait, Hon, one of the girls called in sick this morning. Cocktail flu, if I know Brenda. The specials are on the board. My advice, go with the basics. We got a new cook doesn't know over easy from overshoes and right now he's busier than a one legged man in a butt kicking contest."

I grinned. "Where are you from?"

"It shows, huh? I knew these glasses were too much. From Des Moines originally, by way of Nashville, Albuquerque and Portland. Oregon not Maine."

"It's not the glasses. No one from L.A. has ever used the word overshoes in a sentence." It wasn't that funny but she laughed and patted my shoulder.

"That's good, sweetie. I wish all my customers had your sense of humor. Be nice if they had anybody's." She laughed again at her own joke. I liked her. On her feet eight hours a day, listening to every complaint, every bad joke and every come on with easy good humor. She took my order and rushed off to repeat the process at another table.

I took her advice and ordered a fruit plate, whole-wheat toast and hash browns. She came back with my order in just a few minutes and I remarked on the speed.

"You been waiting long enough. I told the cook I would be serving up his huevos next if he didn't get this order out pronto." I smiled and thanked her. I ate slowly to kill time and read my paper between bites. I finished it and my breakfast at the same time, a rare treat, and then just watched the people on the street wander by. No one seemed in a hurry. It was a weekday and the gainfully employed were already at work. Lot of out of work actors in this town. Donna came back one more time to refill my coffee and give me my check. When she did I handed her one of my cards.

"In case you ever find yourself in trouble. I'll put on my overshoes and come running." She humored me with a smile and after she read the card she tucked it in her bra with a seductive wink.

"I just might find some to get into, sweetie, you have a good day," and then she rushed off, coffeepot in motion. She thought I was coming on to her but I didn't mind. Who knows, maybe I was. I put my newspaper on the back of the booth for the next customer, put down enough money for a five-dollar tip and left.

In spite of the long breakfast it was still early and I had time to kill before the meeting with Jake and Aaron. Being out in public like this there was a chance I might run into Bobbie or some of his henchmen but I was willing to risk it. I've spent too much of my life waiting to do any more if I had a choice. A little risk beat waiting any day.

I went back to the motel and put on some running gear and drove up to Griffith Park. People were lounging in the grass, throwing Frisbees, with and without their dogs, and generally relaxing. I thought about postponing the workout and joining the loungers. Then I thought about the guys who had been waiting in my house and the ones chasing me on Wilshire.

I jogged around the lower park until I figured I had done at least five miles. I was stiff from all the recent inactivity and it took me a couple of miles to get loose. After that the motions came easy and my parts felt like they had just been oiled. When I caught my breath again I did some push ups and crunches and found a tree limb where I could do some pull-ups. Then I flopped my knees over the branch and did inverse sit-ups until my muscles were screaming. I wondered what sadistic, zealot bastard had invented the exercise and decided it must have been a high school gym teacher.

I needed dumbbells to round things out but there were none in sight. I found a rock instead. It was about the size of a soccer ball and heavy enough to do some tricep and trapezius work. All I needed was the Conan outfit. I felt a little peculiar but this was Hollywood and no one gave me a second glance.

I might start a trend working out this way. The all-natural workout. Save people a fortune in health club dues. Too bad Jake let me use his gym for free. I didn't think it would catch on anyway. There weren't any chicks to hustle. Too bad there weren't any at Jake's either.

When I finished I put the rock back where I found it and drove to the motel. I was revitalized by the workout and whistled my way through a long, stinging shower. Afterwards, I dressed and went out again. I found a local market and bought some staples, including liquor and beer. Mini-bar prices would break me before the week was out.

When I had put the groceries away I called my machine at home. There was only one message, my landlord again, wanting to talk. Mr. popular. I dialed my service at the office and got a surprise. A message from Celine St. James asking me to please call as soon as possible.

I went to a pay phone and tried the number but got her machine. I thought about leaving the motel number but discarded the idea immediately. I might as well rent one of the billboards down the street and put my address on it. I left a message saying I would call back again later. I wondered what she wanted. Maybe she wanted to ask me out dancing or maybe she heard I was tight with Silverman and wanted an introduction. Or maybe Bobbie was using her to flush me out of hiding.

36

It was mid afternoon by the time Jake and Aaron showed up. Jake had given Aaron a ride, ostensibly to save him the trouble of borrowing another car. Mostly it was so Jake could keep an eye on him, partly for protection and partly to make sure he didn't bail out on us. Things were going to get complicated from here on out. Each of them was carrying a black, hard side case that I rightly assumed was video gear.

On the drive over they had polished the story they were going to tell Bobbie and it sounded good. Jake's acquaintance with the Silvermans had started years ago when he did some martial arts consulting on a movie. He had trained the film's star and kept him supplied with coke at the same time. The actor was a big name celebrity and Jake had come up with some anecdotes that made it sound as if he knew the guy personally. I knew better and he still had me convinced.

Through the Silvermans, Jake had managed some introductions to other Industry heavy weights and was at the point where, because of his drug connections, he could still wrangle invitations to parties.

To Bobbie he would present himself as an opportunist who was using the drug dealing as a means to an end but who never used drugs himself. Aaron would confirm all of this to Bobbie privately. The idea was to paint a picture of someone with a shady side, like Bobbie, but also someone with first class connections, a guy on the way up, someone who could get a project into development if he could find a big enough score to get the money. It was a story that should appeal to Bobbie and, best of all, any nosing around he did into Jake's background would check out.

"Who came up with this?"

"We both did," Aaron said, but Jake stayed silent and pointed at Aaron.

I looked at Aaron. "I'm impressed. You might just make your movie yet."

He grinned self consciously, "Maybe."

We kicked the story around for a while, looking for holes, embellishing it here and there and smoothing the rough edges. When we finished it felt solid.

"It's time to make the call, Aaron."

"Yeah, okay." He looked like the governor had denied his stay. He started to pick up the phone but I stopped him and looked at Jake. "You realize that after this is over, if it doesn't work, you're going to have the son of one of L.A.'s reigning crime lords very pissed off at you. Aaron has some incentive here but you don't have to do this."

"And you do?" he said, then he chuckled. "Reigning crime lord, Christ." This was his idea of fun.

I shook my head and smiled, I couldn't help it. "Good thing for Bobbie he has lots of backup."

Aaron wasn't sure what we were smiling about but both of us were grinning like fools and it was contagious. He started to smile too. It helped relieve the tension he was clearly feeling and he picked up the phone again and dialed Bobbie's number. He was connected after a brief wait and began his spiel.

"Bobbie . . . I'm fine . . . been doing a lot of thinking . . . yeah, you're right . . . yeah . . . Listen, I have someone I would like you to meet. He wants to do some business with you and I think he could be a big help with our project. He's an old acquaintance of the family . . . Yeah, for years . . . Uh huh, I think you should talk to him. He's very connected." He was overdoing it, pushing a little too hard. I motioned for him to relax.

"His name is Jake . . . His full name? John Rach, but everybody calls him Jake . . . He wants to have lunch with you and just talk, you know, about possibilities . . . Well, you know, just possibilities . . . Yeah, I'll be there, too . . . No, no way, nothing to do with that, I'm not stupid . . . Of course I didn't say anything, man, I'm still with you . . . No problemo . . . I haven't forgotten.

"Great, that's great. I'll set it up. I think you're gonna like what you hear . . . Okay, yeah, bye."

Aaron's hand was shaking a little when he cradled the receiver but his eyes were clear and he gave us a big grin. Instead of saying anything he put his index finger in his mouth and mimicked a hooked flounder. I patted him on the back and broke out some beers.

The rest of the afternoon was spent working out a place to set up the video equipment. We had two choices, in the suite or in the bedroom next door. If Bobbie searched the suite before the swap was made there was a better than good chance he would find our camera. On the other hand, trying to film from the adjoining bedroom was going to require even more specialized equipment than we already had. Unless we knocked holes in the wall we would need a lens that I could slide under the door, the kind the FBI had used in some of their famous sting operations. Jake thought he knew someone who might be able to get one for us but he wasn't sure how long it would take.

I found a phone book and looked up the number of a place I had heard about but had never used. It was called the Covert Connection and catered mostly to corporate and political types who had reached Def-Con One on the paranoia scale. The place stocked telephone scramblers, bugging equipment, voice sensitive lie detectors, briefcase cameras, electrified briefcases, anti-bugging equipment and a host of other gizmos designed to breach or to ensure security.

I told them what I needed and they said they had just the thing. When I asked them if they rented they very politely said that, regrettably, no, they did not. I inquired about the price of the camera I needed and when they told me I thanked them just as politely and hung up.

Jake made a call to his friend and found out the lens we wanted was available but expensive. Jake told him we were only interested in renting. The friend said he would see what he could do and get back to us.

We spent almost two hours trying the camera in one spot and then another. Behind the drapes, inside a credenza, inside a kitchen cabinet, behind a plant and so on. We even toyed with the idea of rigging the toaster so the camera could be hidden inside but, in the end, all of the places seemed too obvious.

Jake was the one who finally figured it out. The cable for the television came out of a standard wall outlet and, when he checked, he found an identical outlet on the other side of the wall in the bedroom. He had come prepared and in one of the black cases were a drill and a saw and other tools and even foam padding to dampen the camera noise. He unscrewed the cover on both sides and pulled the cables out. That left a rectangular hole in the wall that passed through to both rooms. He set up the camera so the lens went into the opening on the bedroom side and then replaced the wall cover on the opposite side. The hole in the cable cover was smaller than a dime and when we shot some tests there was a blurred circle around the picture but not enough so that it mattered. We had to rearrange the seating area to get a clear shot of everyone but when we finished it looked good. The sound was muffled and Jake took a remote microphone and slid it just under the corner of the door and connected it to the camera. After that the playback sounded as clear as if the camera were in the same room.

If, for some reason, Bobbie wanted to watch television Jake would tell him it wasn't working and if he noticed there was no cable coming out of the wall Jake would tell him that was the reason it wasn't working. Someone would have to get down on hands and knees with a flashlight in order to see our camera lens. Afterwards, we moved everything back to its original place. It would only take a few minutes to set things up again when we needed to. We were in business.

Now all we had to do was get Bobbie to sell Jake a million dollars worth of coke and do it in this room.

It was past nine by the time my guests left. I had promised to call Celine St. James back so I dialed her number but got the machine again. I was about to hang up when she picked up. The message tape didn't cut out and she said, "Hold on." I could hear her hitting buttons on the machine and calling it names. The message stopped abruptly and she came back on. "I'm back. Sorry. That stupid machine, I had to unplug it before it would shut up."

"It's Michael Chambers, Ms. St. James, you left a message for me to call."

There was a moment of silence. "Oh, Mr. Chambers, hi. I'm glad you called. After what happened I wasn't sure you would." Her voice was bright and friendly, like she really was glad I called.

"You had a right to be upset. Having a strange man follow you around would bother anyone."

"Yes, I suppose so, but the reason I called was to apologize. We really didn't give you a chance to explain yourself. Amber, the woman who was with me, freaked out a little and I'm afraid I wasn't much better. I think we overreacted and I just wanted to let you know that we aren't normally like that." I liked it that she called her friend a woman instead of a girl.

"Something happened, didn't it?"

Her voice grew quiet. "Yes, something did. You were right. When I got home that night there were a bunch of messages from Bobbie on my machine. He wanted me to call no matter what time it was. It was late but he insisted on coming over. When he got here he was in a rage. Somehow he knew you and I had talked. I asked him how he knew and he told it was none of my business how he knew."

"He had some people following me."

"I thought perhaps he was having me followed. That makes me feel a little better, I suppose. But not much.

"He acted like I had done something wrong. He asked me over and over again what I had told you about him. He wouldn't believe me when I said you had been following us and that I didn't know you. He has never acted that way before, totally irrational, and, to tell you the truth, I don't want to see him again no matter how he acts. He called you some awful names and he yelled at me as if the whole thing was my fault. He frightened me."

"I've had an opportunity to see him like that myself. I don't blame you for being scared."

"I don't want to see him again but when I told him that he said, quote, 'No dumb bitch is going to dump Bobbie Vasquez, I'm the one who does the dumping,' unquote. I don't know what he will do if I refuse to see him. I'm not some silly, helpless woman but after what you told me I have to say I'm frightened. I thought about calling the police but they won't act until he does something." She paused for breath. "When I first met him he told me he owned an import business and because he is so wealthy, he never goes anywhere without his bodyguard. He has always been very charming and well mannered. I could never have fallen for him but I knew he saw other women so it didn't seem to matter. The man he became the other night, however, was positively scary and that bodyguard has the cruelest eyes I have ever seen. You seem to know who he really is and I guess I am asking for your advice. What should I do?"

"Don't do anything. If he asks you out again, make up some excuse. Just keep stalling him for a few days and I should be able to take care of this for you."

"He hates you. Why would he listen to you? I think it would only make him madder if you told him."

"He'll be mad all right but he'll leave you alone. I'm going to present it to him in such a way that he has no choice."

"I don't understand."

"I know. It's all I can tell you but in a few days everything should be fine."

It was a long time before she said anything.

"Why would you do this for me? You don't even know me and after the way I treated you I don't see why you would want to."

"You're right. Forget the whole thing."

She was quiet a moment and then she chuckled. I liked it that she was smart.

"Seriously, why would you do this?"

"Is there a mirror handy?"

"That's not the reason."

"No, it isn't. When this is over I'll explain what I can." I paused and then added, "It could take a long time, though, we might get hungry before I finished."

"Are you inviting me to dinner?" I liked it that she was quick.

"It might be a good idea. It's a long story."

"Okay, but only if I buy."

"Is it too soon to propose?"

She chuckled again. "Of course not." She had me. I couldn't think of anything to say.

"Well?"

Her chuckle became a laugh. It was a good sound, deep throated and genuine, not a giggle or a twitter. I laughed too and told her not too worry. I said I would call in a few days. When we hung up I could still hear the smile in her voice.

37

I spent the next two days sitting on my hands. Aaron called Bobbie the next morning to promote Jake a little more and to try and set a day for the lunch meeting. Bobbie put them off until Friday.

I continued my workouts at Griffith Park, my rock was right where I had left it, and I checked my service often to see if there were any messages from either the Silvermans or Celine. I called Silverman once to let him know things were developing and that I hoped to have it wrapped up in a few days. He said that was good. He hadn't heard from the blackmailers and he hoped that he never would again. It had been over a week since Silverman had received the second blackmail note and I had half expected Bobbie to go ahead with it despite the fact that I was still breathing. I had spooked him more than I thought.

I also told Silverman where his money was in case something should go wrong. He asked me what I meant but I told him to just keep being patient and, hopefully, it would all be over soon. He thanked me, said he had to make a meeting and rang off. His life was a marathon of meetings, one after the other, stroke, pull, push, day in and day out. I couldn't imagine it, doing his job. Probably any more than he could imagine doing mine.

Friday finally came. The lunch was scheduled at L'Ovale. Not the worst spot in town, nice atmosphere, excellent service and fine French cooking. I checked my wallet. I wondered who was going to pay for lunch.

I wanted to be close in case there was trouble and decided the best thing to do was to have lunch at the bistro across the street. It wasn't L'Ovale but not many places are. I would have to park my own car and when I called for reservations they said no problem. Getting a window seat wasn't either. Another indication it wasn't L'Ovale.

My reservation was set fifteen minutes before the others and I arrived a half hour before that. I could see the entrance to L'Ovale from the bar and I went in and ordered a club soda and sipped it until my name was called. After I was seated I told the waiter I was expecting someone else and to bring coffee. I figured I could hang around for quite awhile pretending to wait for my lunch date before the waiters got upset.

Jake and Aaron were right on time. They pulled up and handed the keys to the valet and went in. It was another fifteen minutes before Bobbie showed up with his ego and two associates. My waiter was starting to give me dirty looks. I called him over and told him I would be ordering in a few minutes. I got up and pretended to make a phone call and when I came back I beckoned him over and ordered appetizers and one of the most expensive lunch entrees. I would have ordered wine but I wanted a clear head. I told him I would be dining solo but the size of my impending bill seemed to ease his mind. He gave me a smile and rushed off with my order.

