I’d rattled off a bunch of jargon that seemed to make everyone happy.
As Milo pulled into the headquarters staff lot, he said, “Why don’t you come up, His Majesty would probably like to meet you.”
“Probably?”
“He has his moods.”
“Thanks anyway, I’ll catch some air.”
He went inside and I took a walk. Nothing much to see but the fall air was clean for downtown L.A. and the homeless guys I passed seemed tranquil.
Half an hour later, I was back in front of headquarters and Milo was pacing.
“Been here long, Big Guy?”
“Twenty minutes.”
“Short meeting,” I said.
“Cuz Jackson’s other claimed bodies have frittered to nothing, the only thing holding Texas back from spiking the bastard is Antoine.” Pointing his finger and beetling his brows. “‘
“Not a word about Bright?”
“‘Cross-dressing bastard got what he deserved.’”
Back to the Hollywood Hills.
Watching Wilson Good’s house after dark.
A night of nothing, followed by a day of the same. Hard to find shelter on the high, sunny street but Milo really wasn’t hoping for much.
The second night, I offered to come along.
He said, “Too much free time?”
“Something like that.”
Mr. Dot-com’s executive secretary had phoned this morning, announcing her boss’s “intention to visit his commission” in three days. Robin was working overtime to assemble the mandolin.
She said, “You’re okay with being here?”
“Can I hold your tools?”
“When you get in a certain frame of mind, everything you say sounds suggestive.”
“And the problem is…”
“Absolutely nothing.”
I parked the Seville at the southern edge of Wilson Good’s street. Close enough for a long view of the house and the electric mesh gate that caged its frontage. A couple of low-voltage spots created useless puddles of illumination. Most of the enclosure was dark.
I said, “Where’s the Red Bull?”
Milo said, “Drank coffee all day.”
We settled in for the long haul.
No need to; two minutes later, we both spotted movement behind the mesh.
The man was trapped. Slinking into a corner, he ignored Milo ’s command to show himself, huddled low, trying to look small.
Milo stood out of view, hand on gun. He’d used the weapon more this week than in months previous. “Out, pal. Let’s have a look at you.”
Freeway hum.
“Put your hands on your head and walk backward toward the sound of my voice.
The distant, bovine moan of a truck horn.
Milo repeated the order louder.
Nothing.
“Suit yourself, friend. One way or the other you’re coming out.”
Silence.
“You like fire hoses?”
Zoom zoom zoom from miles away.
He called for three Hollywood patrol cars and a locksmith. Five officers arrived under the tutelage of a sergeant who scoped out the situation and said, “Don’t see what we can do.”
The locksmith showed up ten minutes later, squinted at the gate from ten yards away. “He armed?”
“Don’t know.”
“What do you expect me to do? That’s electric, anyway, I can’t do anything with it.”
“Any suggestions?”
“Use a tactical nuclear weapon.”
“Gee, thanks.”
“Welcome. Can I go now?”
Five more minutes of nothing before Milo called out, “You up for a climb, buddy?”
No answer.
“Pal, one way or the other, you’re busted.”
The sergeant said, “Maybe he’s deaf. Central had a deaf guy last year, got shot, big trouble.”
Milo continued his monologue. Alternating cajoling with threats.
When he said, “Okay, do the tear gas,” a voice from behind the gate said, “I’ll come out.”
A figure stepped out to the center of the enclosure. The moon lit up half his face.
Thin, gaunt black man. Ragged hair, scruffy beard, sagging clothes.
“Hands on your head.”
Scrawny arms shot up fast.
“Turn around and walk toward me. Back up so you’re touching the gate.”
The man said, “I know the drill.”
Milo cuffed both his hands to the mesh gate.
“Thought you wanted me out of here, Officer. I climbed in, could climb out.”
Milo turned to the sergeant. “There should be some kind of manual control over there, near the motor. Anyone in good shape?”
The sergeant said, “Someone feeling like Tarzan?”
A short, stocky female officer said, “I used to do gymnastics.”
“Go for it, Officer Kylie.”
After a couple of false starts, Kylie got a foothold on the mesh. Moments later, she’d scrambled up and over. “Here it is, right on the box.”
Milo told the cuffed man: “Listen carefully: Gate’s gonna swing open, just move with it, don’t panic.”
“I never panic,” said the man.
“Unflappable.”
“That, too.”
Freed from the gate and recuffed, the man stared off into space.
Milo let the uniforms go, sat him on the curb.
“I finally get to meet you, Bradley.”
Bradley Maisonette hung his head.
“Here to see your old pal, Will? Interesting way to visit.”
“You know me?” said Maisonette. “’Cause I don’t know you.”
“Been looking for you, sir.”
