A VINTAGE CRIME/BLACK LIZARD ORIGINAL, DECEMBER 2012

Copyright © 2012 by Thing Itself, Inc.

Excerpt from Little Green copyright © 2013 by Thing Itself, Inc.

All rights reserved. Published in the United States by Vintage Books, a division of Random House, Inc., New York, and in Canada by Random House of Canada Limited, Toronto.

Vintage is a registered trademark and Vintage Crime/Black Lizard and colophon are trademarks of Random House, Inc.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book contains an excerpt from the forthcoming book Little Green by Walter Mosley. This excerpt has been set for this edition only and may not reflect the final content of the forthcoming edition.

The Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available at the Library of Congress.

eISBN: 978-0-345-80444-0

www.weeklylizard.com

v3.1

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Parishioner

Excerpt from Little Green

About the Author

Other Books by This Author

There is a stone chapel on the outskirts of Seabreeze City, a small town that is situated between Los Angeles and Santa Barbara. This church has no denomination and is not recognized as a religious institution by any but the ninety-six members of the congregation—them, Father Frank, and his personal staff. The church is made from limestone and stands like a white scar on a green hill overlooking the Pacific Ocean. The weather is mostly fair and still, as if Time had paused there to appreciate a perfect moment of rest.

This nameless house of worship comprises a large room with long, plain, sun-filled windows and eight rows of simple hardwood benches separated by a slender aisle.

That Sunday, Father Frank, wearing all black as usual, stood before ninety-three souls of the ninety-six parishioners. There was no pulpit or even a podium from which his sermon was given, just a round circle of light-colored stones.

“My words here this Sunday morning are a miracle,” the tall, willowy white man said. “You, hearing these words and making some kind of sense from them, are a roomful of miracles. The spider that is dying in a crevice far above our heads is the same as my words and your understanding. Existence itself is mind-blowing, inscrutable, and, in the end, beyond our ability to comprehend. That’s what a miracle is—something beyond comprehension.…”

With his hands clenched together and his eyes tightly shut, Xavier Rule lowered his head even further, allowing the words, as much as possible, to become his mind.

“… We have no choice but to exist as miracles among the uncountable wonders of creation, our brothers, ourselves. Every breath and vision, love and fear, and yes, every sin we commit is something extraordinary.”

Upon hearing this pronouncement Rule released his prayer grip and raised his head to look at Frank. The minister’s hair was stark white and coarse. This mane stood up and to the side like a crop of sun-bleached, windblown hay.

Frank had also shifted his attention. He was looking toward the back of the chapel.

Xavier turned around to see a young-seeming caramel-colored woman in a satiny blue dress with a white, dovelike hat perched at the side of her head. The hem of the dress came down to her ankles, hugging her generous form. Her lips were red and her eyes hopeful.

“We are all sinners here,” Father Frank intoned, bringing Xavier’s attention back to him. “All of us. We have dragged ourselves from every gutter, back alley, and addiction this world has to offer.”

“Amen!” someone, probably Yin Li, affirmed.

“Many of you,” Father Frank said, “have broken each and every one of the Ten Commandments, and you’ve done more than that. You have been, and I have been, the enemy of the potential of creation. We were the slag after divine creation, the maggots on the flesh of slaughtered innocents. But even our sins, our wayward steps, are part of a greater plan. Each of you has found your way to this sanctuary. And here, inside the shelter of pure faith, you have discovered the hope for forgiveness.

“Man cannot judge you. Woman cannot judge you. Even the victims of your crimes cannot, in the end, demand retribution. Our evil is ours alone to bear.…”

The feeling of tears welled up in Xavier Rule’s eyes, and once more he was amazed by the power Father Frank held over him.

“… Do not believe,” Frank continued, “that even you can demand payment for your crimes, that even you can understand what marvels might arise from your actions. Among you there are prostitutes, assassins, gangsters, and worse, much worse.…” Frank bowed his pale mane for a moment, quivered, and then looked up again. “But no matter the evil, no matter the disease that festers in our mortal bodies, we must press onward toward the light. None of us can wallow in self-pity, because the greatest sin is giving up.”

“Preach,” Lana Antonio proclaimed.

Frank gazed around the room with empathy. Xavier wondered, not for the first time, at the preacher’s power to move and hold that room of lost souls. He glanced toward the back and saw that the caramel-colored woman had taken a seat in the last row, to the right.

“We have a guest today,” Father Frank said, also looking at the visitor. “We will call her Miss Jones.”

“Welcome, Miss Jones,” ninety-three voices said.

Among the speakers there was represented almost every race and all the continents: men and women who had, against impossible odds, escaped their destinies and sloughed off their disgraces to look inward and out through Frank’s eyes.

“We will break up into our prearranged groups and go down to the cells to perform the Expressions,” Frank said. “After that, supper will be served in the yard.”