I ate a leisurely lunch of fresh, grilled salmon, new potatoes and steamed vegetables followed by chocolate mousse for desert and a half dozen refills on my coffee. The others were evidently still eating lunch by the time I finished. No one had come out and no gunsels dressed in dark suits had gone in. I was running out of stalls when I saw the five of them come out together. Jake and Bobbie were leading and seemed to be deep in conversation. The others followed and when the cars came they all shook hands in a friendly manner and went their separate ways.

My partners turned west on Sunset as if they were heading home. We thought it would be a good idea in case Bobbie had them tailed. A man in his position couldn't afford to trust anyone. No one followed them from the restaurant and I breathed a small sigh of relief. They would double back and meet me at the motel later, after they made sure they were clear.

I finished my coffee and paid the check with Citibank's money. I had tied up a table for almost two hours and my conscience got to me. I added a ridiculous tip for the waiter. He would be able to afford those Lee Strausberg classes now.

On the way back to the motel I kept an eye out for Bobbie in case he decided to make a stop for sundries like hair spray or bullets. By the time I pulled into the motel parking lot my teeth were aching. There was enough coffee in my system to start a tsunami and I walked in a stiff legged, forward crab all the way to the room.

It was an hour before Jake and Aaron knocked on the door and I had almost begun to worry. If I told Jake he would have scoffed. He was wearing a cream colored suit that must have set him back well over a thousand dollars and a silk, powder blue, band collared shirt. He had moussed his hair straight back, tight to his scalp, and tied it into a small ponytail.

"Nice suit. Armani?"

He looked at me to see if I was kidding him and when he saw I wasn't he said, "Thanks, it's a Mossimo."

I shrugged. I didn't have a clue who or what a Mossimo was.

"When did you start dressing like this?"

"I didn't." End of conversation.

Aaron was animated, certain that things had gone well at lunch. Jake was his quiet self but I could see he thought so too. Everything hinged on getting Bobbie on tape. Laurel, Beth, Silverman, Aaron and now Celine St. James, had a lot riding on this scheme. My staying healthy was in there too.

"He went for it, man, he can't wait. A million bucks. He will clear over half of that, maybe two thirds. I could see him counting it, the greedy son-of-a-bitch."

I looked at Jake and he nodded. "It went well."

"When?"

Aaron answered, "He said a week but Jake said it was no good. He was brilliant, man, you should have heard him. He said it was almost Oscar time and the whole town is going to be wired until they are over. Nothing but parties for the next month. Jake told him he needed the stuff right away, like yesterday, said he had waited two days already just to meet Bobbie and if he couldn't handle the number that was okay, he would score it from the three or four guys he was dealing with now. Said he had never done a deal this big and was hoping to use one reliable wholesaler, keep the risks down and the costs, but if Bobbie couldn't handle it, no big deal, glad to you meet you and all that. Man, I thought Bobbie was going to explode. It was golden, man, you should have been there."

"I call him tomorrow," Jake said.

"Then Bobbie says, 'you know who the fuck I am? You got any fucking idea who you are dealing with?' Jake goes, 'hey, it's cool, Aaron says you are a friend of his interested in doing a project and who could maybe deal some size. Nothing to get heated about.' Bobbie backs off and says it's not a problem; he could do the deal this afternoon if he wanted to but he wants to check Jake out. It got kind of tense then, Bobbie looks at me real hard and says, where the fuck did I get the idea he could deal a million in blow? If Jake hadn't been there . . . man I don't know. I said it was because of our other deal, you know, and because he's always supplied. I told him I just figured him for a big time player, is all."

"Guy's a little vain," Jake said, "I thought he was going to start licking himself about then."

"Then Jake says, the product has to be pure. His clients can afford the best and they expect it from him. Bobbie kind of snorts then as if he's insulted and says don't worry about it. Then they start negotiating price. Jake smoothed him, man. Made him come down three times. After that things kind of settled down and we talked about other stuff. I brought up our project and Jake said he might be able to help Bobbie and I get it going, might even be interested in a piece of it himself."

I looked at Jake. "Where did you find out what a kilo of coke is worth?"

He just shrugged.

"You negotiated a million dollar drug deal in the middle of a crowded restaurant. Didn't anyone notice?"

"Impossible," Jake said. "Not with all the bull shit flying around that room. Most of them were agents and network guys greasing each other. 'If the pilot gets a good share we'll give you a thirteen week deal, option for thirteen more, standard pay or play with merchandising and syndication rights, not including spin-offs.' I could have handed out business cards that said I want to buy a million dollars worth of cocaine and not raised an eyebrow. Call me, let's have lunch. Shit."

It was the longest speech I had ever heard from Jake. He lives inside himself and is content with the view. The place must have really gotten to him.

To change the subject, I said, "How was the food?"

"Great," Aaron said.

Jake reached into his pocket and handed me a copy of the check. Three hundred nineteen dollars and change for five people. For lunch.

"This works out to something over sixty dollars a person."

"It was just the three of us. The lifters went to the bar."

"Three of you?"

Jake smiled.

"Did someone order wine?"

"I don't drink wine," Aaron said.

Jake's smile got bigger.

38

I heard from Jake again the next evening.

"It's a go." They were his first words after I said hello.

"This how you talk in the jungle on those two ways?"

"Tomorrow night, nine o'clock."

"Don't you mean twenty one hundred hours?"

He didn't say anything. I don't know why I tried.

"How about the location, any hitches?"

"He wanted to pick the place but I said, no way, I'm the one carrying cash, I choose."

"He go for it?"

"Yup."

"So he knows we're meeting here?"

He was silent again. It was a dumb question. "When do you let him know?"

"I call him from the room a half hour before."

"This seem a little too easy to you?"

"Uh huh."

"You don't think a guy like Bobbie would try and rip us off, do you?"

"You want back up?"

"Your call. He's your pal."

"I'll think on it."

"One thing's for sure."

"What's that?"

"Bobbie isn't his father. Roberto Vasquez would never fall for something like this. He would have grabbed you at lunch and taken you to an abandoned warehouse somewhere to ask a few questions."

"If he could."

"Good point. Any chance we could leave Aaron out of this tomorrow?"

"Nope."

"It was just a thought."

"Not a bad one either. See you tomorrow, Holden."

I had trouble falling asleep that night and when I did I slept fitfully. I woke once in the early morning hours. It was still dark and a precocious spring storm had struck with surprising ferocity. The rain came down in a savage deluge, attended by thunder and sheet lightening. It kept me awake for over an hour and my mind never wandered far from tomorrow. I drifted off again, finally, and fought a war in my sleep, complete with sound effects.

I got up late the next day, catching up on the sleep I had missed during the night. All I had on my plate was retrieving Silverman's money from my office. I had a hunch Bobbie would have the place staked out by now since I had disappeared. I wasn't going to test my theory at this late date. I called Anne instead.

"Annie, it's your favorite tenant."

"I only have one tenant."

"See."

"You make a cogent argument. If I had your way with words I'd win all my cases."

"Who needs elocution when you have great legs?"

"Sexist but, sadly, true."

"I need a favor, Annie."

"You need but ask, chere."

"There's a briefcase in my safe with a million dollars in cash in it. The combination is in an envelope beside it. I can't go to my office and I want you to get it for me and have one of those courier services bring it over to me this afternoon."

"You're joking?"

"I never joke about money."

"You never have any to joke about."

"There's that."

"What are you doing with a million in cash?"

"I'm using it to buy coke from one of L.A.'s reigning crime lords."

"You mean a member of organized crime?"

"Exactly."

"And are they the reason you can't come to the office?"

"Great legs and brains."

"This sounds bad, Michael. Does it have something to do with what your friend Aaron Silverman said in the statement he gave me?"

"Part of it."

"I checked with my friend at the D.A.'s office. He said Roberto Vasquez is a very bad man and his son is, how did he put it, 'a couple of bricks short'."

"That's Bobbie. It should all be over by tonight. If everything goes as planned I'll be in the office tomorrow morning. If something should happen there's another envelope in the safe that explains everything. I put your name on it."

"Is Jake with you?"

"He'll be here."

"That makes me feel better."

"Me too."

"I'll get the case for you but I'm not going to just turn a million dollars over to some kid in a Geo. I'll bring it to you myself. It's Saturday and I'm just cleaning up some paperwork. I can be out of here in an hour. Tell me where to meet you."

"Thanks but, no, Annie. These guys have already killed one person and have been trying for number two. I don't want you involved."

"Don't be a chauvinist."

"We can discuss my views on the E.R.A. another time. Right now I need that case. I'll come and get it before I let you get involved in this."

"How about this? What if I take it down to the bus station and leave it in a locker? I saw it in a movie once. I don't feel comfortable giving it to a courier."

I thought about it for a moment. "Okay, but how will I get the key?"

"I'll put it in an envelope and have it couriered over to you, dummy."

"You're making my head hurt."

"You would be surprised how many corporate lackeys say the same thing to me."

"I don't think so."

It would mean a trip to the bus station but it was a good plan. I didn't like the idea of a courier either and the bus station was only a few blocks from the office. I thought Silverman had been nuts to have the money couriered to me but I reasoned that, if you have a few hundred of them, losing one it isn't such a big deal.

"Okay, but try not to let this go to your head."

In pure Georgia Peach she said, "Little ole' me? Why I'm just a silly woman."

She made me promise to call as soon as it was over and I said I would. The courier arrived with the locker key about four o'clock and I was able to get to the bus station and back before six. There was a note from Anne in with the money asking me to please be careful and to call her if I needed anything else. The postscript read If mine isn't the first call you make when this is over I know a nice, quiet accountant who would love an office with an ocean view. The words quiet and love had been underlined. Twice. Sweet Anne. Before I met her, I used to wonder why the windows don't open in those corporate high rises.
39

Aaron was pouring his second drink in less than ten minutes, I was setting up the camera and double-checking the equipment and Jake was in the bedroom with me, oiling and loading our weapons. He was in the bedroom because gun oil has a distinct smell and, chances were, our scheduled guests might recognize it. It was seven o'clock and Murder Incorporated was due in two hours.

Someone had tried to follow Jake when he stopped to pick up Aaron but he spotted them right away and it had taken him only minutes to lose them. It was a stupid thing for Bobbie to try, especially in the hills. We didn't know if it was supposed to be a hijack attempt or just a way for Bobbie to find out where the meeting place was before Jake called him. Either way, it really didn't matter.

Jake was loading a .38 snub nose for Aaron, the perfect weapon for the novice. If the ammo is fresh, there is almost no way for it to fail: no safety, no slide, no clip. Just point and pull the trigger. I was going with my Beretta. The company has been making weapons for five hundred years and seems to have the hang of it. The gun has never jammed on me and it's the best balanced weapon I've ever held in my hand. Off the shelf, it is also one of the most accurate. As a bonus, it holds sixteen rounds. I also had a sawed off Mossberg 12 gauge. Jake had taken the plug out and loaded it with six rounds of magnum double ought steel in case Bobbie came in an armored carrier. I hadn't seen it but I knew Jake would have his old government issue Colt .45, one made before the Mark V series, when they started making them out of pot metal.

I ran a few camera tests for picture and sound and in the last one I saw Aaron going for his third drink. After being followed I couldn't blame him but I went over to him and said, "Only a couple more hours and it will be over." He got my meaning and nodded and put the drink down, "You're right. I'm just nervous but I'll be okay."

"I know you will."

By eight o'clock we had checked and doubled checked everything. The camera had fresh batteries, the guns fresh ammo and Jake was changing into another expensive suit. This one was black worn over another silk, band collar shirt, also black. Haute couture.

"Mossimo?"

He shook his head, "Armani."

He couldn't keep the grin off his face but, mercifully, he let it go. I wanted to ask him how he knew so much about fashion but I knew better.

The time dragged until eight thirty. The plans had been reviewed a dozen times and there wasn't much left to say. At exactly eight thirty Jake picked up the phone and dialed.

"Bobbie, it's Jake. Listen, I thought I was dealing with a stand up guy. What was that, having us followed . . . Bull shit, it was you . . . Fuck it, the deal is off . . ."

Aaron gave me a bug-eyed look but I shook my head not to worry.

Jake listened for a minute and said, "I still don't like it. You had two days to check me out, why would I set you up; I'm a drug dealer for Christ's sake. Aaron told me I could trust you but I don't know, besides, I did some checking myself, you're nobody I want to cross . . . I don't know . . . I don't know, I don't like it . . . All right, I guess, but no more games . . . I don't want a party here, either, just the three of us, you, me and Aaron . . . Fine, fine, bring him along but nobody else or that's it."

I thought the part about it being just he and Aaron was a nice touch. Jake sounded angry but he put a little whine into it. He was in the wrong business. Aaron's father could make him a star. He gave Bobbie the address and then hung up and grinned at me.

"He said he was having us tailed because he was afraid it might be a set up. He wanted to make sure there were no cops."

"He might even be telling the truth."

Jake looked at me.

"Or not."

Jake motioned me into the bedroom where Aaron couldn't hear.

"He'll have some men outside."

"At least a couple."

"How far you want to go with this?"

I knew what he was thinking. "Not as far as that."

"Make things a lot simpler."

"Uh uh, only if he gives us no choice."

"It's your call."

"Too true."

We went back into the living room and Jake handed Aaron the .38. "Just insurance."

Aaron took it and stared at it and then looked at me.

"You won't need it but it's better to have it than not have it."

Jake said he was going outside to wait. He had people outside. It was something Aaron didn't need to know. It would only make him more nervous. He looked longingly at the mini-bar but sat on the couch and picked up the newspaper. I went into the bedroom and did a final check on our weapons. Jake had laid out another modified shotgun for himself and a box of shells. Beside them were four full clips of .45 hardballs and a Colt Python with two speed loaders full of Glaser safety slugs. They would make a hole the size of a softball in a human but wouldn't go through a wall. No need to endanger the neighbors. If it came to it, we could hold off the entire Vasquez family.

I sat on the bed and tried the camera remote one last time. The red light blinked on cue and I shut it down, turned out the lights and sat down again to wait. Through the connecting door I could see the briefcase sitting innocently on the coffee table, no hint of what was inside. I could see Aaron, too. His skin was pale and tight and he was rifling through the newspaper without really registering what he read. I wanted to give him some words of encouragement but it was time to be quiet and I didn't know what to say anyway.

With ten minutes to go I closed the door between the rooms. The dead bolt was on my side and I turned it, feeling the bolt slide into place. Jake had oiled it earlier and it made almost no noise. I returned to the bed and sat, listening intently for the sound of the door opening in the other room. That would be my cue to start the camera.

It was another twenty minutes before I heard the door open in the suite. I turned the camera on and looked at the monitor we had set up on the nightstand. I could see everything the camera saw. I was putting on the headphones when I saw Bobbie's man come into view, followed by Bobbie and then Jake. The bodyguard looked like Bigfoot, only larger. He was carrying a briefcase that I took as a positive sign.

"Hey, Aaron. How they hangin', kid, this is Berk. Jake, Berk. It's short for Berserk, get it? Say hello to Aaron and Jake."

Berk nodded his enormous head once but didn't offer to shake hands. The picture was too small to tell but I thought Aaron looked relieved, "Hello, Mr. Berk. Nice to meet you."

Bobbie thought that was funny, Mr. Berk. Jake was standing back, staying loose. He waited a beat and said, "Bobbie, sit down, how about a drink? Vodka rocks, isn't it? Aaron, you want to do the honors? How about you, Berk, you want a beer or something?" Berk shook his head. It was rare to see someone who spoke less than Jake.

It was a good idea, keeping Aaron busy with the drinks.

"Jake, no offense but you mind if Berk takes a look around?"

"No, go ahead, he won't find anything."

"I'm gonna ask you a question, too, Jake, I don't want you to get upset but if you give me the right answer we can get down to business. Okay?"

Jake put a little disgust into his voice. "Whatever, ask it."

Berk began a thorough search of the suite. Lifting cushions, looking in cabinets, under the chairs and so on. I could hear him in the kitchen but I couldn't see him. I wasn't feeling very clever now. The cable outlet felt like it had a neon arrow pointing to it.

