'He wanted cash-and-carry, just like you.'
'Tell me what he looked like.'
'I told you, man, I don't look at - '
The twenty under his nose stopped him mid-sentence.
'Fifty.' He tried.
I pulled the money back angrily.
'Forget it. I have a friend on the police. When I leave here, I'm calling him and filing a complaint about fraudulent business practises.'
'Hey, man, I didn't do nothing.'
'Maybe, maybe not. But when they take one look at you, it'll be body-search time.'
I turned to leave. Scrawny fingers held me back.
'Hey, man, I was just tryin' to be fair. The other suit paid me fifty not to talk, seems you should do the same.'
I peeled his hand off and started walking.
'Fuck you, man! Okay, okay! Twenty.'
I stopped and turned around.
'First let's hear what you have to say.'
'He had a big freaking mouth.'
'I need a description, not a personality assessment.'
'Okay, hold on. Let's see. He was white. And tan. Like some faggot who sits in front of a sun lamp all day.'
'How tall?'
'Like you, but heavier.'
'Fat?'
'Muscles.'
' What about his hair?'
'Short. Like some faggot who lifts weights and grooms himself all day.'
'What else?'
He contorted his face, trying to remember.
'He had a beard. Yeah. That's it, man.'
'What colour?'
'Dark.'
In his addled way he'd produced a good description of Erno Radovic.
'Did he say why he wanted the sculpture?'
'No, he, uh - sure. He said he liked art.'
I showed him another twenty and said:
'Come on. Let it out.'
'Hey, man, I don't wanna get in any shit over this. He was a real asshole.'
'He'll never know.'
He looked up and down the street, then back at the money.
'The first time you were here he came in right after you left. Asked me what you were up to. I said, 'Hey, man, this is Voids, not some information bureau.' Then he got this bizarro look on his face and produced some cash, so I told him I never saw you before, you just wanted to buy trash. I showed him which trash, and he bid you up. That's it, man. Okay?'
Milo had told me to call him if the bodyguard showed his face. I went to the phone booth in the parking lot and punched in his number at the West L.A. station.
He was out, so I asked for Del Hardy, his occasional partner. It took a while to locate the black detective, and when he came to the phone, he was out of breath.
'Doc,' he panted.
'Hi, Del. You okay?'
'Aerobics . . . stress management programme . . . orders from the brass . . . dropping like flies . . . gonna lose ... a lot of good men.'
'Milo involved in it, too?' -
'Supposed to be ... but he keeps .. . making up excuses. Like trying to solve crimes.'
I laughed.
'I'd like to talk to him when he gets back. It's no emergency, just something about Erno Radovic.'
He exhaled, and his voice tightened.
'That racist pig? He hassling you again?'
'Not exactly. But I have reason to believe he's been following me.'
'You in any trouble?'
'Not at all. Like I said, it's no emergency.'
'Okay. Anyway, Milo hasn't come in today. I think he's out on a call. But he should be phoning in within the hour, and I'll make sure he gets the message. Meanwhile, if you see the motherfucker skulking around again, phone me collect.'
'Thanks, Del.'
I drove home, pulled out a stack of psych journals, and prepared to catch up on some reading. I'd just immersed myself in an article on the psychological development of premature infants when the service called.
'Good, you're home,' said the operator. 'I've got a Sergeant Michael Sturgis on the line. It's the third time he's called.'
'Please put him through.'
'Certainly, Doctor. Go ahead, sir. Doctor's on the line.'
'Alex?' The connection was peppered with static, but the urgency in Milo's voice was clear.
'What's up?' I asked.
'Del said you wanted to talk about Radovic. Go ahead.'
I told him about the bodyguard's following me and purchasing The Wretched Act.
'A sculpture?'
'More than just a sculpture, Milo. It combines elements of Jamey's father's death and Chancellor's murder. Radovic paid a lot of money for it. You might want to ask him about it once you locate him.'
There was no reply, only crackles and pops.
'Milo?' I said, wondering if we'd been cut off.
'We've located him,' he said softly. 'He's lying a few feet from where I'm standing, gutted like a fish.'
'Oh, shit.'
'Wait, there's more. We've got an eyewitness to the knifing. There were two guys involved. Bikers. One skinny, the other a veritable tub of lard.'
'Jesus. Where did it happen?'
'Near Bitter Canyon, off the Antelope Valley Highway. We need to talk, Alex. Soon.'
'Name it.'
'Whitehead and Cash are still here beating their meat, but they're splitting in a couple of minutes. I volunteered to handle the paper work, so I'll be here for a while. It's a forty-minute ride, give or take ten on either side. Leave in an hour, so you don't pass anyone on the freeway; it's an open road and every car's visible. Know how to get here?'
'Four-oh-five north?'
'Right. Stay with it past the merge with five, then hook east on fourteen, toward Lancaster and Mojave. You'll pass Soledad Canyon, Agua Dulce, and the L A. Aqueduct. Bitter Canyon's a few miles before Palmdale. The highway cuts through high desert, and the exit road will drop you a thousand feet. It's damned deserted out here, so don't get spooked. Just keep going until you see an old Texaco station. The meat wagon will probably be there. You won't be able to miss it.'
THE NORTHERN edge of the Valley began to bleed off into empty stretches just past San Fernando. As I turned onto the Antelope Valley Highway, the way posts of prefab civilisation - Colonial Kitchens, Carrows, Dennys,