Frank turned from the congregation and passed through a doorless doorway behind the Speaker’s Circle.

Xavier grimaced and took the lavender-colored envelope from his pocket.

On Saturday afternoons the members of the congregation called in to a special number to say whether or not they were coming to service. Once Frank got this information he wrote a note card telling each member which cell to report to and what subject he thought he or she might like to broach. Thrice a year Frank met individually with members of the no-name church, discussing in blunt terms the nature of their sins and hopes for their deliverance.

At their first meeting Xavier had told the self-ordained minister about crimes committed from Harlem to East New York.

“I have beaten, raped, and murdered my brothers and sisters,” he said when he and Frank were introduced at a Skid Row dive in downtown Los Angeles. “When I was fourteen I mutilated a girl for laughing at me.”

He didn’t know why he confessed like that. A woman named Pinky had introduced them. Pinky was dark skinned, not dark chocolate like Xavier, but deep brown like cured mahogany.

“I want you to meet a friend’a mines,” she said after a night of cheap wine and debauchery.

Xavier had already considered killing Pinky, because he didn’t remember what he’d said the night before. And then he met the white-haired white man and his life changed course as if by some preordained plan.

The note cards would have a number between one and sixteen and a short sentence or two. These suggestions were often odd, sometimes on the head, and usually revealing.

What did you use to wash the blood from your hands after beating someone? was once suggested. How did you heal the cuts and bruises on your knuckles?

What is the saddest thing you’ve ever seen? a line one day read.

Have you ever forgiven a sin against you?

List the first names of the people you’ve killed or tried to kill.

Sometimes Xavier found that he could not follow the advice or answer the question, but he always tried. And he listened when his fellow parishioners spoke, hearing them and trying to understand why they would do the things they did. Arsonists and serial killers were the hardest for him to comprehend. Luckily there were only three people who fell under these categories—at least, only three he’d met.

Xavier opened the lavender envelope and unfolded the white greeting card.

See me in the rectory in one hour.

Xavier, called Ecks by members of the congregation and friends, went out through the back entrance of the church and sat on a big gray stone amid the shrubbery and sandy soil. He stared down at the highway and the water beyond practicing the Meditation of Forgetfulness—an exercise that each member of the congregation was taught at the beginning of his or her tenure. The idea was to look upon any landscape and see what was before you with no past and no future. There was supposed to be only a now.

In three years Ecks had not mastered this method of contemplation. Always in the background there were grunts and cries, words of anger, and the sense of a journey or path in anything he saw.

When he complained to his sponsor, the thief Sarah Jones, she said, “Frank says that the attempt to forget is all we can hope for.”

“But isn’t forgetting just like denying your sins?” Ecks asked Sarah.

“No,” she said. “It is the attempt to eradicate the foul long enough to realize a hope for change.”

The rectory was a smaller version of the church behind the high white stone walls that also surrounded the yard where the congregation supped after Expressions. The door was wooden, painted scarlet, with a brass knob and no bell or knocker.

This door was always unlocked but no one ever went there without an invitation, so Xavier pushed it open and walked straight in.

There was a huge, shatterproof window on the wall opposite the entrance; through this portal bright sunlight shone. There was no desk or sofa only a plain maple table and a single mattress, covered by a military blanket, on the floor under the window. Across from the simple bedding stood a dull metal rack that held a dozen pine folding chairs.

Frank had set out three chairs. He and the caramel-colored woman sat in two of the seats, while a third sat empty, waiting for Xavier.

“Brother Noland,” Father Frank hailed.

This greeting told Xavier Rule that his true identity was not to be shared with Frank’s guest.

“Sir.”

“This is Benol Richards.”

She smiled and nodded. The first thing Xavier noticed about her was that she was older than she seemed at a distance—around forty, more or less.

Xavier crossed the room and lowered onto the empty folding chair.

“Ms. Richards,” he said.

“You can call me Benol,” she said, “or even Bennie.”

“Odd name.”

“My mother made it up. She told me that it came to her in a dream, and since my father wasn’t around she decided to call me that.”

“What had your father wanted to call you?” Xavier asked.

Both Frank and Benol smiled.

“No one has ever asked me that,” she said.

“Benol has come to us for redemption,” Frank said.

Xavier turned to his pastor, an immediate question etched on his dark and brutal face. There was a gash under his right cheekbone that looked like a canyon across an onyx plain.

Father Frank was missing two front teeth, one upper and one lower. These gaps were presented with his grin.

“Benol,” Frank said.

“Yes?”

“Would you please step outside for a little while? If you sit at one of the stone tables someone will come out to feed you.”

“But I thought this man could help me.”

“I said that I would ask him, but we have to speak privately before he can decide.”

Despite her age Benol exuded a youthful beauty: brash, or maybe fearless in some way—like an adolescent. Xavier could see all this. She didn’t like the idea of being pushed out, but there was no gainsaying Frank’s words in his own house.