"Okay, Aaron, you gotta answer this too. Are either of you guys working for any law enforcement agency? In other words, are you guys setting this situation up for any branch of the cops?"

Aaron started to say no but Jake overrode him. He put a lot of sarcasm and anger into it, "You bet, Bobbie, right now you're being video taped and after you sell me a million bucks worth of cocaine we're going straight to the cops. I'm turning myself in too. I consider it my civic fucking duty. You want to frisk us for a wire while you're at it?"

Bobbie put out his hands in a placating gesture. "Hey, hey, no need to get pissed. You can't be too careful, you know? Chill out a little, huh?"

If I had any doubts that Bobbie was planning a rip off they went the way of the dinosaurs. He wasn't the type to worry about anyone's feelings.

Berk, meanwhile, was working his way methodically toward the wall. When he saw the cable outlet he paused and stared at it. He squatted and took a closer look and I held my breath.

He turned his head to Jake. "What's this? How come there's no cable?"

I couldn't see him but I heard Jake say, "How the fuck should I know? TV was an extra charge. I rented the room to make the swap, not watch soap operas." I grinned in spite of myself. To Bobbie he said, "You want to do this deal or not? I'm the one who shouldn't be trusting you after that stunt earlier. Let's do it or forget it. I'm getting tired of this shit."

Berk moved closer to the lens and stared right into it. I knew all he could see was black. I hoped he didn't have a flashlight. He stared for a long time and then tried to put his finger in the hole. It was too small for his huge finger. He grunted and stood up.

Bobbie was looking at Berk. Berk shook his head, "Hole's too small." I didn't know if he meant it was too small for his finger or if the hole was too small for a lens. He went over and I heard him try the connecting door. It sounded like a grizzly bear trying to get in.

Aaron said, "It's empty, man. I already checked. I must've knocked for five minutes." Then to Bobbie, "Hey, man, what is this? You think I would set you up? That's harsh, man. We're partners. We've got a project to finish and Jake can help us. He's straight shooter, like I said, an old friend of the family."

Whatever wrong the kid had done, he had just made up for it.

Bobbie didn't say anything for awhile and then made up his mind. "Okay, let's do it. I know you ain't a cop, Jake, I checked. I'm just playing safe, you know? No hard feelings." He was not his father.

I let my breath out. The camera had sounded like a jet engine the whole time Berk was staring into the hole.

40

They were all seated around the coffee table. Bobbie and Berk on one side, Jake and Aaron on the other. Bobbie was the only one drinking and he knocked it back in one swallow. I gave Aaron a silent kudos for abstaining.

Bobbie put down his empty glass and rubbed his hands together. "You show me yours and I'll show you mine."

Jake said, "Why don't you count the money while I test the stuff. It's all there, non-sequential hundreds, just like I said. Now let's see if this stuff has been stepped on."

"That hurts, Jake, don't you trust me?" Then he laughed. No one said anything.

Both of the brief cases were opened flat on the coffee table. The coke was packaged in clear plastic bricks and Jake pulled out three of them at random and made a slit in each. He took a vial of clear liquid and put a little of the powder in it. It turned a deep shade of some dark color. He repeated the process with samples from the other two bricks with the same result. He took a scale and weighed each brick. A friend had supplied him with everything. Interesting friends he had.

"Nine kilos of pure cocaine. You're a man of your word, Bobbie. I'm going to make a fortune."

Bobbie was still counting the money and just grunted. I got up as quietly as possible from the bed and slid as much as stepped over to the door.

Bobbie counted the last series out loud, "twenty, thirty, forty, forty-five. Nine hundred and forty-five thousand large. It's all here, too."

"You want another drink or anything?"

"Nah, we gotta run, right Berk? Gotta go spend some of this." He laughed again. He closed the briefcase and snapped the locks shut.

"That's it then," Jake said. That was my cue. He made a lot of noise closing his case to cover the sound of the dead bolt. Bobbie was saying "Pleasure doing business with . . ." when I popped through the door.

I pointed my gun at Berk. "Smile, you're on Candid Camera." Bobbie had his back to me and he turned so he could see me. "You!"

"Yup. It's me, Alan Fundt. How you doin', Bobbie?"

Bobbie whipped his head back to Aaron and started screaming.

"You are dead, motherfucker, you hear me, dead."

Jake took a step forward and chopped him across the bridge of the nose. Blood started spurting down his shirt. I held my gun on Berk. "Don't even twitch."

Bobbie started to say something and Jake hit him again. This time in the Adam's apple. Bobbie gagged and had one hand on his throat and one on his nose. Jake grabbed his hair and shoved him into a chair. "Shut up. You open your mouth again and the next one will hurt."

Bobbie responded by trying to reach inside his coat. Jake grabbed his hand and chopped him on the neck. His hands moved so fast they were a blur. Bobbie made an "Argh" sound and slumped sideways.

I kept my eye on Berk the whole time. He wasn't as dumb as he looked. He didn't move.

"You know the drill." He turned and faced the wall, spreading his hands and feet. I ground the barrel of my gun into his neck and kicked his feet further apart. It was like kicking oil drums. I patted him down and took the gun out from under his arm and found a switchblade in one pocket and another gun on his ankle. He had a sap in his back pocket.

"No crossbow?"

I backed up and pointed him to the chair next to Bobbie's. He ignored Bobbie and kept staring at me. Bobbie was making coughing sounds but Berk's eyes never moved. He didn't even blink. I felt like Bambi by the alligator pond.

"Jake, I need to get the tape."

Jake already had his gun out and I went into the bedroom and took the tape out of the camera, put in a fresh one and pushed record. Maybe we would get lucky and Bobbie would admit to killing Manny. I dug a VCR out from under the bed and went into the living room and hooked it up.

"Bobbie, we're going to show some home movies now. You want popcorn or anything?" He just stared at me over his hand, pure malevolence in his eyes. I rewound the tape a little more and then started the playback. The sound was good and I had a clear shot of Bobbie rubbing his hands together and saying, "You show me yours and I'll show you mine."

I hit pause. "It sure is true about the camera adding fifteen pounds, isn't it?"

I hit play again and we watched Bobbie complete his drug deal. When it was over I said, "Let's make a trade. You give me all the tapes you have of Laurel Silverman and her friend and leave theSilvermans alone. In exchange, I'll give you back your coke."

Bobbie had a one-track mind. "You're dead. All of you."

"You haven't quite grasped it yet, have you? You just sold almost a million dollars worth of coke on tape. If I don't get the tape you have of Laurel Silverman then this tape and the coke go to the cops. You will be a gray haired old man by the time they let you out. You're an organized crime figure, Bobbie, the cops have been trying to nail you for years. They'll give us a parade."

"You can't make it stick. You set me up. Besides, these guys bought the stuff. They go to jail too."

"No they won't. They turn state's evidence. Jesus, are you really this stupid? Tomorrow morning notarized statements and a copy of the tape are going to be sealed in an envelope and turned over to my lawyer, who by the way, is on a first name basis with the D.A. Included in the statements will be one by Aaron describing your blackmail of his sister. He will freely admit to his own involvement in the scheme. I will add my statement in support along with my suspicions about the death of one Manolo Ortega. Remember him, the guy you had killed in Palm Springs?" Neither of them said anything. Win some, lose some. "It's enough, Bobbie, it's more than enough. If you don't turn over the tapes, I tell my attorney to give the envelope to the D.A." His face was a blank mask.

"Is any of this sinking in?"

He didn't say anything and Berk just kept practicing his stare. He had a full beard and his hair was long enough to cover his ears and collar and the backs of his hands were thick with hair.

"Berk, you ever do any camping up in the Northwest, maybe brought along a heavy fur coat for the cold weather?"

Jake chuckled but no one else knew what the hell I was talking about.

Finally Bobbie sneered at me. "If my guys downstairs don't hear from me in about fifteen minutes this place is going to be crawling with an army."

I looked at Jake. He shook his head.

"If the guys you had downstairs are still alive they are trussed up like Christmas turkeys and they won't be talking to anyone for awhile."

"You're bluffing."

"If I am, I'm going to shoot you first." It was the first time anything I said registered on his face.

"One more thing. Celine St. James doesn't want to see you again."

I thought he was going to come out of his chair at me but he stopped himself and glanced at Jake.

"You two get real cozy at Yesterday's, did you?" he snarled, like a jealous lover would.

"She wouldn't even talk to me at Yesterday's. She called me after your little visit. You scared her half to death."

"That's not what my guy told me. Said you and her were sitting alone together, all cozy like."

"He tell you I was there about two minutes before she had me bounced?"

"He said you left while he went to call me. He picked you up outside. When he told me what you looked like I knew it was you, peeper. I shoulda' had him whack you right then. The stupid fuck wanted to wait when there weren't so many people around, make sure it was you. Fucking idiot. I shoulda' done you right then."

Berk made a be-quiet motion at Bobbie but he paid no attention.

"You're man was following Celine?"

"Yeah, so what?"

"You have all your girlfriends followed? Doesn't seem like the basis for a healthy relationship to me. You better lay off the nose candy, Bobbie, you're getting paranoid. If you hadn't pulled that stunt at her place, Celine still wouldn't have talked to me. She bought your story about the import business. As it stands, she doesn't want to see you anymore. I know how she feels."

They had been tailing her, not me. His man had thought I was a boyfriend. All I could do was shake my head.

"Take the deal. You can keep the hundred thousand you got for the blackmail tape. Just leave the Silvermans alone. And everyone else connected with this. If an accident should befall any of them everything goes to the cops, otherwise, you can keep selling drugs and guns and pimping and whatever else it is you do."

Bobbie was silent and I looked over at Jake. He said, "You already know what I think." I shook my head.

"What does that mean, what does he think?"

I was tired of talking. "Jake wants to shoot you and bury your bodies in the desert. I'm thinking about helping him."

Bobbie's eye's popped. These were his lines.

"Do you know who my father is? He'll kill you. There's no place you can hide."

I sat forward and looked directly into his eyes.

"Listen closely. Jake isn't afraid of your father. Neither am I. We're done screwing around here. What's it going to be?"

Bobbie started to speak but I held up a finger and stopped him. "Think before you answer. If you try and double cross us Jake will kill you. I'm not sure I could stop him or that I would even try. You've been scaring people so long just by mentioning your father's name that you can't imagine anyone not being intimidated. What you don't understand here is that you should be afraid of us."

It was a long speech and Jake sighed. "You're wasting your breath." I shrugged. Berk was as inscrutable as ever but I could see Bobbie was thinking and that it was not something he had much practice at.

He tried to steal a glance at his watch. He was still hoping for reinforcements.

"They aren't coming."

It startled him that I knew what he was thinking and he almost flinched. He was a mess. There was blood all over his clothes, his nose was bright red and starting to swell, his carefully sprayed hair was sticking out in all directions and he looked like he wanted to call his father and tell him we had been mean to him. Hard to believe this was a crime lord.

We sat in silence for a few minutes before he said anything. "I get to keep the hundred grand, right?" I nodded. It was hard not to grin. He had just admitted on tape to blackmail. "And when I give you the tape on the dykes I get my coke back, right?"

I wanted to tell him not to call them dykes but what was the point. "And all I gotta do is leave pretty boy over here and his family alone?"

"And Celine St. James."

"Who cares about one cunt more or less?"

"You're a classy guy, Bobbie. Do we have a deal?"

"Why not. You been nothing but a pain in the ass. I'll be glad to be rid of you. A hundred large for a few weeks of doing nothing ain't bad. Yeah, we have a deal."

"Good." I opened the case with the dope in it, reached in and took out one of the bricks, holding it by the end. I threw it to Bobbie, "Catch." He caught it with both hands.

"What the fuck is this, good faith?" He laughed nervously.

"Put it on the table."

"What the fuck you doing?"

"Put it on the table and go."

Berk stood up but Bobbie wasn't sure he heard me right.

"Go."

Bobbie took his cue from Berk and stood up but he kept staring at the brick on the table. He tried straightening his hair and suit but it was hopeless. All the while he stared at the coke and then looked questioningly at Berk.

"Fingerprints." It was the first word I had heard Berk say without the headphones on and it came for somewhere deep.

Understanding dawned on him and Bobbie glared at me. I smiled at him. "By the way, everything you just said about the blackmail is on tape, too. I hate to be a sneak but in your case I made an exception."

He flushed crimson and Berk put a hand on his arm to restrain him. I was half hoping it wouldn't stop him. He looked apoplectic.

"You cocksucker, you motherfucker, you ten-cent-piece-of-shit-peeping-tom-fuck."

Jake looked at me and grinned.

Bobbie's hands were trembling but he didn't have the guts to come at me. That was Berk's job. But we had the guns. He turned to Berk and snarled, "What the fuck you waiting for? Let's go." They walked to the door and left.

"That went well, don't you think?" Nobody smiled.

"You should have killed him," Jake said.

Aaron had been quiet the entire time but he spoke now with surprising venom. "Jake's right, we should have killed the son-of-a-bitch."

"I know." No one spoke and I thought of a line I had read once. "He would make a lovely corpse."

Jake raised a questioning eyebrow.

"Dickens," I said.

"Smart man, he must have known Bobbie's great grandfather."

41

Jake and I spent the next hour putting the suite back in order while Aaron wrote out his statement about the drug buy. It would be added to the one he had already given Anne. I sealed the key and enough money to cover my bill in an envelope and dropped it in the night slot.

Aaron rode with me and Jake followed us in his car. He waited outside until I gave him the all clear and then headed towards home. I put the briefcases, the tapes and Aaron's statement in the safe and we did the same. I would add my statement in the morning. I didn't ask Jake for one. He had built his life around avoiding such entanglements. His ideas about justice were simple and direct and I wouldn't involve him unless I had to. We had plenty of evidence without his testimony and I didn't think we would ever need the statements anyway. Bobbie would take the deal. We had him. Even he was rational enough to understand that.

At home I started to make up the couch for myself but Aaron insisted on taking it and I didn't argue very hard. I was ready for a night of undisturbed sleep in my own bed. He was exhilarated by our success.

"I feel great. Like we really accomplished something, you know, something good. It'd be phat if my father never knows about any of this but if he finds out it doesn't seem so bad now."

"With a little luck, he won't. Maybe someday you'll feel like telling him but there's no reason he has to know unless you want him to."

"Yeah. I've been thinking about that. I'm not sure what I want to do yet."

"You've got time. Let's get some sleep."

I handed him the .38 and his eyes widened. He looked at it for a moment. "Better to have it than not have it."

I nodded, checked the windows and doors, set the alarm and turned out the lights.

We woke early and Aaron offered to make breakfast but the fixings were thin. He asked if he could take my car and go find some. With a touch of apprehension, I let him. He was the most polite houseguest I'd ever had and I found myself liking him better and better. He had shown some backbone the past few days.

While he was out foraging I wrote my statement. It was a continuation of the one in my safe and I was able to complete it quickly since the background had already been established.

He wasn't back by the time I finished and my apprehension turned into anxiety. I started telling myself it had been stupid to let him go out alone. I was about to phone Jake when Aaron rolled up the driveway. He saw the relief in my face.

"No worries," he said, and pulled my revolver out of one of the sacks. "See." It was not a comforting sight.

We had blueberry pancakes made from scratch, bacon, toast and fresh strawberries and cream. It was excellent and I didn't want to insult him by not having seconds. I thought about thirds but rejected the idea on principle.

He insisted on cleaning up, too, and, while he was doing that, I called Anne. She agreed to meet us at the office but her tone was cool and I wondered what was up.

She was at her desk when we walked in, head down, writing on a note pad. She held a finger in the air and pointed to the chairs in front of her desk and continued her scribbling. We sat down to wait.

I hadn't seen her in nearly two weeks. It always surprised me how much I took her appearance for granted when we were in daily contact. It took being away from her to appreciate how beautiful she was. Maybe the most appealing part of her was that she did almost nothing to enhance her attractiveness.

