him out. If I run across BB along the way I’ll make sure you know about it.”
“What kind of trouble?” Milo asked.
“This woman Leora come around and asked Fearless where was Kit,” I said. “She said that she was his wife. She said that he abandoned her and his child. After Fearless asked a couple’a questions the cops come around his place and asked about him. Now the next morning your boy Timmerman comes to my house askin’ about Fearless too. You know neither one of us believes in coincidence, Milo.”
“Maybe not,” he said. “But if there’s a word for it in the dictionary then there’s a chance that it could happen.”
“Tell me where I can find Miss Fine.”
“But you could get to Winifred if I give you her address. You could make all her fortune work for you.”
“Milo, I wouldn’t even know what to do with a beauty product distribution company. All I care about is my books.”
Milo frowned for a full fifteen seconds before calling out, “Loretta!”
“Yes, Mr. Sweet.”
“Write down Winifred L. Fine’s numbers on a card for Paris. Call her and tell her that I’m sendin’ him by.” And then, “You better not be messin’ with me, Paris.”
“I was thinkin’ the exact same thing about you, Mr. Sweet.”
9
THE FINE FAMILY LIVED ON BRAUGHM ROAD, which occupied a strip of land between Santa Monica and Los Angeles. It was a big yellow house, a mansion really, flanked by strawberry farms that have long since disappeared. It had a southern look to it. The driveway was long enough to be called a road. It led to an electric fence equipped with a buzzer, a microphone, and a loudspeaker—all of them held together by black electrical tape.
“Who is it?” a man’s voice asked a minute or so after I pressed the buzzer.
“Paris Minton,” I said.
“Who the hell is Paris Minton?”
“Friend of Milo Sweet.”
“Who?”
“Listen, man,” I said. “Tell Miss Fine that Paris Minton is out here, that I work for Milo Sweet and I need some information to get the job done.”
The loudspeaker went silent and I was by myself out there in the almost country of L.A. There were five different birdcalls that I made out but could not name. Flitting insects were everywhere. A big beetle thumped down on my hood. He sported a shiny black-and-green carapace and seemed to like the heat from the engine rising through the hood. His long legs weren’t strong enough to lift him above the surface, instead they moved like the oars of some ancient galley making its way across the vast brown sea of metal. A blackbird flew up and landed so quickly it was as if she had appeared out of nowhere. She swiveled her head to get a good look at the beetle and then lunged at him with her beak. I could see its oars waving in the air for a moment and then two gulps and he was gone. The blackbird cocked her eye at me and then, in less than an instant, she was gone too.
“Who is this?” a woman’s voice asked from the loudspeaker.
“Paris Minton,” I said.
“And who is Paris Minton?”
I told the new voice about Milo Sweet and my working for him.
“I don’t know nuthin’ about a Mr. Sweet sendin’ no man up in here,” the voice said.
I didn’t respond because she hadn’t asked a question.
“Well, come on in I guess,” the voice said.
The electric fence, made from simple wire gating, rolled half the way across the entrance and then seemed to get stuck. It was still trying to roll but something, somewhere, was an impediment. I got out of my Ford and helped the gate move along its track. Then I got back in and drove the S-shaped driveway up to Winifred L. Fine’s front door.
The house was four stories with an extra turret on top of that. It would have been impressive if the owner had it painted and did something about the front yard.
Really, I guess you would call it the grounds. The lawn in front of the fading house was at least five acres. The grass was overgrown but I could see why. There was a refrigerator, a stove, various canisters, and less identifiable refuse in among the long blades of grass. A gardener would have gone crazy trying to mow. And even if he managed, the lawn would have looked worse because all the trash would have been more visible.
There weren’t only discards in the yard, however. There were trees too. Fruit trees mainly. Two apples—which is one of the only fruit bearers that don’t do well in the southern California clime—a dying peach, a dead pomegranate, and a date palm that had only one living leaf.
I saw no place set aside for parking, so I just pulled as far to the right side of the road as possible and stopped the car.
The front door was green with a picture of Mary and baby Jesus laminated to its center. I wondered if knocking on Mary’s forehead was considered a sin.
A middle-aged black woman opened the door. She was quite short and wore a full-length formal black gown