She nodded at the self-ordained cleric, glanced at Xavier, paused a moment before rising, then walked slowly toward and finally out of the unlocked door.

“Whoa,” Xavier said when she was gone.

“Beautiful woman,” Frank added.

“Yeah,” the Parishioner agreed. “Like an adder or rattlesnake.”

“She liked you.”

“Hawks like rabbits. Cats like soft sand.”

“Mr. Rule,” Frank said.

Xavier realized that he was still staring at the scarlet door and turned back to the minister.

“Yes, sir.”

“What did you think of her beyond the threat?”

“I thought that you told me that we don’t deal in redemption here.”

“She is asking for redemption,” Frank said easily. “I didn’t offer it.”

“You never mention the Lord’s name in your sermons,” Xavier said.

In between the three private meetings a year, the Harlem gangster was hungry for knowledge about the man and his words. He didn’t care about Benol Richards—not yet.

For a moment it seemed as if Frank would not answer, but then he raised his eyebrows and sighed.

“Words are divine but they are also traps,” he said. “Rabbit and snake, good and evil. These are mere cages for things we know precious little about. Either we feel heat or pain, or glimpse a fleeting shadow, detect a scent coming from some unknown corner. We use words to capture meaning, but the Infinite will not be trapped or captured, seen or smelled. It defies our senses and values. It cannot be imprisoned, incarcerated, or otherwise locked up inside our minds—it can’t be locked out either.”

“People have been using the word God since before they could write,” Xavier argued softly.

“And look at the world,” Frank said, showing his missing teeth again. “Dynamite is a great tool. It can move mountains, but you don’t put it in the hands of children. The truth will set you free; everyone knows that, but try as they might the right words rarely come out.”

“But—”

“Xavier,” Frank said, “are you going to require a sermon of me for this meeting?”

“No, sir.” Xavier lowered his head and smiled.

“You come here of your own free will.”

“I do.”

“You pay nothing, are asked for nothing, are never judged.”

“No, sir, I do not and am not.”

“And all I want from you now is the answer to a question.”

“I understand.”

“Benol Richards was referred to me by a friend in Miami,” Frank said. “Benol’s mother died when she was eight and then, for years, she was thrown from one foster home to another. She was an angry child and so never fit in.

“When she was twelve, an uncle found her and brought her to live with him and his wife in Southern California. They ran a nursery out of their home and took in small children and infants.”

At this point Frank stopped and stared at his parishioner.

Xavier, for his part, looked up.

“A few years later she kidnapped and sold three babies,” Frank continued. “Took them for her boyfriend and then ran with him up to San Francisco. He left her when the money was gone, and she spiraled back down to Florida.

“All of that is true. She says that she had a sudden awakening in my friend’s mission down in Miami. She confessed her crimes and came up to California to find the people she harmed. She’s gathered as much information as she could and called my friend to ask if she could help. Theodora in turn called me. I met with Benol on Wednesday and now I’m speaking to you.”

“I deliver newspapers now, Father Frank.”

“Print,” the clergyman replied with laserlike emphasis. “Not blank pages. Not false promises. You deliver people an attempt at truth. You are a part of that attempt.”

“I wake up at three in the morning, pick up the kids that work for me, and then go down in a truck to the distribution center to wrap and then deliver. I go to bed at seven after dinner I cook on a hot plate.”

The two men stared at each other for nearly a minute.

Finally Frank spoke. “Will you go out for me and tell Benol that we cannot help her?”

“You could ask somebody else to help.”

“I asked you.”

“But she came to you.”

“And I brought you in.”

“It hasn’t been that long since I’ve been out of the Life, Frank. I don’t know what’ll happen if I get into some nasty shit out there.”

“This building is not a refuge, Xavier,” Father Frank said softly. “It is a trajectory from one kind of life to another.”

“I know that. I know I got to prove to myself that I don’t have to be what I was. But I feel like I need a little more time.”

“Fine,” the minister intoned. “Tell Benol that.”

“Okay,” Xavier said. “I’ll tell her.”

Frank smiled and held out a hand.

After shaking, Xavier stood up. He glimpsed the ocean out of the picture window and smiled.

“It’s a spectacular sight, no?” Frank commented.

“It is.”

“I love it because the waves and sky are always in motion, always changing. But even if they were to freeze into one gesture there aren’t enough lifetimes for a single man to see it all. There’s joy in our limitations, Xavier. We, all of us, only do what we can.”

The members of the congregation had completed their Expressions and were now seated at the twelve white-stone tables, on white-stone benches, eating barbecue and potato salad, corn on the cob and broccoli.

There were ribs and fish, burgers and chicken coming from the kitchens, carried by four silent men and women who wore saffron robes.