Her hair was light brown and thick with golden highlights and she wore it long and unstyled in a natural wave that framed a serenely intelligent face. She had large, deep blue eyes, full lips and flawless skin that was rarely touched by the sun but still conveyed a hint of her Mediterranean heritage. She often wore her hair up, more as a practical matter than for appearance sake, and it was at those times that her features were best displayed. Few women can get away with such a revealing hairstyle but she was one who could. Her features were more regular than delicate but, when taken as a whole, they could grace the finest cameo. I had never seen her wear makeup and I made the mistake one Christmas of buying her a bottle of expensive French perfume. After she thanked me with a kiss, I was given a reproving lecture about the outrages performed by cosmetic companies against animals. I had also mentioned once, just in passing, that she could have been a model. It was meant as a compliment but I almost lost her. Her disappointment in me was immense and it took weeks for her to get over it.

Unlike most beautiful women I had known, there was a quality about her that made her approachable. She took genuine interest in everyone and had the kindest heart I'd ever known. There were days when she took my breath away just by walking into the room and I was probably more that a little in love with her. I thought she liked me too but for some inexplicable reason neither of us had ever tried to take things beyond friendship. I imagine a lot of it was fear of screwing up what we had and maybe, just a little, the desire to hold onto the illusion of how we might be together.

She was dressed casually today in loose fitting jeans and a baggy sweater that were supposed to camouflage a sensuous figure but didn't quite manage. We sat there obediently until she was through writing and I got to see what effect she was having on Aaron. Men fell in love with her instantly and I could see that he was no exception. I could tell by his look it had happened the first time he met her.

She finished what she was writing and looked up. I said, "E'er the black dragon feasts, save for thee."

"I haven't heard that one before."

"I just made it up."

"Aren't we clever."

I shrugged. I had been right. Something was wrong but I didn't know what and I didn't press. I knew she would tell me when she was ready.

"What are we doing?" she said. When I told her what I had in mind she gave us a stern look.

"As an officer of the court, you know I am obligated, under risk of disbarment, to report a crime if I have knowledge of its commission. That would include anything you say in your statements. I will, in the event of your deaths," she hit the word deaths hard, "carry out your wishes and turn these documents over to the police along with a supporting statement of my own. Do you understand what I have just told you?"

Aaron gave me an I-thought-she-was-your-friend look. I shrugged again. I didn't know what the hell was the matter.

We both nodded our heads yes.

"Please respond verbally." Like truant schoolboys we mumbled that, yes, we understood. She grinned, "Good, now that the bullshit is out of the way, let's have the dirt, I've been on pins and needles waiting to hear from you."

Aaron let out his breath and gave her a brilliant smile.

"What was all that about?" I said.

"That's a sample of how your new lawyer is going to sound the next time you leave me hanging, you feckless rat. You couldn't bother to call me until this morning? I was up all night worrying about you. It would serve you right if I did refer you to someone else."

I stood up and leaned over the desk and kissed the top of her head. She waved me away. "You're not getting off that easy, buster. I was afraid you were dead. You wait." Her eyes softened. "But thanks for trying. And I like your proverb. I may have it framed." If possible, Aaron's smile got even bigger.

"Feckless?" I said.

We spent the next hour going over the statements, adding and deleting, clarifying certain points and generally making them more formidable documents in case they had to be used.

When we were done I said lunch was on me. Anne put everything in a file for her secretary to type and we walked down to a little Mexican place I knew on 3rd. The menu is limited and you order at the counter but you could throw a dart and be delighted. Everything is homemade fresh and delicious. Real black bean dishes, none of the refried stuff, soups and a half dozen seafood concoctions. There wasn't a ground beef taco or burrito in sight. I ordered a swordfish dish that was served with a tangy salsa and Aaron followed suit. Anne ordered a bean and vegetable plate. No Mexican meal is complete without beer and we ordered Tecates with lime. I planned ahead and ordered two.

When our dinners came we dug in and it was awhile before anyone spoke.

"How's the food?" I said.

"It's dope," Aaron said.

Anne smiled at me and I knew she had forgiven me for my thoughtlessness.

"Michael, do you really think Bobbie will keep his end of the deal?"

I didn't answer quickly and Anne was looking at me intently, wanting to know the answer as well.

"It's hard to say, but I think he will. If it were Roberto Vasquez, Bobbie's father, I would say no. He would kill us anyway. It wouldn't be the smart thing to do but to him it would be a matter of honor. If he did say he would go along, though, you could believe him." I took another bite of my swordfish and chased it with a sip of beer. Yum.

"Bobbie is another story. I'm no shrink but I think he is unstable at best. I've seen him act irrationally both times that I have met him. Most people react with fear when they have a gun pointed at them. I could have been pointing a banana at him for all it seemed to really bother him. The only time I have seen him truly afraid was when I threatened to tell his father about what has been going on. I don't know the dynamics of the relationship but my guess is that he is seeking his father's approval by trying to be just as tough and, in criminal terms, as successful. He has some very large shoes to fill and I suspect he's afraid he'll never measure up. As a consequence, I think he keeps pushing the envelope personally and professionally, acting tougher, planning wilder and more dangerous crimes, all in an effort to prove he's just as much a man as his father. At the same time he is probably resentful of the pressure, both self-imposed and that applied by his father. This, by the way, is something you may know a little about yourself, Aaron."

He gave me a wry smile and I continued. "He has to be operating under a great deal of stress and it is probably getting to him. His drug use is self-destructive behavior and I imagine it's only the tip of the iceberg. In classic psychological jargon, I'd say he's loony tunes. Maybe worse, he's vain. He'll take this thing personally. His ego will be insulted. I think, though, that in the end, he'll figure out he doesn't have many choices. If he doesn't deal he goes to prison. And honor isn't something he knows much about. Killing all of us will gain him nothing because of the tapes. The D.A. doesn't need us, just the tapes and enough coke with Bobbie's fingerprints on it to bring charges. We have both. Anne can speak about the legal end of things better than I can but I think we have him."

"Michael is right, I'm not a criminal attorney but if something happened to all three of you I suspect Bobbie's lawyers would argue that the tape and the statements are inadmissible. There would be no foundation. In other words, nobody can testify to how or when the tape was made. On the other hand, from what you tell me, the tapes are very damning and, with the three key prosecution witnesses suddenly dead, I think the courts would quite probably allow the tapes using your statements as foundation, given the manner in which they were prepared. The fact that Bobbie is a, what did you call him, a reigning crime lord, will also weigh in our favor. His lawyers would also argue entrapment but, since neither of you are cops, it probably wouldn't fly. I think, as we lawyer types like to say, you have him by the balls."

"And you call me a chauvinist."

"At least for the next seven years."

"Why seven years?" Aaron said.

"That's when the statute of limitations runs out. After that it's too late to prosecute him."

Aaron didn't like the news all that well. I said, "Seven years is a long time Aaron and I don't think Bobbie will last. I'd be surprised if he's around three years from now. He's too much of a loose canon. He'll either be dead or in prison. And if he is still around, Jake and I will think of something."

Aaron grinned slowly, "Yeah, I guess you probably will."

After lunch we walked Anne back to her car and said goodbye with a promise to meet again tomorrow afternoon to sign and notarize the statements.

Before we left I told Aaron to wait for me and I ran upstairs to my office. I wanted to check my machine. The blinking light told me I had two messages and I hit the playback button. The first was Kate Fields, wanting to collect on her brunch. The second turned my lunch into a lump of ice.

"Michael, it's Beth Warren. They have her. They have Laurel. Please, they want something you have. They said if you don't give it to them they will kill her. Michael, are you there?" Even on the tape I could tell she was on the edge, hanging on. Her voice was tight and barely under control. She sobbed once, "Michael, please," and then the line went dead.

I walked over to the stairs and yelled down. "Aaron, come up here." I walked back to my desk and sat down.

He came running up the stairs a moment later and I pointed to a chair.

"'Zup?"

I punched the playback button and listened to Beth's frightened voice one more time.

42

Beth was in the bathroom pulling herself together and I was sitting on her couch again. The room was the same as I remembered it, warm and comfortable, but the specter cast by Laurel's kidnapping was palpable.

I had phoned Jake and, her rebuke still fresh in my mind, Anne, to let them know about the phone call. Jake was going to meet us here. I promised to keep Aaron informed but I had taken him to his father's house, over his loud and arduous objections. I figured he would be safe at home. Bobbie had all the bargaining chips he needed. Snatching Aaron would only complicate things. I knew Aaron would be going crazy waiting, not able to tell anyone what was going on, but I couldn't baby sit him and work on getting Laurel back at the same time.

When Beth greeted me at the door I could tell she was near her limit. She came into my arms and I gave her a hug and when I did she started crying and was unable to stop. I held her and said none of the things that people say. I didn't tell her it was going to be all right. I might have felt like crying myself except for the rage. I just held her and waited.

She stopped finally and went into the bathroom to collect herself. I stared at the Jenkins gouache and tried to imagine what the artist must have been thinking when he painted it. I didn't want to think about Laurel and how terrified she must be. Or about what an out of control fruitcake Bobbie was. After this stunt I knew he was capable of most anything and I preferred not to go there.

Beth emerged from the bathroom red-eyed but composed and came and sat by me on the couch.

"What happened?"

She took my hand and squeezed it and then started to speak, "The phone rang and it was Laurel. I could tell right away something was wrong."

"What time?"

"Noon, maybe a little later." It was about the time we had been walking to lunch at the Mexican place.

"She sounded so frightened. I asked her what was wrong and she said, 'Beth, some men have me. They kidnapped me at the hospital, I got a call, they said you were in an accident. They shot Paul.' Someone hurt her then because she cried out in pain. When they let her speak again she was crying. Oh God, Michael, she was so frightened." Her grip on my hand tightened.

"I know. Tell me what she said then."

"She said, 'You have to call Michael and tell him. They want to exchange me for something he has. They said he would know what it is. You need to call him and then wait by the phone. They said to tell you if you call the police they will kill me.' That was all she said. Someone took the phone from her then and hung up."

"Could you hear anything in the background? Any traffic noise, or voices, maybe a television. Anything."

"No, nothing."

"How did they know you wouldn't be with Laurel when they called to tell her about the accident?" I was thinking out loud more than asking a question.

"I don't know. We don't spend every night together. We went to a movie last night and made plans for brunch today. It's a Sunday ritual with us."

Something had been nagging at me.

"Can I use your phone?"

"Of course."

I dialed Aaron's number and he picked it up before the first ring finished.

"Aaron, it's me. I want you to come to Beth's."

"That's me you hear knocking." I started to tell him to be careful but the line was already dead. There was a knock on the door as I hung up and any other time I would have smiled. It was Jake.

I introduced Beth and she excused herself to go make coffee.

"They grabbed her at the hospital, probably in the parking lot. She got a call from someone who told her Beth had been in an accident. They shot the bodyguard but my guess is they took him along. Safer that way."

"How did they know Beth wouldn't be with her?"

"Exactly," I said. Jake didn't miss much.

"Could have tailed her."

"Maybe, but they would have had to find her last night, after our meeting with Bobbie. Beth said they went to a movie and were in by midnight. It would have been nearly impossible to find her unless they waited for her at home and, if they did, why not snatch her then? Why wait until today? Lot of things could have gone wrong with that hospital bit."

"Maybe they've been watching her all along."

"Same thing, why wait?"

"Yeah, it makes no sense."

We looked at each other and I could tell we were both thinking, Aaron? We both shook our heads immediately.

"No way," Jake said, "besides, he was with you." I nodded.

"So who?" he said.

"The very question."

We sat without talking for awhile, thinking it over until Beth came out of the kitchen, carrying a tray loaded with cups and a large coffee pot. She started to pour the coffee but her hand was shaking and a lot of it was missing the cup. Jake reached over and gently took the pot from her and finished pouring. She looked at him gratefully.

"What are we going to do?" she said.

"I may have an idea but lets wait until Aaron gets here. There's something I want to ask him."

Beth got up and put on some music. Over the years Jake and I had developed our own shorthand and were used to silences in each other's company but Beth needed something to take her mind off the phone call. The one she had heard and the one she was waiting for.

"It was kind of you to come so quickly, thank you." She was talking to Jake.

"You're welcome."

"So, you must be a friend of Michael's?"

"Yes."

"I think I'll take a little walk," I said, and got up and went to the door. "Watch yourself Jake, she'll have you telling secrets you didn't know you had."

"But the phone call?"

"I won't be long, Jake will be here." I didn't expect to see anyone on the street but I was learning that Bobbie was not the most predictable of people. I scanned the cars up and down the block but saw no one. I walked to the end of the block and did the same thing and then walked back to the other end. Nothing. I was halfway back to Beth's when I saw Aaron come roaring down the street and slam to a halt. He was in such a hurry he didn't even notice me. He ran up the walk and banged on the door and Jake let him in. It was one of the reasons I had sent him home. He was too emotionally involved to be thinking clearly. I was having a little trouble myself and she wasn't my sister. When I got back I poured another cup of coffee and sat down.

I looked at Aaron. "Did you ever give Bobbie your sister's private number?"

"No, I don't think I did. In fact, I'm sure I didn't."

"Can you think of anyone he might have gotten it from?"

He mulled it over for a minute. "No, I can't think of anyone. Why?"

"The blackmailers called on your sister's private line. I guess you didn't know that. What do you know about Rudy, your father's chauffeur? Does he have any family in L.A.?"

If he had been wondering where I was going before he was completely lost now.

"What the hell does that have to do with this? You think he gave it to Bobbie? That doesn't . . . "

I interrupted him, "Just think, Aaron, think hard."

The three of them were staring at me. Beth and Jake couldn't possibly know what I was talking about. I didn't want to spell it out for Aaron; I wanted him to reach the same conclusion I had. This was too important and I wanted confirmation about what I thought I had discovered.

He was turning it over in his mind. I could almost hear the gears. He started to ask me a question but I shook my head and said, "Uh unh. Think."

He sat back then and stared out the window, giving it all he had. We sat that way for what seemed a long time, no one saying anything, and then Aaron came out of his chair like he had been stung.

"Son-of-a-bitch. Son-of-a-fucking-bitch," he stared at me. "Berk."

I nodded and smiled like a proud parent.

Beth had no idea what was going on but Jake picked up on it right away.

"Brothers?"

I nodded. "It all fits, how many guys have you run into the size of Berk? What are the chances that two of them are running around loose, even in a place the size of Los Angeles?"

Aaron was nodding his head vigorously.

"Imagine Rudy with long hair and a beard."

He nodded even more vigorously.

"He tipped his brother about you from the start and Berk told Bobbie. Rudy probably didn't have any particular plan in mind but he figured that, if he put you and Bobbie together, something would develop. With all your father's money it was bound to be a big score. He's the one who gave Bobbie your sister's private number."

"I don't understand what's going on here. What about Bobbie? Is he the same Bobbie we met at one of your parties, Aaron?" It was Beth. I remembered, perhaps too late, that she didn't know about Bobbie. Or Aaron. He was looking very uncomfortable.

"We think the Silverman's chauffeur was in on the blackmail. The man we are assuming is his brother works for the man who blackmailed them."

"And this Bobbie we met is the blackmailer?"

"No comment."

"What does that mean?"

"It means that the less you know about this the better. If these people find out you know everything you'll be a threat to them too. You don't want to be in that position."

"But they must already think I know. They called me today, not you."

"Not necessarily. I was eating lunch in a restaurant about the time the call came in. I think it was Laurel's idea to call you when they couldn't get a hold of me."

I thought no such thing but I hoped she would buy it. What I really thought was that Bobbie was sending me a not too subtle message by calling Beth. He was letting me know there were more hostages available if he needed them.

"Maybe, but I don't like being left in the dark like this. It's not fair."

"I know, but I don't want to be worried about you too."

"I still don't like it." When I didn't say anything she said, "All right, I trust you, I'll leave it alone. So what's next? The police?"

"Not if we want Laurel back alive."

It was a harsh thing to say but I wanted no misunderstandings. At the first hint of the cops Laurel was dead. Bobbie was using her for bait. He wasn't planning on trading anything. His idea would be to get the tapes and the dope and probably the money, too, and then kill everyone. It's how he would think. No tapes, no evidence and no witnesses, ergo, no crime. Even if I had backup tapes made there would still be no witnesses and no evidence.

