goddamned volatile, used muscle instead of manners. Did you notice how he laughed all the time?'
I nodded.
'He does it when he's pissed. Weird.' He tapped his head. 'The wiring's not right up there, Alex. You'd know more about it than I would. The main thing is keep your distance. I've filed enough paper to keep him behind bars
for a couple of days, but he'll be out eventually. So watch out.'
' I hear you.'
'I know you do - right now. But we both know you have this tendency to get obsessive and forget little things like personal safety. Okay?'
He gave me a sour look and opened the door of the Matador.
'Where are you going?' I asked.
'Back on the job,' he answered, looking away.
'Just like that, huh?'
He shrugged, got in the car, and closed the door. The window was rolled down, and I leaned in through the opening.
'Milo, what the hell is going on with you? A month goes by, and I don't hear from you. I try to reach you, and you don't return my calls. For all I know, you've crawled into some cave and rolled a rock across the opening. Now you show up, bust some maniac on my property, and play the it's-all-in-a-day's-work routine.'
'I can't talk about it.'
'Why the hell not?'
'We're working opposite sides of the Cadmus case. Just being seen with you is a no-no. If Radovic weren't such an explosive freak, I would have called for assistance and had someone else bust him.'
'Maybe so, but that doesn't explain why you were incommunicado before I got involved in the case.'
He chewed on his lip and put the keys in the ignition. Switching on the radio, he listened to it belch police calls before flicking it off.
'It's complicated,' he said.
'I've got time.'
He shot out his wrist, glanced at his Timex, then stared out the windshield.
'I really can't stay here, Alex.'
'Some other place, then. Where we won't be spotted.'
He smiled. 'Cloak and dagger, huh?'
'Whatever it takes, my friend.'
Gazing at the dashboard, he used his hands to slap a nervous drumbeat against his thighs. Several seconds passed.
'There's this place,' he said finally, 'near the airport, on Aviation. The Golden Eagle. You sit and get soused and listen to the pilots gab with the control tower. I'll be there at nine.'
My first thought was: A cocktail lounge, he's off the wagon.
'See you there,' I said.
He started up the Matador, and I held out my hand. He looked at it as if were some kind of rare specimen. Then suddenly his Adam's apple bobbed, and he reached out with both his big padded paws, squeezed my fingers hard, and let go. A minute later he was gone.
THE GOLDEN Eagle was a one-storey trapezoid of chocolate stucco on a bleak industrial stretch stacked with warehouses and chain-linked auto storage lots. The lounge squatted in the shadows of the San Diego Freeway overpass, so close to the LAX runways that the jet roar caused the glasses above the bar to quiver and tinkle like keys on a vibraphone. Despite the location, the place was jumping.
The gimmick was aural voyeurism: Cushioned headsets wired into the sides of each hexagonal table enabled the tipplers to eavesdrop on cockpit banter, and a wall of plate glass exposed a lateral view of the runway.
I got there at nine and found the place dark and smoke-filled. All the tables were taken; Milo wasn't at any of them. The bar was a pine semicircle coated with an inch of epoxy resin and padded with sausage-coloured vinyl. Smiling salesmen bellied up to it, drinking, eating nachos, and tossing lines at stewardesses on layover. Waitresses in salmon-coloured microdresses and seamed mesh stockings pardoned their way through the crowd, trays aloft. In a corner of the room was a small plywood stage. A skinny middle-aged man in a kelly green suit, open-necked lime green shirt, and stacked-heel oxblood patent oxfords sat in the middle of it, tuning an electric guitar. Nearby were a microphone and an amplifier. Atop the amplifier was a synthesised rhythm box; in front of it, a propped cardboard sign that read THE MANY MOODS OF SAMMY DALE in gilt-edged calligraphy. Sammy Dale wore a goatee and a dark toupee that had come slightly askew, and he looked as if he were in pain. He finished tuning, adjusted the rhythm box until it emitted a rumba beat, and said something unintelligible into the microphone. Eight beats later he was crooning a mock-Latin rendition of 'New York, New York' in a whispery baritone.
I retreated to a corner of the bar. The bartender looked like a moonlighting college boy. I ordered a Chivas straight up and, when he brought it, tipped him five dollars and asked him to get me a table as soon as possible.
'Thanks. Sure. We've got a couple of campers tonight, but that one over there should be clearing soon.'
'Great.'
I got the table at nine-fifteen. Milo showed up ten minutes later, wearing beige jeans, desert boots, a brown polo shirt untucked, and a bold plaid sportcoat. He scanned the room as if searching for a suspect, found me, and shambled over. A waitress followed him like a lamprey pursuing a bass.
'Sorry I'm late,' he said, sinking into the chair. A 747 was coming in for a low landing, and the plate glass was vibrating and awash with light. At the next table a black couple wearing headphones pointed up at the plane and smiled.
'Can I get you something?' asked the waitress.
He thought for a moment.
'Beefeater and tonic, easy on the tonic.'
'G and t, Beef, low t,' mumbled the waitress, scribbling. Looking at my half-empty glass, she smiled.
'Another for you, sir?'
'No, thanks.'
She hurried off and returned quickly with the drink, a cardboard coaster, and a bowl of nachos. Milo thanked her, ate a handful of chips, and fished the lime wedge from his glass. After sucking on it thoughtfully, he raised his eyebrows, ate the pulp, placed the rind in an ashtray, and swallowed half the drink.
'Radovic's in for forty-eight hours tops.'
'Thanks for the tip.'
'Anytime.'
We drank in silence. Waves of bar chatter filled the room, as impersonal as white noise. Sammy Dale, having inexplicably programmed the rhythm box to a slow waltz, was singing about doing things his way.
'Is he a serious suspect?' I asked.
'You're in the enemy camp,' he said, smiling faintly, 'and I'm not supposed to be fraternising with you, let alone handing out investigative details.'
'Forget I asked.'
'Nah,' he said, finishing his drink and calling for another. 'It's nothing Souza doesn't already know. Besides, I don't want you building up false hope about Cadmus's being innocent and chasing after Radovic, so I'll tell you: No, he's not a serious suspect; Cadmus is still our main man. But Radovic's crazy enough for us to want to keep an eye on him, at least as a co-conspirator. Okay?'
'Okay.'
He met my glance, then stared at the tabletop.
'What I can't understand,' he said, 'is how you let yourself get roped into doing a dim cap.'
'I'm not roped into anything. I'm collecting facts without obligation.'
'Oh, yeah? Word has it Souza considers you a prize witness - to the tune often grand.'
'Where'd you hear that?' I asked angrily.
'DA's office. Don't be so surprised; news travels fast on a case like this. They dragged me in the other day and pumped me for information about you, weren't a bit happy when I told them you weren't a sleaze. Not that