Benol was seated at a table talking to Iridia Gallo, a woman of East Indian and Mexican descent. Iridia too was near forty, also well preserved. She had been running cons on rich men around the world since she was sixteen. She left behind her a trail of murders and suicides, jail terms and uncounted broken hearts. Her understanding of human nature was deft and merciless.

If a man wanted to bleed for me I let him bleed, she once said in cell fourteen during Expressions. If he felt unworthy I relieved him of the burden of grace.

Now she lived in a mountain aerie raising long-haired sheep and looking after the grandchildren of a man she’d destroyed. She had a young lover named Colt Chapman and washed his feet every night before leading him to their bed.

“Hello, Ecks,” Iridia said. “Have a seat.”

Han Burkholter, the baby-faced bank robber, shifted over to make room for Xavier. Han had a deep tan and wore bright-colored beach shorts with a purple T-shirt. Iridia dressed in wraparound robes of silk that were composed of two sheets, one sea green and the other a buttery yellow. Xavier’s church wear was, as always, a black suit and a red shirt, black tie, and blunt-toed black leather shoes.

He nodded to the bank robber and stepped in next to Iridia, one body away from Benol.

“How’s it going?” Iridia asked.

“You lookin’ good today, Sister Ire.”

“Yes,” she said, never one for false modesty.

“How’s Chapman?”

“He’s taking taxidermy classes down in LA.”

“That’s strange.”

“Chapman likes to hunt … animals,” she said with a sharp smile. “I was talking to your friend. She seems very nice.”

Benol was staring at the man she knew as Noland; he could feel the intensity of her gaze.

“I’m sorry, Ire, but I have to talk to Ms. Jones for a few minutes.”

Xavier rose and Benol did too. He led her away from the gathering to a stairway carved into the thick white wall. Together they climbed to the top of the rampart, fenced in by a seven-foot clear plastic barrier that overlooked the ocean.

“I’m sorry, ma’am,” Xavier said when they were standing next to the glasslike wall. “I’m a newspaper deliveryman nowadays. I don’t know how to do what you and Frank want.”

He expected some disappointment in her mien, at least that. But Benol simply looked at him, listening closely to his words even after they had been spoken. There were two freckles under her right eye, and her skin up close looked like blended rose and yellow-gold. Her irises were medium brown but deep, and her hair was curly with two dreads, one on the left side above the ear and another coming down the front on the right. These worry braids made Xavier think that Richards didn’t always wear her Sunday dress.

“Do you have children?” Benol asked after long consideration.

Xavier winced and immediately regretted it, like a boxer having just shown a weak spot in an early round.

He considered answering but worried that he was outmatched.

“You could at least talk to me,” Benol said.

“I can’t do it.”

“Do you have a child?”

Her name was Dorothy and she came from a respected Harlem clan. She had light brown skin with dark golden hair and eyes that were the color of walnut shell. Xavier met her at a party where he had delivered the cocaine. They fell into a passion that they both hoped would deliver them. But after the baby, Roderick, was born they went into different orbits contained within the same four walls.

He couldn’t remember the name of the woman he had spent the night with. Maybe he never knew her name. But when Dorothy confronted him the next morning, he beat her with an electric cord—that memory was etched on his mind: the welts on her light skin, the emptiness of their apartment when he returned after three nights of drinking and whoring.

The past is gone, Father Frank said at least once a month. You can’t let go because it is already gone. You have to look forward, for an opening that will allow the illusion of the past to fade.

“You’re no newspaper boy, Mr. Rule,” Benol said when he failed to answer her question. “I need help and Father Frank brought me to you.”

Not for the first time Xavier regretted his conversion to the white stone church on the hill. Before Frank and the assembly of sinners he was his own man for better and worse. No one ever defied his wishes except by force. And even then they could break his bones but not his will. They could lock him in a dark cell, refuse him water or a toilet, but Xavier had always hung tough and been his own man. Always.

“Tell me about your crime, Ms. Richards.”

“You can call me Bennie,” she said. “All my friends do.”

“We aren’t friends yet.”

She accepted the rebuke with a slight nod.

“I was living at my uncle Clay Berber’s house in Pasadena,” she said, falling right into a story that had been told many times. “His wife, Rose, ran a child-care center there. I was fifteen, in high school, and I guess I was a little wild.”

“You guess?”

“I was. You know we did drugs and had sex a lot. I went to adult parties because I looked old enough for the men there. That’s where I met Brayton.”

“Who’s that?”

“Frank didn’t tell you anything about me?” she asked.

“I want to hear it from you.”

“He was a thief and the lover of this older lady—Beatrix Darvonia. I met him at a party my girlfriend brought me to, and he told me all about how he was a burglar. He said that he only went with Beatrix to meet her rich Pasadena friends and rob them. He said that she even knew about it but that he was so good to her in the bed that she didn’t know how to stop.”