"He's right, Beth, you need to trust him. He's good at this stuff. So's Jake. You can trust them, believe me when I say I know. If anybody can get Laurel back they can." Every private eye should have his own Boswell.

"Here's my idea. Aaron, we need a way for Rudy to overhear you talking to me on the phone, but we can't be obvious about it. Would it be unusual if you asked him to drive you someplace in the limo?"

"No, he's done it lots of times, my father doesn't use him that much, mostly to pick up people at the airport and stuff, or if there is some black tie thing he has to go to, Rudy drives him. The rest of the time he takes care of the cars and the security. My father drives himself to work. All I have to do is call my father and see if he needs him."

"Can you think up a reason that won't make him suspicious?"

Aaron thought a minute. "How about I tell him my Ferrari is in the shop again. Maybe Jake could take me home. Anyway, I make a big deal out of it like I'm pissed about it. Expensive car always in the shop, something like that. It wouldn't be the first time Rudy has driven me because my wheels were thrashed."

"Good. While you're driving around, call me here. Talk quietly so Rudy can't hear you. Pretend you don't want him to hear. He'll be listening, though. I want you to get angry and start shouting at me. Say something like, 'Listen Chambers, you can't double cross him for Christ's sake. They'll kill her. You don't know Bobbie like I do. We give them what they want, you understand. My old man will pay any price to get her back, any price. I already told him everything. He said whatever it costs and no cops, you understand, no cops.' Then you give Rudy a look like oops and start to whisper some more and then slam down the phone?"

"No sweat, but are we going to tell my father? I suppose we should?" He said it with great reluctance.

"If I'm wrong about Rudy then we let your father know. I hate keeping him in the dark but there's no way of telling what he'll do. He may want to bring in the police. That would be bad."

"Okay, so then what?"

"When you get off the phone you act a little crazy. Tell him your plans have changed and have him drive you down to the police station in Beverly Hills. Mutter something about having to stop the stupid bastard."

"Okay. I can do this but what good is it going to do us?"

"Hopefully, a lot. Just sit and wait for me when you get to the police station. I'll be a few minutes behind you. When you see me pull up you come over and start shouting at me and then you calm down as if I've given in. Then you go back and tell Rudy he can go. If he asks you what's going on you tell him never mind, everything is all right now. Tell him he can go and that I'll give you a ride. Jake is going to be waiting nearby and follow him to see where he goes. If we get very lucky he might drive to where Laurel is but my guess is he'll stop somewhere and call Berk to let him know what he just heard. When he does we'll know where Laurel is."

"How?" Beth said. "What if he doesn't call? Or stop."

"He'll call. And he won't risk using the car phone, he'll stop somewhere. We can get the location of the number he calls from the phone company. I have a friend who works there."

"But what if he doesn't call?"

"He will."

"How do you know?"

"Because he's greedy and he'll want them to know that Silverman said he would pay any price. He'll be thinking ransom money. He'll also want them to know that there are no cops involved. And he'll want them to know before they make the next call to you here. If it works we get them to let down their guard a little. Even if Rudy suspects we're on to him he'll still make the call. It's something he'll want them to know. Either way we get an address."

"What if he calls somebody else? Somebody not at the place where they have Laurel?"

"Then we go after whoever he calls because that person knows where she is."

"What if that person doesn't know and calls someone else?"

"Then we go after whoever that person calls. Look, Beth, it's the best we can do. If we just sit and wait for Bobbie's call our chances of getting Laurel back go way down."

"Why not just give them what they want?"

"Because what they want is us dead. All of us, including Laurel. Trust me on this, they will set us up and they will try and kill us. This way, at least, we have surprise on our side."

Jake nodded and Aaron said, "He's right, Beth. The guy's crazy. We can't trust him."

"You mean Bobbie?

"Let's just say, hypothetically, yes, Bobbie."

"He would actually kill all of you?"

"And sit down to a big meal afterwards."

"But what about the police? Won't he be afraid of getting caught?"

"In his mind, there will be more chance of it if we live. Besides, nothing he's doing here is rational. He should have taken our deal but he didn't. He would rather risk jail than accept even a compromise. It's like a game to him and he'll do anything that, in his mind, allows him to win."

I can't imagine a person like him, I mean, I know they exist but to think he has Laurel. It gives me shivers."

"We'll get her back, Beth."

"I can't help wondering what chance you have against people like these. People who can plan your deaths without compunction."

"We aren't as civilized as we look."

She looked at us and shook her head.

"I have lead entirely too sheltered a life."

"Be thankful, there is nothing desirable about being intimate with the underside of life."

"You are and it doesn't seem to bother you, you're so, I don't know, so matter of fact about it."

"It bothers me . . . and I know it bothers Jake, but people like Bobbie exist. In our line of work we run into them and the results of their work. If we didn't maintain some emotional detachment we wouldn't be much good to the people who hire us."

"I don't believe that about you for a second. You're risking your life and you aren't even getting paid. I'm not sure of your reasons but I know they are tied to your feelings. You are doing this because of your feelings, not in spite of them."

"Right now I'm feeling hungry."

"That's crap, you just had lunch. Don't evade the issue."

"You aren't getting paid?" Aaron said.

Jake looked at me, "Jesus Christ."

"You, too?" I said.

43

Aaron called his father and was given permission use Rudy for an hour. Then he called Rudy and told him the story about his Ferrari and asked him to have the limo ready in half an hour. Jake was going to drive Aaron home and then wait out of sight to follow the limo. That left me to sit with Beth and wait for the phone call. Jake found that amusing. As he was leaving he asked me how I was feeling. I gave him the finger. He started laughing and when I looked at Beth I saw that she had given it to him at the same time. She and I started laughing, too, in spite of ourselves. Jake said, "See ya, Holden," and left, still chuckling.

"Holden?"

"Private joke."

"He is reluctant to discuss himself, even more so than you."

"Not at the moment he isn't."

Beth laughed again, "All right, no more personal questions."

"Thank you."

"So now we wait."

"Yup."

"The hardest thing of all."

"Laurel told you." Beth lowered her head and nodded.

I was on my third cup of coffee when the phone rang about forty-five minutes later. Beth jumped in her seat and then scrambled to answer it. It was Aaron and her face fell. She had been hoping to hear Laurel's voice again.

Aaron went through his bit like Olivier while I played straight man for him. It sounded convincing to me and I hoped Rudy thought so too. As soon as we hung up I gave Beth's hand a squeeze and left for the police station.

I drove around for a little while, not wanting to be early, and it was twenty minutes later when I pulled up if front of the station. Silverman's limo was already waiting. I looked around to see if I could spot Jake but he was nowhere in sight.

I got out of my car and started up the sidewalk to the front entrance. I was halfway there when Aaron came racing across the lawn towards me. He was shouting angrily and looked convincing. I stopped and waited for him. He stood in front of me shouting the same things at me that he had on the phone. I pointed angrily at the police station and waved my arms in return. He really unleashed on me then and I was afraid we might get the cops for real. I held up my hands in a placating gesture and hung my head as if he had won.

"You think he bought it?" I said in a conversational tone.

"I think so. You should have seen his eyes when I started yelling at you on the phone. Fish city." He was tapping me in the chest with his finger while we talked.

"Good, let's cut him loose and see what happens."

"Okay, here goes."

Aaron gave me a dirty look and marched over to the limo, shaking his head in disgust as he walked. He leaned in and said something to Rudy and then closed the door and waved him off. We headed back to Beth's.

"Did he ask any questions?"

"Yeah, he wanted to know what was going on. What was the phone call all about? I told him it was something between my father and me and I couldn't talk about it. He asked me if it had anything to do with the blackmail and I said kind of but that the money wasn't important anymore and that's all I could say. I could tell he really wanted to ask me more questions but was afraid to."

"That should do it."

"I couldn't spot Jake anywhere."

"I didn't see him either but he's there."

"How can you be sure?"

"I'm sure."

"You guys communicate on a level that transcends the spoken word."

I looked at him.

"You never needed the likes of Bobbie. You can do just fine on your own."

"Yeah, I think I'm beginning to figure that out. Now what? We wait for Jake to call?"

"Yup. And we hope he does before we hear from Bobbie again."

We rode the rest of the way back to Beth's in silence. She greeted us at the door with an anxious look on her face.

"It went well, did anyone call?"

"No, not since you left."

"Jake will be calling soon and with a little luck we'll have our number."

We sat down to wait. I was still talked out from earlier and to avoid further conversation I picked up a copy of Ms. Magazine and began thumbing through it. The models were attractive and I liked looking at them. None of them were more than an ounce over ideal weight and if I were a stout teenage girl I wondered if I would develop an eating disorder from looking at the pictures. Maybe not, maybe I would learn to throw a hanging curve ball instead.

Jake called ten minutes later and Beth gave me the phone.

"Got a pen, here's the number he called."

I recognized it as a Valley exchange.

"How did you get the number?"

"He was in a hurry to make the call, stopped at the first phone booth he came to. After he left I asked the operator for time and charges on the call. I told her I had forgotten the number and she gave it to me."

"What about Rudy?"

"How long have we known each other?"

"Long time."

"And you ask me a question like that?"

"Never mind. I'm pissed at Bobbie, it's making me peevish."

"So get yourself a puppy to kick. It's not your fault they snatched her. You did the right thing. The guy's a head case."

"We could have killed him." I said it quietly so Beth wouldn't hear.

"You're asking me? How the hell should I know? That's my solution for everything."

I couldn't help grinning.

"And . . .?"

"And he went home. Hard to lose that black limo in traffic. I had to hang back some in the hills so he wouldn't spot me. I suppose he could have turned off into a driveway but most of them have gates. Only thing he could have done. I waited down the hill to see if he doubled back. Nada. He's home."

"Okay. You coming back?"

"You going to be grouchy?"

"What are we, married?"

He made what might have been a laughing sound and hung up.

I dialed Kate Fields number and she was home. Sometimes it's like that. I told her what I wanted and she said she would have to call the office and call me back. I told her it was literally a matter of life and death.

"Isn't it always," she said and hung up.

I was halfway through an article on women who had broken through the corporate glass ceiling when she called back. Most of the women pictured didn't look much like the models in the ads. Maybe there was something one could infer from that.

"This is going to cost you. It's an unlisted number and we aren't supposed to do this kind of thing, you know. It's against policy. I had to ask someone for a favor."

I thought of a movie I had seen once where the caller's hands had magically reached through the phone and strangled the other party.

"Kate, the address."

"Okay, okay, boy are you grumpy today."

It was an address in the Valley. I recognized the street name and I was reasonably sure it was a residence address. Nothing zoned for business on that street that I knew of. It was a good sign. I thanked Kate and hung up, promising her gastronomic transports of delight.

I saw Jake pull up outside and I got up. Aaron got up too.

"Aaron, you can stay with Beth or come with us. I guess you've earned the right to choose but, if you come with us, know it's going to be dangerous."

"I'm going with you."

"All right, but no heroics, okay?"

"Absolutely."

"What about the call?" Beth said.

"It should have come by now. There's been plenty of time for me to get your message and come over here. He's playing games, going to keep us hanging for a while. I don't like leaving you alone but this may be our best and only chance of getting Laurel back. Someone should be here to answer the phone. These are not the most stable people we're dealing with. No telling what they'll do if no one answers. Do you have someone who can come and stay with you? Not one of your poof friends, either."

She smiled at my bad joke. "I can do you one better. I have call forwarding on my phone. A habit from my modeling days. I can go stay with a friend and still get the call if it comes in. How's that?"

"Perfect. The call may not come but if it does try and stay calm. Record it if you can, otherwise, write down everything you can. Tell them I agreed to everything. Get the details and be sure and tell them if she is harmed in any way the deal is off and we go to the cops. I'll call you in a few hours but if the call comes in you can reach us on Aaron's cellular." I looked at Aaron's phone. "Is there a way to make that thing vibrate or something instead of ring?"

"No sweat."

I looked at my watch.

"How long do you need to pack?"

"Ten minutes."

"Five would be better."

She jumped up and made for the bedroom. We could hear her thumping around, opening and closing drawers at top speed. She came out of the bedroom in less than three minutes carrying a small overnight bag and went into the bathroom where she rattled some more. She was out in under a minute. I looked at my watch again.

On the way out the door I said, "Remember the last thing I asked you before I left for Palm Springs? It still goes. I have never met a woman who could pack in less than five minutes. It's like violating some immutable law of nature."

She smiled at me and then stood on her toes and kissed me on the cheek.

"Be careful."

"We'll get her back."

Her eyes were as solemn as gravestones.

"I know."

44

We took Jake's car since Bobbie had seen both Aaron's and mine and, too, because neither of ours would hold more than two people. It wasn't the least conspicuous choice. Jake drove a '67 GTO, jet-black and polished to a high luster. It was the only possession he owned, besides his gun, that seemed to matter to him and it was immaculate down to the engine mounts. It had a Hearst shifter and, from streetlight to streetlight, could smoke anything short of the high-end imports.

"How do you keep from getting dings in this thing, it must take you an hour to park."

"Karma."

Aaron said, "Carmen . . . Who's Carmen?"

Jake and I burst out laughing.

"What?" Aaron said and we cracked up again.

"I fear for the future with this younger generation."

"It's the immediate future that concerns me," Jake said, when things got serious again, "going to be a passel of munitions in that house. Lot of bodies too. Ole Bobbie probably learned something from our last encounter."

"Anything's possible."

"I was thinking along the lines of some backup."

"Too messy, too many bullets we won't be aiming. Laurel's in there. Better if we steal surreptitiously into their midst and gain the advantage of them."

"We think she's in there."

"Yes, but it feels right. She's there."

"I can feel it, too," Aaron said, "she's there."

"So, we see what the place looks like and work from there," I said.

"Good thing then, we are doing our surveillance work in a low profile vehicle like this," Aaron said.

"Good thing," Jake said, and grinned.

Nothing more was said for the rest of the drive, each of us minding our own thoughts. I wondered how Aaron was feeling, knowing his part in all of this. It couldn't be good.

The address was a house in Encino. It was nestled against a hill on the south side of the Valley and protected from the street and on both sides by a head high iron fence that connected to a taller brick wall running behind the house. The property was located just a few hundred yards from Sepulveda Boulevard, the same street where the blackmail payment had been dropped. Convenient. Watch Letterman, have a couple of drinks and run down the road a couple of miles and pick up the money. What could be easier. It reminded me of something. "Aaron, do you remember the way Bobbie wanted the blackmail money packaged to specific dimensions? Why was that?"

"That was my idea. We rented an anonymous box from one of those mail center places. Whoever picked up the drop money on Sepulveda had a label and postage ready and dropped the package in the mailbox that was a half block from the drop. That way, if he was stopped, no one could prove anything. The money went to the mail center and we had a courier pick up the money from there. If the cops were waiting they would bust a delivery kid who didn't know anything. If they waited and followed him he would lead them to a downtown high rise where we had a guy waiting in a men's room stall with an identical package. The courier was instructed, for a bonus, to go into the adjoining stall and they swapped packages under the back of the partition. The courier took a package of old newspapers to the top floor and delivered them to some ad executive. Meanwhile, our guy was leaving the building with the money in a briefcase. We had a man follow the courier from the mail center to make sure the cops didn't stop him somewhere and quiz him. I thought of the idea but Bobbie took it from there. He said it worked slick."

Jake and I looked at each other. He gave me the raised eyebrow.

It was almost dark now and there were lights on behind the drawn curtains. Every window was covered. The yard lights had activated and it could have been noon the grounds were so brightly lit. We drove by too fast for a close look, but there was no outside security system in evidence. I was willing to bet, though, there would be cameras and motion sensors and maybe pressure pads. The yard was a half-acre deep and only slightly narrower across, completely free of any trees or shrubbery.

"Maybe we can tunnel our way in," Jake said.

I nodded, "Not much cover."

"So how do we get in?" Aaron said.

"You got your hiking boots on?"