“And what about you?” Xavier asked.

“I didn’t wanna stop either. Brayton would bring me right up in Beatrix’s house and sleep with me in the guest room. And sometimes he’d take me out on his burglaries. I loved him like Mary Magdalene loved Jesus. His hair was black with this shock of white right over his forehead.”

The sneer on Benol’s face held a passion that Xavier could feel.

“And what did he offer you?”

The amber-colored woman’s body shook involuntarily and she was brought back to the rampart.

“He said that the greatest theft was stealing babies and selling them on the black market. He said that all kindsa people wanted to buy children for all kindsa reasons. He said that if I could help him steal a child from my aunt and uncle, we could be rich and live in a town house in San Francisco.”

“I didn’t know that there was such a high price on black babies.”

“My aunt and uncle are white,” she said. “They’re on my stepfather’s side of the family. Brayton chose the children because they were all blonds with blue eyes.”

“So you stole three babies for him?”

“He did it. He came over one afternoon in a lemon van when my aunt left the kids with me and we drove over to this house in Culver City and gave them to an old woman. She paid us forty-two thousand dollars.”

“That’s a lot of money.”

“Brayton told me that the woman had rich clients,” Benol said, suddenly defensive.

“Do you remember the address?”

“That was twenty-three years ago.”

“What do you remember about the house?” Xavier asked.

Crooks make the best detectives, he had once told Father Frank. We have no police department, no nine-one-one. If something gets stolen or a loved one is attacked we have to solve the crime, track down the culprit, and arrive at our own justice. At that moment, with Benol Richards on the rampart, he regretted this claim.

“It was big and brown, two stories or maybe three, with a green yard that wrapped around both streets,” Benol said. “It was right there on a corner that had all four stoplights hanging together at the middle of the intersection. I remember that.”

“What was Brayton’s last name?”

“He called himself Starmon, Brayton Starmon, but his real name was Welch. I know because one night when he was sleeping I looked in a waterproof pouch he kept in this sack that he always had close by. He had his birth certificate in there and a picture of his mother, Martha Welch.”

Xavier turned his back to the ocean and leaned against the plastic barrier. In the courtyard below he could see the villains he prayed with. They were talking and eating, drinking and meditating. Father Frank moved among them giving good tidings and asking after their lives. Xavier thought the church was like a prison that worked on the honor system. You were free to repent, but always as an inmate serving a life sentence, with Father Frank as both warden and confessor.

“Have you tried to find him?” Xavier asked.

“I tried the Internet and then hired this private detective,” she said, and then shrugged. “No Brayton anywhere.”

“You sure the woman was in Culver City? The one you sold the babies to.”

“Brayton did it.”

“Did you let him into your uncle’s house?”

She glared.

“Did you?”

She nodded ever so slightly.

“Did you go with him in the yellow van carrying at least one baby in your arms?”

“I was fifteen.”

“Are you sure the woman was in Culver City?” Xavier asked again.

“Yes. I don’t remember the street name, but it was on a corner and the cross street was called a boulevard.”

“See? Confession is not only good for the soul; it also helps your memory. Do you remember the old woman’s name?”

“Sedra, Bray called her Sedra.”

Hearing the endearment, the shortened form of Brayton’s name, Xavier had the sudden urge to slap the woman.

Whenever you feel the inclination to revert to your old ways, Frank had once advised the assembly, try to remember that there is a reason—and reason is the answer.

“Sedra what?”

“He never used her last name.”

Xavier had once kidnapped a child, a young girl who was the daughter of a competitor from East New York. This man, Lolly Centrell, controlled a distribution house that Rule wanted and so he took Lolly’s thirteen-year-old daughter, Bridgette, and let it be known that she would suffer before he killed her if Lolly didn’t pass control over to him.

Even now in this reverie Ecks didn’t know whether he would have hurt the girl or not. He didn’t have to worry, though. When Lolly refused to deal, Bridgette’s mother shot him in the head, solving Xavier’s problem and freeing Bridgette.

“What did you do after you sold the children?” Xavier asked.

“Bray took me to San Francisco and we lived in this house in the city that looked down on the bay. He took me to dinner and out dancing every night and showed me that I didn’t have the slightest idea what it was like to love a man. He would talk to me while we made love and it nearly drove me out of my mind.”

“And then?”

“Four, five months later he just didn’t come home. We were running low on money and he started burgling again. He went out one night to break into this camera store and didn’t come back.

“He’d been asking me to get a job at a day-care center. He said that we could grab some more children and sell them to Sedra. But even way back then I felt guilty about what I had done. I couldn’t even imagine doing it again.”

Benol was looking out over the ocean, grimacing at her semitransparent reflection in the clear plastic barrier.

“How do you live?” Xavier asked.

“You mean because of what I did?”

“No. How do you pay the rent?”

“I work.”