We took Sepulveda around and up a long curve that would take us over the hill and back to the West Side. About halfway through the pass Jake pulled over and parked in a turn out. He opened the trunk and took out a long duffel bag and a smaller one. He handed the smaller one to me. I looked inside. There were two Berettas and a Colt Python that looked familiar along with a bunch of loaded clips and speed loaders. Sitting on top of everything were two hand grenades, a stick of C-4 and some detonators.

"Where do you get this stuff, for Christ's sake?"

"Leftovers."

"I ever need to overthrow a fascist dictator I know who to call," I said.

"Somebody better stay with the car," Jake said.

I looked at Aaron and he shook his head, "No way, I'm going with you guys."

"Worth a try," I said, looking at Jake.

He sort of shrugged and started to scrabble up the hill. It was maybe a hundred yards to the top and steep. The footing was loose shale in places but he went up it like he was riding an escalator. I nodded for Aaron to follow him.

"Stay low and use the bushes for cover. There's traffic on this road and if someone sees you they might wonder what's going on and call the cops."

He moved much more slowly than Jake and slipped often but he stayed down. I waited until he was about a third of the way up and listened for traffic sounds. I didn't hear anything coming and I took a run at the hill, hoping to get out of headlight range as quickly as possible. I was maybe fifty feet up the hill when I heard a high performance engine round the curve below us. He was shifting smoothly and coming fast. I ducked behind a scrub bush and waited. It was a low-slung car, what I could see of it, and when it got closer I could make it out as a late model Corvette. He was nearly to the turn out when he braked hard and pulled over about a quarter mile past. He backed up until he was behind Jake's car and killed the engine but left his headlights on. I looked up the hill. I couldn't see him but about now, Jake would be snapping up the end caps on a night scope, which would be attached to a high-powered sniper rifle.

Two young men got out of the Corvette and walked over to the GTO. They started to circle it and one of them reached out and ran his hand along the line of the front fender.

"Check it. Is this dope or what?"

"Way cool."

They were a couple of teenagers.

"Something I can do for you guys?" I yelled down at them.

They both jumped a little and backed away from the car.

"This is a kickin' ride, man, it's like totally lunked out. We just stopped to take a look. My dad used to have one but I've only seen pictures, you know what I'm saying?"

"Phat," the other one said.

"No need to wig, man, it's cool."

"Not even. Dude, 'zup with you, hanging on the hillside like that in the dark?"

"I'm going up to snap some pictures of the view."

"Groovy."

"It's my friends car and he gets a little nervous about it. Maybe you guys should finish looking and go."

"I'm down with that. Check it, dude, we're audi."

They got back in their car, honked and tore off up the hill and out of sight. I waited a few minutes but they didn't come back and I made my way up to the top without further incident. Jake and Aaron were already there waiting. Aaron's chest was still heaving but Jake was breathing normally, as if he had just gotten off the couch.

"Just kids, admiring your car. They think it's phat."

"Proper," Jake said.

"You could hear them?"

"Not even."

Aaron's smile reflected the moonlight and I could tell he was grinning like a fool.

"English, from now on we speak English."

"That's way harsh, dude."

Aaron started to chuckle, trying to hold it but not able to stop himself. I scowled but it was too dark for either of them to tell.

"Shit."

"That's some down dialect, dude," Aaron said.

"You two want to practice your routine some other time?"

Jake nudged Aaron. "Totally buggin."

Aaron said, "Butt crazy," and they cracked up. I started walking toward the crest of the hill in the direction where I thought the house would be. I had been playing straight man for Jake and was secretly glad for the humor. We both knew it was better to be loose, it helped keep the jitters at bay. Jake and I had been here many times and I knew he was keeping it light for Aaron's benefit.

The brush was thick in places, nearly chest high and it made for slow going. The moonlight helped but a flashlight would have been better if we could have chanced it. I reached the crest before the others and stopped to wait. The lights of the Valley were spread out below us and, any other time, I would have been stirred by the view but tonight it seemed like some kind of spectral Christmas display run amok.

I looked to see if I could locate our house and the brilliantly lit yard made it easy to spot. It was a good two hundred yards further along the ridge to where we could climb down to it and this side of the hill was at least a hundred yards higher than the side we had just come up. Exercising caution, it would take us the better part of an hour to get down there. It gave me an idea how I might keep Aaron out of trouble.

When the others caught up I said, "It's no good. The hill is too high and the car is too far away. We have to get her out the front door or we'll never make it. Aaron, you have to go back and get the car and find a spot near the house where you can watch the front door."

"I'm going in with you. It's Jake's car, let him do it."

"There's no point arguing. Someone has to have the car waiting out front. Do you know how to rig a C-4 charge? Do you know where the safeties and the magazine releases are on all these weapons? Do you know how to un-jam them, or even how to load them? Can you kill someone with your hands, or your feet? What if she's hurt? Think about how much trouble you had climbing up here. I'm sorry, Aaron, it's the only way."

"He's right," Jake said, "it has to be the front door."

"You don't want me to come because you don't think I can't hack it. This is just an excuse."

"We don't want you to come but not for the reasons you think. Jake and I by ourselves only have to worry about finding Laurel. If you come we'll be worrying about you, too, it will distract us. I think you can hack it, so does Jake, or you wouldn't be here in the first place. It doesn't matter why, though, because having someone in the car out front is the best way to get her out safely and you're the logical choice."

He didn't say anything for awhile and I wasn't sure if he would go along. It wouldn't do us much good to tie him up and I wasn't sure what I was going to do if he refused.

"This isn't about you, Aaron. You don't have anything to prove to us. You've already shown us what you're made of. I know you want to go in there and get her yourself, I'd feel the same way, but someone has to drive the car. Jake and I are good at this stuff. We know what we're doing and it gives us the best chance if we're the ones who go in. If you want her back this is the best way."

He wasn't happy about it but he finally gave in. "All right, I'll go get the car."

"If you hear shooting, haul ass up to the front gate and have the car doors open. Don't get out of the car. If anyone but us comes through that door you get out of there. Go find a phone and call the cops. No heroics."

"Yeah, okay."

Jake patted him on the back and he started off. Over his shoulder he said, "You guys break a leg."

"Break a leg?" Jake whispered to me.

I smiled. "You've never heard that expression before? How do you live in Los Angeles, no, on this planet and not know what that means?"

"I'm on the road a lot."

I snorted.

"It's Hollywood short hand. An old theater expression. The understudies used to say it to the main players just before they went on stage. He was wishing us good luck."

"Nice business," Jake said, and headed off towards the house.

45

We were sitting on our haunches some sixty feet up the hillside, high enough to see over the back wall of the house. The bush had been thicker on the down slope and going through it had been like wading into the ocean at high tide. It had taken us forty-five minutes to get to where we were. The wall was brick, about ten feet high and maybe eighteen inches thick. From where we squatted we could see three cameras, one on each end of the roof and one in the middle. The ones on the end worked in tandem, sweeping left to right and back again at the same speed. The one in the middle moved opposite the others so that no part of the yard was ever off camera. It was a good system. There were sensors set up on either side of the back door but I couldn't tell if they were motion detectors or solar panels for the lights.

"Any ideas?"

"I'm just hired muscle."

"And overpaid at that."

There were two large oak trees in the back yard and despite the floodlights, large areas of the lawn were in shadow.

"Stupid to leave those trees there," Jake said.

"Sloppy. I bet a guy could get up on the roof from one of them. Be easy to pick them off coming out the door if we created a diversion of some kind."

"Like maybe blowing a hole in the wall."

"Like that."

"Other guy could maybe get in through an upstairs window in front while everybody was in back seeing what's up. Could be tricky for the guy going in the front, though."

"We could try starving them out."

"Bobbie's boy looked well fed."

"I can't think of anything better," I said.

"Flip you for the window."

"Executive privilege, I'll go in the front."

"You suits are all the same."

He gave me a boost and I sat on top of the wall for a few minutes, sheltered by the tree, while he shaped and set a charge against the wall. I watched carefully to see if they had a man posted outside but I couldn't see anyone. When he was done I reached down for the duffels and then gave him a hand up. The branches of the tree hadn't been trimmed in awhile and some of the heavier ones drooped to touch the wall. I would have to dive maybe six feet to reach a point on the branch that looked thick enough to hold my weight. If I missed it was going to hurt. I gave Jake the thumbs up and jumped. I was so pumped that I almost overshot my mark but I got an elbow over the branch and hung on. I dangled for a moment, my feet in full view of the cameras, and then hauled myself up.

Jake threw the bags to me and I moved to a higher branch. He followed, leaping with the grace of a cat. He caught the branch perfectly and was beside me all in one motion.

"Smooth, how you did that," he whispered.

"Nobody likes a show off."

We climbed across and up in order to get high enough and, when we were in position, took turns hanging from the end of an overhanging branch that allowed us to touch quietly down on the roof. It was like skydiving, with a softer landing.

Jake moved to a spot beside a dormer and began setting up his weapons. I continued past and made my way to the front of the house. The roof was flat on top except for the dormers and a section that angled down about fifteen feet from the edge. I was able to hold onto the gable and look around the edge to the window. The curtain was drawn and the lights were off. I tore up a tiny piece of roofing and threw it lightly against the window. It was loud enough that it might make someone look but soft enough to be discounted as the wind. I pulled my head back but not so far I couldn't watch the curtains. They didn't move.

Across the roof Jake motioned that he was ready and I looked to see if I could spot Aaron. He wasn't on the street but I was sure he must be close by. No matter, I couldn't wait any longer. I was in full view from the road and someone would spot me soon and call the cops. I gave Jake the high sign and he held up three fingers and then started to count them down. On three he hit the detonator and a sound like thunder through a railway tunnel ripped the night. At the same moment I put my gun through the window and reached in to find the latch. I found it quickly and was able to get the window up without cutting myself. The tricky part was letting go of the gable to crawl in. I had to hang from the sill in order to get far enough over. I forced myself not to look down and let go of the gable with one hand, grabbing the windowsill with the other. I pulled myself up and crawled in, gun first. It was an upstairs bedroom, dark and, so far as I could tell, empty.

The door was closed and I moved to it quickly, putting my ear against it. I could hear shouting coming from downstairs and from down the hall someone came running past and thumped down the stairs. I listened at the door to make sure no one else was coming and then stuck my head out into the hall. There was no one in sight and I ran down the hall in the direction I had heard the footsteps coming from. There were two doors, one on either side of the hall. I didn't know which one to choose. If she was up here someone would be with her and if I knocked on the wrong door they might hear me and start shooting. I solved the problem by banging on both doors at the same time. I had two guns with me and, with a gun in each hand, I could just reach each door. I syncopated the knocking so it would be one sound. Someone yelled at me through the right hand door.

"Yeah?"

"It's me, we gotta get her out," I yelled back, covering my mouth with my elbow.

The door opened a crack and I kicked it as hard as I could. It made a satisfying thump and someone yelled in pain. I followed the door into the room and a guy in his late twenties was hunched against the wall holding his nose. There was blood dripping through his fingers and I knew his nose was broken. I scanned the room quickly but it was empty. It would have been too much luck if she had been in the first room I searched.

The guy straightened up and stared at me over his hand. He was holding what looked like a Mac-10 at his side and started to raise it. I chopped his wrist with the barrel of my Python and heard the bone snap. He yowled in pain and dropped the gun. I grabbed him by the hair and threw him face down on the bed and stuck my gun in his ear.

I snarled at him, "If you want to live be quiet."

He went slack and stopped moaning.

"Where is she?"

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Outside I could hear gunshots and I knew Jake was scoring a few for our side.

"I won't ask again."

I took a pillow off the bed, cocked the gun in his ear and pushed the pillow down over the back of his head, shoving the barrel in hard so he could feel it.

"Dow sta, shi dow sta. Dough shu."

I took the pillow away and flipped him over. I put the gun under his chin, "Say it again."

"She's down stairs, in the basement. I swear."

"If you're lying I will kill you."

"I'm not, I swear. She's in the basement."

"How many men are here?"

"Four. There's four of us."

I tapped him across the nose and put the pillow over his face until he quit yelling.

"How many?"

"Eight, that's all, I swear to God. There's eight of us."

"Anyone with her?"

"No, she's locked in her room. No way out."

"What about the bodyguard?"

"He didn't make it, lost too much blood."

"And it was too much trouble to drop him in front of an emergency room somewhere, huh?"

"He could I.D. us, man."

"So could the girl."

He looked away and I knew I had been right about Bobbie's plan to kill us all.

"Is Bobbie here?"

"No, man, he don't do this kind of work, he hires it."

After he told me how to get to the basement and where the others were likely to be I rolled him back on his stomach. He started to plead with me not to kill him. I hoped all of them were this tough. I clipped him behind the ear with the butt of my gun and with a kind of sigh his lights went out. If you hit too hard it will kill, too softly it just gives them a headache. I got it right on the first try. His chest was rising and falling in easy rhythm. He would be out for at least ten minutes and if I were still here in that amount of time I would either be dead or under arrest.

I ducked my head into the hallway and when I saw it was clear I ran the length of it. I stopped at the stairway and listened. All hell was still breaking loose. People were shouting and I could hear them firing through the back windows at imaginary targets.

"We gotta get out of here," I heard someone yell, "the heat will be here any minute."

He was right about that.

I felt more than heard a presence behind me and I whirled around. Jake was standing in the doorway of the empty room grinning at me. I relaxed my finger on the trigger.

"That was too close."

He pointed his chin towards the stairs. "Not much time left."

I nodded and started down.

I went belly first. I didn't want to get shot in the legs because I couldn't see. It was a double stairway and I could see out into the entryway before I was half way down. There was someone standing with his back to me, peering through the peephole in the door. I stopped and got to my feet, crouching to keep him in view. I made it to the newel and to within five feet before he knew he wasn't alone. He started to turn and I closed and snapped a left hook into his temple before he could bring his gun around. It was a good punch but he was big and it only stunned him. Hitting someone hard enough to knock them out bare-knuckled almost always means a broken knuckle. He started to turn again, still groggy, and I switched my gun to my left hand and hit him in the solar plexus with my right as hard as I could hit from two feet away. He said something like urumph and doubled over. When he did I grabbed the back of his head with both hands and brought my knee up into his face. The cartilage in his nose crunched and he went down hard and didn't move. I leaned over to get his gun and I heard a twelve-gauge boom behind me. When I turned Jake was leaping over the railing and pumping rounds into the living room one after another. So much for stealth. I came in behind him. There were two men down on the floor. One of them had taken a load in the side, chest high. The other must have heard me scuffling and turned around to see what was going on. His face was so badly ruined his mother wouldn't be able to identify him.

Jake said, "Reloading," and began to shove shells into the magazine. I swept the room with my gun watching peripherally for movement. A head ducked out of a doorway at the edge of my vision and fired wildly at us, taking a chunk out of the molding above our heads. I took aim on the wall about center mass where I thought he would be and fired the Python. There was a moment of near silence after the echo faded and then the sound of a body falling. Jake had reloaded and I moved quickly to the doorway and ducked my head in. The bullet had hit him in the ear. He had been ducking down, not standing up. From my point of view it was a ridiculously lucky shot. He probably didn't feel the same way about it but, then, he wasn't feeling much of anything.

I made sure there was no one else in the room with him and turned back to Jake. He motioned toward the back and I moved in step with him keeping at least six feet between us.

"That's five, there were eight of them."

"Six, one of them was stupid enough to come outside and look."

"Two left, she's in the basement."

"Thanks, I was having trouble with the math."

I grinned. I didn't look but I knew he would be grinning too.

We moved quickly, covering each other, one high, one low, around doors and through the kitchen. There was no sound and the silence was eerie, like watching a horror movie with the volume turned down. We had been in the house only a few minutes but real violence slows everything down. The senses are heightened to acute levels and everything moves in slow motion. A minute seems like five and ten of them like an hour. The cops would be here soon. Very soon.

We found the stairs to the basement. If there was anyone left they would be down there. I turned the lights off and, instead of sliding on my stomach again, I charged down them as fast as I could move, my feet making staccato thumps on the steps. It was pitch black and when I reached the bottom I flattened out on the floor and rolled. Nothing. There wasn't anything to hear or see and the silence wasn't any heavier than an elephant sitting on my chest.

I heard Jake follow at a normal pace, clearly of the mind that, if there had been anyone down here, I would have drawn their fire. I hoped he was right. I pointed my gun into the darkness, waiting for a muzzle flash but nothing happened. As my eyes adjusted, I began to make out a faint light seeping from the bottom of a doorway across the room. Jake reached the bottom of the stairs and, wordlessly, I stood up and we spread apart. After some fumbling around, I found the wall switch and hit the lights.

Except for a pool table, some stools and a wet bar, we were alone. We spread further apart and moved toward the door, keeping an eye on the stairs behind us. When we reached the door I tried the knob and then stepped aside quickly. It was locked.

"Laurel, it's me, Michael."

There was silence and then from the other side I heard my name called and someone started banging on the door. Good girl, I thought. She had to be traumatized but she was still full of spirit.

"Hold on," I yelled, "we'll have you out in a minute."

I started to pull my lock picks out but Jake had a simpler idea.

"Move away from the door, Laurel, as far away as you can get. Behind the bed if there is one," he yelled.

We heard her say okay and Jake ejected all of the shells from his shotgun and reached in his left pocket.

"Deer slug."

He put the barrel against the thin part of the door handle and fired. The knob flew off leaving only the pin. I kicked it and it fell out the other side. I pushed the door open and Laurel was in my arms before I took a step into the room.

"Oh, Michael, you came. Thank you. Thank you. I knew you would. I just knew it."

"We have to go, Laurel. The cops will be here any second. This is Jake, you need to thank him too."

"Thank you, Jake. Thank you both so much."

I moved her quickly to the stairs and up. I left her with Jake and went cautiously into the living room but there was no one there except the two dead guys. I was fairly sure everyone else had left. I was wrong.

As I stepped into the entryway my friend from upstairs started shooting at me from above. I had taken his machine pistol away from him but he must have had another gun in the room somewhere. I felt a sharp tug in my left tricep and I dropped and rolled back through the doorway and came up firing around the corner. I emptied the Python into the wall he was crouching behind, spacing the shots enough so that I could aim them, and started to reach for the Beretta. It wasn't necessary. He fell to the second floor landing and lay there, motionless. I had misjudged him, the hardheaded bastard. If he had waited another thirty seconds we would have been gone and he would still be alive. I hoped he was the last of them because I had been far too lucky tonight. He should have killed me. If he hadn't been shooting left handed because of his broken wrist and hadn't been dazed from the broken nose and the thump on the head he probably would have. He was a lot more man than I had given him credit for being. His pals had all ducked out and he could have stayed low or run himself.

Jake heard the shooting and was charging across the living room when he saw me. I pointed up the stairs at the body and he nodded. Behind us the door sentry was still out. I reached down and dragged him away from the door and Jake went back for Laurel.

I opened the door and saw Aaron sitting in the GTO with the doors open and the motor running. I motioned to Jake and we all three went running down the walk, Jake bringing up the rear, running backwards.

We piled into the car and Aaron burned rubber for half a block pulling away. I counted it a small miracle that we had made it out before the cops showed. None of us said anything until we passed the turn out where we had been parked earlier.

"Drive the speed limit, Aaron. We aren't being followed."

He slowed down and started to talk.

"Sis, you all right? Jesus, I was so worried. I heard all that shooting and I thought you were dead. Two guys came running around the back of the house and took off down the street. I wanted to go after them so bad. I know you told me to call the cops but after that explosion I knew they were already on the way so I just waited. I came so close to going in but I knew you'd be pissed and I didn't want to let you down. I was so totally buzzed when the three of you came out that door. Goddamn."

I looked at my watch. It had been eleven minutes since the explosion. Jake shook his head when I showed him.

"Lucky. We should be on our way to the lock up right now," he said.

I lifted my left arm and looked at it. The bullet had passed through the muscle cleanly and there was very little blood but it was starting to sting.

"Lucky. I should be toe up."

"Lucky is better than good any day."

"I didn't miss the damned branch I just misjudged it a little. It was dark."

"Dark," he said, "that must have been it."

46

We drove back to my place and while Laurel called Beth to let her know she was all right, Jake helped me clean and bandage my wound. My arm was numb and a dull ache had settled in but I didn't want to take anything for the pain. There was one more thing left to do.

It was agreed that Aaron would take my car and drive his sister to where Beth was staying and keep the women company until he heard from us. He asked us what we were going to do but I wouldn't tell him. He didn't like it but he knew better than to press.

After Aaron and Laurel left we reloaded and checked our weapons and put everything in Jake's car and took Sunset into Hollywood. It was after ten o'clock when we pulled to the side of the road below Bobbie's house. All of the lights were off and the place was dark.

"Nobody home, he know you know where he lives?" Jake said.

"That's insulting."

"Must be having an emergency powwow with the survivors from the house?"

"Probably. One thing is for sure, he knows by now we have Laurel back. I would like to have been there when they told him."

"Uh huh. Bet he took it real well."

We drove past the house to the turn around at the top of the hill. The lock on the gate had been replaced since my last visit but no one had bothered to pick up the empty cigarette packs or the glass from dozens of broken beer bottles. Now there was no way for people to go up and see the view like they used to. There was no view from where we were parked; it was blocked by trees and houses. You had to climb up to Mulholland to see anything, only now you couldn't.

On the occasions I had been up here over the years I had never seen more than one or two people on the hillside, usually a young couple sitting quietly or a camera buff taking pictures. Must have been a hell of a nuisance for the homeowners, all those unruly crowds. The broken beer bottles and debris hadn't been here then either, they were something new since the fence was put up.

"Ever been up here before?" I said.

"Before they put this fence up, I was a few times. If I ever got too impressed with myself I could come up here and get some perspective. Could impress a date, too, with what a romantic guy I was."

"A shame how the kids ruined it, wanting to sit up here and look at the view."

"The fence is a big improvement."

We could see Bobbie's house clearly from where we stood.

"Feel like a little B&E?"

"Thought you'd never ask."

We walked down to the house and rang the bell. We waited a few minutes and leaned on it again. If anyone was in there they were in a coma. Or hiding.

Jake unscrewed the porch light and went to work. The alarm system was an older one, like mine, and the keypad was on the outside of the house. Jake dug in his bag until he came up with a screwdriver and a bypass device. He pried the cover off the touch pad and hooked two wires from his device to two terminals on the keypad. He flipped a switch on the device and its digital display began to go scroll numbers too fast for the eye to follow.

"I must have missed this part of the agency training," I said.

"I learned this from a professional thief."

"He give you that gadget, too?"

Jake grinned. "Traded him some C-4 and a pair of night goggles for it. This could take a few minutes."

I stepped off the porch and half slid, half walked down the ten feet of hill to the foundation. I followed it around the side of the house. The lights were on in the house next door but the curtains were drawn and no one was looking.

I slipped once and banged my arm against one of the support stilts that the house rested on. It hurt like hell and when I moved it around to loosen the muscle my teeth were grinding. It was only pain and I worked through it. The wound was clean and well bandaged and Jake had insisted on giving me an antibiotic shot.

I was hoping to find another way in but the downstairs rooms were a good ten feet above my head. The entire house was set on stilts. I was thinking about climbing one of the stilts when Jake leaned over the rail from the deck above and whispered, "I'm in."

"Fast."

I climbed back around to the front of the house to the front door. Jake had reattached the keypad cover and it looked like it had never been disturbed.

I went through the door and locked it behind me. The architecture was open, designed with as few walls as possible and wrap around windows to let in the moonlight and the incredible view. The kitchen, dining and living spaces were all one big room. I could see Jake standing just inside the sliding glass doors, silhouetted against the lights below.

"I checked downstairs, it's clean."

I searched around until I found the stairs and went down to look. I walked normally this time. There were two bedrooms and a bathroom, plus a large room set up for entertaining. It had a big screen television and a stereo system and a pool table and puffy leather furniture. Against the inside wall was a wet bar in black and chrome. Snazzy. I opened the cabinet under the television and found a nice selection of Bobbie's movies.

I went back upstairs and Jake was sitting in one of two Eames chairs staring out the window.

"Babe city," he said.

"Yup. Place is like a show room model for one of those no-tell motels. It's like nobody lives here, no pictures, no personal items. He has a wide selection of porno tapes and a well stocked bar."

"Bet he wears tiger underwear, too. What kind of woman would be turned on by this setup?"

"My guess is most of them who come here are featured players in his movies. A lot of them don't know any better and think this is what it means to be rich and live in Hollywood."

"Sad."

"Very."

"I wasn't fond of the guy before but I'm developing a genuine dislike for him."

"We give him a choice, Jake. I feel like pitching him off the balcony myself but we give him a choice."

"He won't keep his word, you know that. You've seen how he thinks. We do it and it's over."

"There's Roberto Vasquez to think about."

"Fuck Roberto Vasquez."

"Easy to say, not so easy to do."

Jake didn't say anything.

"I know, but we give him a choice."

His voice was very soft. "Stupid." It was all he said.

He had a point. Bobbie was a lost cause but, as much as the idea appealed to me, I couldn't kill him in cold blood. Besides, I was right about his father. He would have full time zips on our heels. Jake would go off to some jungle, after he killed Vasquez, and be as happy there as anyplace. I would go with him but I wouldn't be as happy. I liked it here. It was home. Better for everyone to find another way.

We sat there in the dark and waited. Jake went downstairs but I stayed put and stared out at the city while I listened for cars. He was gone for quite awhile. When he came back he didn't say what he had been doing and I didn't ask.

It was almost three in the morning when I heard the sound of footsteps on the front porch. Jake was up and moving before I could say a word. He went into the kitchen and ducked behind the counter. I moved against the inside wall, out of their line of sight.

The front door opened and a moment later Bobbie walked in, followed by a dark form that could only be Berk and another man. Bobbie reached for the wall switch and the room flooded with light. The other man was my old friend Eddie. I evidently hadn't killed him when I landed on his chest. I waited to make sure no one else was with them and then I popped out from the wall and pointed my gun at them.

"We have to stop meeting like this."

Bobbie's eyes were about the size of basketballs and he opened his mouth but nothing came out. He had a bandage over his nose and his eyes were both blackened. He looked like a giant raccoon.

Berk stayed still but Eddie's hand moved instinctively to his coat.

"This time I'll shoot you, Eddie." He took his hand away and stood there. All three of them just stared at me waiting for the next move.

"You need instructions?" They waited a reluctant beat and then turned to put their hands up and lean face first into the wall. Everyone except Bobbie.

"I would like nothing better than to shoot you, Bobbie. Give me the slightest excuse and I will."

Jake came up from behind him. "I don't need an excuse."

Bobbie turned and when he recognized Jake he sort of froze in place and his shoulders hunched a little, like he was trying to make himself smaller. Jake made a slight turning motion with his gun and Bobbie faced the wall without hesitation.

I collected their weapons and told them to go sit down. Bobbie took the place of honor at the head of the seating area and his gofers sat on either side of him. Jake took up a position behind them and I sat facing Bobbie. Berk stared at me with pure hatred in his eyes. Probably mad at me for rescuing Laurel. He noticed the bandage on my arm and a slight smile creased his lips.

"It's only a scratch," I said, following his gaze, "five of your pals are dead."

"Six," Jake said.

He stiffened and for a moment I thought he was going to come out of the chair. I now knew what Hemingway meant about facing down a wounded Cape Buffalo.

"The cops are going to have a lot of questions for you, Bobbie, I'm surprised they haven't been here already."

"They always got questions, peeper. You're gonna have to do better than that."

"Kidnapping is a capital offense. Not to mention blackmail. And don't forget your home movies from the motel. How's that for better?"

He grew quiet and looked over at Berk. Berk was staring at me.

"The little dyke's picture goes public anything happens to me. I bet her old man gets so pissed he forgets to pay you."

"Maybe. Maybe he would rather have her alive, too. Right now he doesn't know anything. If you have even a double digit I.Q., and right now I wonder, you'll want to keep it that way. He can bring you more aggravation than anything you can imagine. But, actually, none of that matters because you double crossed me and I told you what would happen if you did."

"You ain't the type, peeper, you aren't going to shoot me in cold blood."

"No, I probably won't, Jake will."

He didn't know if I was serious but he had enough sense to be frightened. Jake scared him. He was the only thing besides his father that seemed to and there was a look of real fear in his eyes. He fell back on his old saw.

"You touch me and my old man will have you begging him to kill you."

"Not if he's dead," Jake said in his quiet, matter of fact tone.

I could see that was an imponderable thought for Bobbie. His father represented an omnipotent force, immune to everything but his own will. It was a completely original thought for him, to consider someone bringing harm to his father.

"Fat chance of that, but hey, I can be reasonable. We do the swap and everything is the same as before, right?"

"Jake wants to kill you." I didn't say anything for a few beats to let it sink in. "All I want is the tape and for you to leave the Silvermans alone. And one more thing. Because you double crossed us you have to give back the hundred thousand."

"Hey, that wasn't the deal. You said I get to keep the dough."

"That was before you kidnapped Laurel. Look at it as an 'I get to keep on pimping' fee."

"I don't know why I should give it back."

"Because that's the deal. The money for your life."

"You thought about it and you want it for yourself."

"It doesn't matter what I want it for, you're going to give it to me."

I was tired and my arm hurt and, most of all, I was sick of dealing with Bobbie. He wasn't going to change and I trusted him about as far as I could throw his giant screen TV. Maybe he would respond to a visual demonstration.

I looked at Berk. "You are starting to annoy me, Lurch. Are you going to stare me to death or would you like to take a shot at me?"

"I hit you and you're pal shoots me."

"Tell him, Jake."

"Go ahead. I won't shoot you."

I stood up and handed my gun to Jake. He said, "Better if I do this, your arm is a mess."

"Probably."

I moved out to the middle of the room and Berk stood up. It was stupid to try taking him inside like this. He was a human dumpster and I couldn't out muscle him with a floor jack. I should have been outside where I had room to move. If he was trained I could be in serious trouble but I was counting on him never having the need. His size and strength had, no doubt, always been enough for him to win. And I doubted he needed them much. Just looking at him was enough to scare hell out of anyone with the sense of a geranium.

"Hey, my furniture. You guys are gonna wreck the place," Bobbie said.

"Shut up," Jake said.

I moved to the middle of the room. There was about a ten by fifteen foot space with no obstructions. It wasn't large enough by half. I figured Berk would try to close with me as quickly as possible. If he could get a grip on me he would have me. I was no match for him in a wrestling contest. I planned on not letting that happen.

He started to come at me, lowering his head as he charged, his arms spread wide to cut me off if I tried to escape. I back peddled to let him think I was going to run and then surprised him by stepping back in to meet him. I hit him with a straight left into the nose. It stunned him and I ducked under his arm and caught him with a right hook on the side of his jaw and slammed a right into his kidneys as hard as I could punch. He made a small umph sound and I knew it had hurt. Another hundred like that and I would have him.

He turned slowly, and charged me again. I hit him with a combination left jab, left hook and side stepped again. He threw a wild right and hit me in the left shoulder. It was the arm I had taken the bullet in and the pain flashed white-hot for a moment. It was like being hit with a sledgehammer. If he had been quick enough to turn and follow I would have been finished. My whole arm went numb. I back peddled to give myself a chance to recover, wishing mightily that I had more room to maneuver. I could keep wearing him down with punches and, if I could stay out of his way, I could bring him down. I was much quicker. Outside, I could have. In here he was going to get a grip on me before that happened. I was frustrated and getting angrier by the second. At Berk, at Bobbie, at the entire mess. Something red colored my vision and I sort of snapped. Instead of waiting for my openings I launched a straight kick at his knee and was nearly horizontal when I hit it with both feet. He didn't expect it and I caught him flush on the joint. I heard it crunch and he screamed, a low-pitched animal roar of pain. I landed on my side and rolled upright and came back at him immediately. He hadn't gone down but he was standing heavily on one leg and I tried to sweep it out from under him. It was like trying to sweep a stump but I managed to stagger him and he went down on one knee and I was up and at him again before he could stand. He grabbed my left arm as I came in and I screamed myself but I was beyond pain. I was in a killing rage and I clubbed the side of his head with my right forearm, again and again, putting my whole body into it. He was trying to get me in a bear hug but I was hitting him so hard and so fast he couldn't quite manage it. His head and neck were huge and blows that would have caused spinal injury in a normal person were only snapping his head a few inches. Even so, they were having an effect and I felt his grip loosen on my arm. I whipped it away and chopped his Adam's apple. He grabbed his throat and I clubbed him again and then grabbed the back of his head and stood, bringing my knee up into his face with everything I had left. He flopped backward and I was on him again, sitting on his chest pounding his face with my right hand and elbow. His face was covered in blood and it splattered every time I hit him. I didn't know if he was conscious or not, I just kept hitting him until I heard Jake shouting at me and pulling on my collar, dragging me away.