“At what?”

“I’m a receptionist for a talent company in Santa Monica.”

“How much they pay you for that?”

“Why?”

“Are you going to answer me or do I walk away right here, right now?”

“Thirteen dollars an hour,” she said. “That and overtime. I’m just doing it until I find those boys.”

“And why would you want to do that?”

“Because it was wrong.”

“It’s been wrong for twenty-three years. Why look for them now?”

“I came to stay at Theodora Martino’s shelter in South Miami. She had a storefront church and a shelter. One night I … I went to her office and told her what I’d done. She didn’t judge me or anything like that. She just said that I had to make amends. After a while I realized that she was right, that the only thing that mattered was to … to try and make up for what I did. I came here to put things right. I still know the names of the parents. I owe them something. When the detective didn’t work out, I called Theodora. That’s when she told me about Father Frank.”

Xavier wondered about the caramel woman in the blue dress—about her worry dreads and sudden repentance. The truth was rarely as neat as it seemed in words. But who was he to say? Frank was his spiritual guide and therefore had to be trusted.

“I want you to write down everything that you’ve done and that has to do with those children,” he said. “Brayton’s names, anything about this Sedra woman, the detective you hired … everything. Bring them to my place in LA.” He brought out an eel-skin wallet and produced a simple business card. “That’s my address and phone. I need it all before tomorrow morning. I go to sleep very early, so you don’t have to knock; just slide it under the door.”

“I don’t really want to write it down. I mean …”

“You trust this Theodora?”

“Yes.”

“And does she trust Frank?”

“Completely.”

“I will destroy the file when I’m through with it. You got my word on that.”

Xavier drove a restored Ford Edsel. It was salmon pink and lime green, edged in chrome. He leaned against the front hood in the parking lot and waited until Iridia came out. She saw him standing there and walked his way, her yellow and green silk robes hissing like the scale-over-scale rub of a coiling snake.

“Ecks,” she said, approaching him demurely.

“Ire.”

“Did you want something?”

“What did you think of Ms. Richards?” Xavier Rule asked.

She gazed into his eyes. Her skin was the color of red earth that had been lovingly smoothed and then burnished to a medium glow. Xavier knew that the longer he looked at her the more beautiful she would become—like some dispassionate Hindu deity that would take your soul from reflex without the slightest enmity. Over her shoulder he could see a fire red pickup truck pulling into the parking lot.

“She was guarded,” Iridia Gallo said. “If it was the old days I’d either let her alone or make sure that she was on my side.”

“She on the con?”

“Some of us are always working,” Iridia said with a brilliant smile. “It’s like being an alcoholic or under a nature bequeathed by God.”

The truck pulled up next to Xavier’s fancy two-toned-and-chrome car. A tall white man with big muscles under a red-and-cream-checkered shirt leaped out from the driver’s side.

Xavier and Iridia ignored him.

“You believe in God?” Xavier asked. His voice was neutral but there was sharpness to his eye.

“I didn’t before I met Frank.”

“You think Frank believes in God?”

“It doesn’t matter what he believes in.”

The powerful young man walked up and put his arm around the woman.

“Hey, Ecks,” Colt Chapman said.

“Why not?” Xavier asked Iridia.

“Niagara Falls doesn’t believe in electricity but those dynamos run twenty-four hours a day.”

“Chapman,” Xavier said in greeting. “Just getting a professional reading from your girlfriend.”

“We’re engaged,” the russet-haired white man said, trying his best to make the words sound like a threat.

Xavier smiled and said, “Congratulations.”

“Come on, baby,” Iridia said. “Let me take you home and rub your feet.”

“It’s only four,” Chapman said, his tanned face turning from the dark gangster.

“It was a good sermon,” the courtesan replied.

She climbed into the driver’s side and over to the passenger’s seat. Her young lover followed, proving somehow the words of destiny that Father Frank drummed into the congregation week in and week out.

After the unlikely pair had driven off, Xavier wondered whether he should go back into the church and search out the pastor. He considered this action for long minutes, finally realizing that if Frank wanted to tell him something more, he would. The minister was not shy or half-assed.

Xavier lived in a small studio on Flower Street between Olympic and Ninth. The building was old and brown, seven stories, and out of place like an octogenarian that had outlived her family and now made do living among strangers. The elevator had stopped working years before but he didn’t mind. He liked the walk up to the top floor and didn’t know any of his neighbors. He had a hot plate and an aluminum sink, linoleum floors and a small window with a view of the alley where his thirty-year-old, wood-paneled delivery truck was parked. The door that led to his utility toilet, with its jury-rigged shower stall, was opposite his single bed.

Xavier had no television, BlackBerry, or electronic music player. He had a laptop computer that was mostly used for correspondence courses, a cell phone that could do a few tricks, and two custom-made Afghani handguns that could slip into any pocket and fire fourteen shots.