"Michael, enough. You're killing him. Michael, stop."

I realized then that I was making primal snarls of rage every time I hit him. Hearing them are what snapped me out of it. I sat there for a moment, staring at nothing and then I focused on Berk. He was unconscious and his face looked like something the butcher throws out but he was still breathing.

I sat for a moment longer and then stood, shakily, letting the adrenaline subside. I turned to Bobbie. He was still sitting in his chair, a look of fascination and terror and amazement on his face. I walked slowly towards him and he cringed back in his seat. I leaned over and slapped him with my open palm. He yelped and covered his face. I grabbed his hands and pulled them away and leaned in close, Berk's blood smeared his wrists and dripped onto his suit.

"Am I getting through to you yet, Bobbie?"

He nodded, his head bobbing up and down like one of those silly car dolls.

"That's good." I turned and walked to the kitchen and washed the blood off my hands and face and drank a long time from the faucet. When I turned around no one had moved.

I looked at Jake and nodded toward the door. Then I looked at Bobbie. "I'll be in touch. If you double cross us this time, Jake will be the one who comes for you. He's not nearly as nice as I am." Bobbie's head just kept bobbing.

Jake went to the balcony and pitched their guns over the railing and we left, closing the door quietly behind us.

"Subtle," he said.

I chuckled all the way to the car, as much for release from my demon as because it was funny. As we were passing Bobbie's house on the way down the hill Jake raised his left hand and pointed it out the open window. There was a small muffled explosion from the lower floor. He turned to me and grinned.

"It was only the TV. I kept thinking about him showing those movies to the women he brought over. I thought a small demonstration of his mortality couldn't hurt either."

"Subtle."

47

I was sitting in my office the next morning sorting through a week's worth of mail and my wastebasket was nearly full. The spot on my desk reserved for checks was still bare. Whenever I lifted my left arm it hurt and my right hand was sore and swollen, making the sorting harder. It seemed a small price to pay for getting Laurel back. I was almost finished when I heard a polite knock on my door. I wasn't expecting anyone and, whoever they were, they had come up the stairs very quietly.

I slid the right hand drawer of my desk open.

"Come in."

Two middle-aged guys strolled in and stopped just in front of my desk. They were dressed like Wall Street bankers but the acne scars on the darker one gave them away. So did the bulges under their arms.

"You guys collecting for the paper?"

They looked at each other and then back at me.

"Someone wants to talk," the dark one said. He was apparently the senior member of the team.

"Someone always does."

"Let's go."

"Might I know who the someone is?"

"Roberto Vasquez."

"I can borrow some chairs, there's plenty of room to talk right here."

"He said you might act like this, said to tell you he gives you his word this is only a meeting. Said to tell you if he wanted you dead you already would be."

"That's very reassuring, he say what this meeting is about?"

"Bobbie." It was the other one. He said the name with a note of disgust in his voice. The first one gave him a reproachful look but he shrugged as if to say, "what do you expect?" I knew how he felt.

"Mind if I let someone know where I'm going?"

"Nah, so long as it ain't the cops, go ahead."

I dialed Jake's number and left him a message. I didn't ask to talk with him because I knew he would insist on coming. I wanted at least one of us walking around in case this was a set up.

"Okay, let's go." I didn't bother with my gun. I wouldn't be allowed to keep it anyway.

There was a black Mercedes parked in front with the motor running and a third man behind the wheel. One of them opened the back door for me and I got in. The driver pulled smoothly into traffic and we rode in luxurious silence for the next half hour. I knew they wouldn't tell me anything so I didn't ask and they didn't seem to mind. I thought about asking if they had the same tailor but I was making an effort to be less of a smart-ass lately so I didn't. It would have helped, though, to take my mind off the little worm of fear that was wriggling around in my gut.

We were on Sunset, traveling east toward Hollywood. It occurred to me that, if Sunset were a toll road, I would be broke by now because of this case. We turned left just past the Beverly Hills Hotel and wound through the curves north for another ten minutes and then turned into a gated drive that took us up for maybe a quarter mile through dense foliage. At the top sat a hacienda style ranch house with a red tiled roof and arched picture windows. It was large but not overly so and landscaped naturally, as if the plants had grown on their own.

We got out and the dark one frisked me for weapons. Satisfied, he nodded toward the door and we went in. The entrance way was terra cotta tile, as was the hallway, and our steps echoed sharply as we marched toward the back of the house. The ceiling rafters and support beams were dark stained, rough wood that looked as though they had actually been hewn by hand and not by some machine that was supposed to make it look like they had been done by hand. The hallway ran all the way to a pair of French doors that opened onto a patio and gardens in the back.

One of my escorts opened the doors and led me to an umbrella-shaded table. Someone I took to be Roberto Vasquez was seated reading the Wall Street Journal. There was coffee and toast and an assortment of fruits laid out before him but it looked untouched. The dark one pointed me to a chair and then went around to stand at a discreet distance behind the man reading the paper. I sat down and figured I would have to wait until he finished his article before he acknowledged my presence. I was wrong. He folded the paper immediately and put it aside and stared at me a beat before he said, "Would you care for some breakfast or a cup of coffee?"

He was probably close to seventy but his eyes were as clear as those of a young man except that he gazed at me like the father of time might, as if he could see into my soul, as if I had no secrets and, if I did, he would soon know them. It made me think of the picture on my office wall.

"Thanks but I already ate."

He nodded as if that was exactly what he expected me to say. He didn't say anything else for a moment and neither did I. It was his party. I waited.

"You know why I asked you here?"

"I have a video tape of your son committing a felony punishable by at least ten years in prison. That have anything to do with it?"

"Your candor is refreshing, Mr. Chambers. I would have expected a low rent hustler like you to be less forthcoming."

"And I would have expected a cold blooded killer and pimp to be less gracious, and less well spoken."

He smiled at me indulgently. He was genuinely amused. It was not the reaction I had expected and it was not reassuring. I might threaten his kid but I could probably put a knife to this man's throat and he would give me the same amused reaction.

"I want the tapes."

I shook my head. "Nope, it's the only thing standing between me and Forest Lawn. I think I'll hang on to them. Your son is loose in the head and I don't trust him. He already double crossed me once."

I saw a look flash across his eyes and in it was the full knowledge of what his son was, mingled with disappointment and maybe a sense of failure about where he had gone wrong. The look was gone in an instant. He stared at me then for a long time, saying nothing, giving nothing more away. At last he said, "Tell me. Start at the beginning and leave nothing out."

I told him. About the blackmail and Rudy and Berk and about Manny Ortega and the motel and the kidnapping and the rescue. I told him everything right up to last night. The only thing I didn't tell him was Aaron's part in it. I figured he already knew but, if he didn't, I wasn't going to be the one to tell. When I finished he looked away for the first time. It was hard to be sure but I thought he might be ashamed.

When he looked up he said, "So what is it that you want?"

I told him that, too.

"I still want those tapes."

"Look Mr. Vasquez, there is no way for you to be sure I haven't made a dozen copies of them. For that matter I can't be sure Bobbie won't do the same with the tape he has. The swap was simply a formality, a ritual that I thought might impress upon Bobbie the sanctity of keeping his word."

He looked away again, obviously embarrassed this time, but when he looked back his eyes were hard and cold.

"I could just have you all killed." He said it as if he were discussing the weather.

"Yes, you could, but it will be messy. David Silverman is somebody in this town. That's why I could never see your hand in this in the first place. It was too much trouble for too little gain. And that still leaves the tapes. Bobbie might beat the rap if all the witnesses disappear but my lawyer thinks he will go down anyway. Besides that, in case you haven't noticed, we're not easy to kill. Your son has lost seven men."

"I am not my son and my men are not his."

"I know that, but what does it gain you? If we can agree, we both come out ahead. If you kill us nobody wins."

He sat back then and gazed out at his garden. He might have been Picasso capturing an image in his mind to put down later on canvas. Only he wasn't.

We sat that way for a while and then he turned to the man behind him and made a motion with his hand. The man went into the house.

"I am agreeing to your terms but you must understand why. I am not doing this because it is the smart thing to do or because you think you have the upper hand. If this were between you and me there would be no question. I would kill you for threatening my son's life. It would be my duty. But, because it is my son who has done this, I will make an allowance. What he did was foolish. For that reason alone I will give you this one time. You need not concern yourself with my son any further. The girl will not be bothered and you will not be harmed, but understand this, there will not be a second time. Do not cross my path again."

I nodded that I understood. I knew he was telling me the truth.

"May I ask you something?"

He just looked at me deadpan but I went ahead anyway.

"You've known about this all along, haven't you?"

He didn't answer but I thought I saw a hint of a smile in his eyes.

"You are an unusual man, Mr. Chambers, I could use someone like you but of course, that is out of the question."

It was my turn to smile.

His man returned with a large envelope and gave it to him. He held it for a moment, as if weighing it, and then handed it to me. I didn't insult him by opening it. I took it and stood. We didn't shake hands, just looked at each other for a moment and then I turned and left. The dark one came with me and opened the back door of the car. He told the driver to take me wherever I wanted to go and then went back inside.

I waited until we reached Sunset before I opened the envelope. Inside were a videotape and another packet containing a hundred one thousand dollar bills.

48

"Just like that. He gave you the tape and a hundred thousand dollars?" Anne said.

"I like to think it may have had something to do with the way I presented myself."

I thought I heard Jake snigger into the glass of water he was drinking. The three of us were having lunch on the balcony of a Mexican restaurant in Malibu that overlooked the bright blue Pacific. Kate, my telephone lady, had collected on her brunch and this was the place she had taken me. I had liked it so much I came back and brought my friends.

"You had him by the short hairs and he knew it," Anne said.

"No, he didn't do it because we had the tape."

Jake nodded in agreement.

"Then why?"

"He did it because his son is a screw up and will be one for the rest of his miserable life. He did it because he has always had to bail him out and he always will. Maybe it's the price he has to pay for being a successful crook," Jake said. For a quiet guy, Jake will surprise you.

"Not because what Bobbie did was wrong?"

"Maybe that was a part of it too. He would not be an easy man to figure out. He has his own code of behavior and, in his own way, a sense of honor. What Bobbie did violated those things. I don't know, it gets complicated."

"So, Silverman must be very happy. You rescued his daughter, solved the case, got his money back and saved his son from a life of crime. I think I know what your middle initial stands for now." My middle initial was S.

"I know what it stands for," Jake said.

I gave Jake a dirty look and, in my best running-for-office voice, I said, "All in a days work, but don't forget my sidekick over here, I couldn't have done it without him,"

"You can have the glory, I have other, more tangible rewards for my heroics."

Anne stared at me, waiting.

"He made me take the hundred thousand I got back for him. Aaron told him everything, even confessed his part in it. When he heard the whole story he insisted. He said he had been willing to spend a million to save his daughter's reputation so what did I think her life was worth. He was adamant about it. When he put it that way it didn't seem quite so silly. He wanted to give me more but I convinced him it was enough." Jake gave me a look and I said, "Shut up."

"How much did you get?" Anne was looking at Jake.

"Half, I tried to take less but Mr. S. here was pretty adamant himself. I didn't even get shot."

"You earned it, both of you, I'm very glad."

"Order anything on the menu," I said, beaming at her.

"Order two of them," Jake said.

"Does this mean you're going to rent some fancy office space in Century City? If you do, could you leave that glass sculpture Laurel's friend gave you, what's it called, "Colored Waters"? I love it."

"I would miss the ocean." She stared into my eyes for a long time and then smiled. I could feel my chest tighten all the way to my toes.

"I'm thinking about buying my house, though. I can afford the down payment now. I think those shootings made my landlord a little nervous."

"You should, a man your age needs some security." Her eyes were bright and she tried keeping a straight face but couldn't suppress a wicked grin. Jake didn't even try.

I knew if I gave them an opening they wouldn't stop. To change the subject I said, "What do you think about what Aaron did?"

Her face grew serious. "He told his father everything? That took a lot of courage. I have to say I liked him the first time I met him. He seemed liked a good kid. A little sad and a little lost, maybe, but I liked him."

"Laurel doesn't know about what he did. Silverman insisted on that, but I think it's going to work out. He was in shock at first but then I think he realized that what happened was partly his fault. He has smothered Aaron and never given the kid a chance to show what he could do. They're talking about doing Aaron's movie together."

"You're kidding?" Jake said.

Aaron had told him all about the project when they were inventing Jake's cover story.

"Nope."

"Silverman is going to lose millions on some turkey because he wants to make up to his son? Couldn't they find a better story to do together?"

"They're going very low budget, no stars. Silverman actually thinks it might work. Says there is always a place for a good love story."

"Maybe they could get Rudy for the lead. Cheap. He must be out of work now."

"Speaking of whom, Silverman wanted to prosecute and I had a hell of a time talking him out of it. Roberto Vasquez would have considered that a breach of our agreement, I think."

"So everything worked out, just like a Hollywood ending," Anne said.

"Not everything, a lot of people died. One of them was Laurel's bodyguard and one was just a raw kid who got in over his head with the wrong people. And Bobbie is still free to keep on being Bobbie until he gets into something his father can't fix. And the cops are very displeased with me. They have it in their heads I'm responsible for a number of violent acts that have entire neighborhoods cowering in fear."

Jake was grinning ear to ear.

We were quiet then for a little while, thinking about things, until Anne said, "Safford?"

Jake looked at her.

"His middle name."

Jake grinned and shook his head.

"Seymour . . . Shane . . . Shelley, it must be Shelley?"

"Never mind," I said.

"Sheldon . . . Samuel . . . Stewart? Come on Jake, what is it?"

I looked at him. "I will shoot you."

The meal, when it came, was delicious and we talked and joked the afternoon away. No one bothered us and we had nothing to worry about except the weather, which was perfect.

I pulled up in front of a dusty little house a couple of blocks from the concrete trough they call the L.A. river, just across the bridge in East Los Angeles. There was a small tomato garden growing on one side of the house. It looked well tended but, even so, it was patchy and didn't appear to be giving up much fruit. The house was in good repair and someone had tried to make it look better by washing it down but it hadn't helped much. Too much fallout for too many years. The yard was clean and mowed and it wouldn't take much to fix the place up like new. A coat of paint would do it. In East L.A., not much may as well be a fortune.

I climbed the steps and knocked. In a little while a short, middle-aged woman opened the door. Her hair was long and black and she had tied it behind her head in a loose ponytail arrangement. It was streaked here and there with gray. In the living room behind her I could see two young girls in their early teens peeking out to see who it was.

"Mrs. Ortega?"

"Si."

"I have something for you from Manny. He asked me to make sure you got it. I'm sorry it has taken so long. I've been sort of busy lately."

I handed her an envelope and she looked at it and then back at me, the pain of her son's death still fresh in her eyes. She knew Manny hadn't asked me to give it to her but she was too polite to say so. She took it finally and I noticed her hands. They were lined and worn from years of hard labor, the hands of a much older woman. She opened the envelope and when she saw the money she clutched her chest. There were forty-six one hundred dollar bills and five one thousand dollar bills in it.

"Dios Mio."

"It was sort of an insurance policy. I promise you there is nothing illegal about it. It was his money and he wanted you to have it."

She held the money out, not knowing if she should take it. Her eyes were proud and she might have refused but I gave her no choice. I smiled and said I was late for an appointment and that I had to run. It was only a small lie.