His license read, Egbert Noland, and there was a passport under the name Ryan Adonitello. He most often went by Ecks but never explained when asked where the nickname came from.

At Frank’s behest Ecks had enrolled in the Southern Minnesota Correspondence University studying religion and literature. He spent the first year online getting his GED, realized that he liked doing homework, and continued his studies with no clear intention of getting a degree.

He read books in his spare time, perused the LA and New York Times most mornings after delivering papers. Afternoons he meditated for an hour and then walked three miles to the YMCA, where he exercised, swam, and then worked out in the boxing gym.

That was his schedule six days a week, but on Sundays he limited himself to delivering newspapers, driving his Edsel up north to church, and then sitting on his straight-backed hardwood chair to think about the things he had done wrong. This he found much easier than forgetting.

That particular Sunday he thought about a group of young thugs who called themselves the Easties. This gang wanted to take over the girls down around the Meatpacking District and make them hand over Xavier’s percentage.

The Easties didn’t come from the Lower East Side, or East New York, and the girls of the Meatpacking District weren’t really girls. But Xavier and his main man Swan killed Tommy Tom and Juju Bean on a side street that smelled of rotting meat. The executions occurred at three in the morning so that all the late-night sex workers down there could see who was in charge.

Juju Bean had called for his mother, before Swan, on Xavier’s order, had cut his throat.

“Mother!” he shouted—not Mama or Mom.

Ecks sat at his multipurpose kitchen table wondering what the execution of Juju Bean had to do with Benol. After an hour or so of trying to get the incongruous puzzle pieces into some proximity, he shook his head and went about his Sabbath routine.

Sunday dinner was cornflakes and skim milk followed by a can of sardines in virgin olive oil topped with slices of raw onion and sweet balsamic vinegar. He ate slowly while paging through LA’s and New York’s Sunday papers.

Xavier saw the manila folder sliding under his door but he didn’t go to see whether it was Benol through the viewer in the wall. Neither did he retrieve the file immediately. Instead he thought, once again, about Juju’s blood under his bone-colored shoes and Tommy Tom’s brains coming out of the bullet hole over his left eye.

Neither he nor Swan was ever even questioned about those murders. The authorities were relieved that the Easties, who were a threat to civilians, had been kept at bay by the more conservative and predictable duo.

The knock at the door, maybe forty-five minutes after the folder slid through, was a surprise. Xavier went to the wall eighteen inches to the right of the door and removed a paper calendar hanging there. Behind the calendar was a small screen connected to an invisible electric eye over the door.

She was wearing a little black dress.

“Hey, Ire,” Ecks said upon opening the door. He looked both ways but the dim hallway was empty.

“Can I come in?” she asked. In her left hand she carried a small, test tube–like vase that contained a single iris.

“Is this a visit?”

When she didn’t answer he stepped aside and she walked past, going directly to his yellow table and placing the vase and its purple flower dead center.

The table was set under the window that looked down on the dark alley. The sun had gone down but the sky was aglow with electric light shining from tall buildings just out of sight.

Iridia and Xavier sat across from each other. He had served her sour mash whiskey and taken a Mexican beer for himself.

“Are you doing a job for Frank?” she asked. “One of his special jobs?”

“That’s a question you’d do better to ask him.”

“I work for him now and then,” she said. “I’ve gone as far as Hong Kong and Mumbai.”

Xavier sipped his beer and sniffed. He was bothered by her visiting so soon after his memories of murder. The scent of one seemed to rub off on the other.

“I’ve never seen you not wearing robes,” he said.

“You only know me as a church lady.”

“I’ve seen you outside church.”

Iridia smiled and let her head lean to the right as Father Frank often did.

“Why haven’t you asked to have sex with me, Ecks?”

“You got Chapman.”

“That has nothing to do with us.”

“Us?”

“The congregation,” she said, “is like a hill clan. No matter what we do or how far we go, we always know the special smell of our sweat.”

Again Ecks was reminded of the odor of rotted meat and the dead men.

“What are you doing here, Ire?”

“You were waiting for me after the service.”

“I wanted your opinion. You gave it to me.”

“You wanted more than that.”

“You got Chapman.”

Iridia smiled and reached across the table to touch his dark killer’s hand. He remained still. She stood and moved over to sit on his lap.

“You need this, Ecks,” she said. “You need this if you’re going out to work for Frank for the first time.”

“What do you mean by that?”

She kissed his lips lightly.

“You’re fairly new to the congregation,” she whispered. “Frank’s sermons are only the beginning. We are his Bible and he studies us like a religious scholar analyzing scriptures. But it’s not just that. When he sends us out it’s not only for the obvious. He’s also teaching us something, folding our pasts up into who we are becoming.”

“I don’t know what you mean, Ire.”

“The first man I destroyed,” she said, undoing one button and slipping her hand in against the skin of his chest, “was a billionaire from Oregon. He was young and very innocent. When I was through with him he had killed a man in Seattle, and it took a big bite out of his father’s fortune to keep him from going to prison.

“When Father Frank sent me to Hong Kong I had no idea that my first victim now traded in sex slaves. His demolition, as Frank says, had been complete, and it was my job to destroy him again.”

“You saved the women,” Xavier said.

“And children,” she added, “from a monster that I created.”

She gave Xavier’s erect nipple a hard pinch.

“So you’re telling me you believe we’re Frank’s living scriptures?” he managed to say.

“Come fuck me, Ecks, and I’ll tell you more.”

“I don’t want to have to hurt Chapman,” he said. This his last line of defense.

“I gave him some of my special tea. He won’t wake until morning. By that time I’ll be sleeping peacefully by his side.”

When Xavier woke at three in the morning she was already gone, but the words she’d shed in his ear were still there—loud and clear.

She told him about the missions Frank had orchestrated and the tolls paid by his parishioners.

“So you think that I’m connected to Benol in some way?” Xavier asked in between their second and third ruts.

“Not necessarily,” she cooed. “Sometimes the missions are metaphors for the missionaries.”

Iridia knew how to get a man excited and keep him that way. In the dark of morning, while Xavier drove his truck down to pick up his young paper delivery staff, he still felt the physical sensations.

“Why didn’t anybody else tell me about this?” he asked her as they drifted on the aftermath of passion, leaving the border of obsession.

“Less humility and more humiliation keeps us quiet. Frank doesn’t give you a mission until he thinks you’re ready to face yourself. The Sunday sermons are like boot camp. But when he sends you out on a job, that’s a one-man war. And when a soldier comes home from battle she doesn’t want to talk about it.”

Forty-seven hundred newspapers filled the canvas-covered back of Xavier’s oversize pickup truck. Inside Damien, Carlo, and Angelique folded and wrapped, threw and carried the papers and special insert advertisements up and down the blocks of Xavier’s district. The kids were all fifteen years old, making thirty dollars a day. They worked from approximately four forty-five until eight fifteen, seven days a week.

After dropping them off at their school, Xavier went to Lon’s Diner on Grand for breakfast and the first reading of Benol Richards’s file.

He read the seven sheets of legal-size yellow, lined pages from front to back. There were no surprises: the names of the victims and their parents, the private detective, Lou Baer-Bond, and the places where the crimes occurred.

The parents of the kidnapped boys were the Van Dams, the Tarvos, and the Charleses.

While he read he remembered Iridia in his bed. There was a scent to her that he knew like his own sweat.

“Did Frank send you here?” he asked just before sleep.

“He didn’t tell me or ask me to come,” she said. “But whether he sent me or not I can’t say.”

“I don’t think you should come here anymore after this,” Xavier said.

“I don’t think I’ll need to.”

Lou Baer-Bond’s office was on Olympic a little east of La Brea. It was the last office down a drab hall on the third floor above a D-Right Drugstore.

Ecks stopped at the door. Black lettering painted on the opaque, wire-laced glass read, Lou Baer-Bond, Discreet Private Investigations. Rule wondered at the use of the word discreet. It rhymed with sweet but had the feeling of decay to it.

After a moment of empty contemplation he knocked.

“Come on in,” a medium tenor called.

It was a janitor’s closet with a desk instead of a sink, and a dirty window in place of a pegboard. Not enough room for a couple to practice a two-step waltz under a ceiling that was a foot too low for Xavier’s comfort.

Behind the desk sat a white man who was in the process of turning gray. His hair was salt-and-pepper, and any élan that he was born with had drained out of his face and hands. Maybe fifty, maybe more, he looked up through light blue eyes wondering about the black man with the deep gash under his right cheekbone.

“Yes?”

“You the man on the door?”

“Can I help you?”

“I come here for my cousin,” Ecks said, falling into the speech pattern of an earlier life.

“Why couldn’t he come himself?” Lou asked. His suit was loose and also gray but darker and more solid than his skin and eyes. This brought to Xavier’s mind a ghost trying hard to pass for human.

“Can I sit?”

“You plan to stay awhile?”

“Benol Richards,” Xavier said, positioning the visitor’s chair.

The seat was made from curved chrome piping around a stained red cushion. Rule was wearing a light lime suit and a chocolate brown shirt. He worried that the chair might impart some of its soil to his trousers but sat anyway.

“That’s over,” Lou Baer-Bond said, maybe just a bit too quickly.

Looking around the desktop, Xavier noted a pink ashtray in the form of a nude woman with its six crushed-out cigarette butts and a burned-out book of matches, a paper plate with a half-eaten chili-cheese dog, fries, and a bottle of Pepto-Bismol standing guard from the rear.

“She didn’t believe that you gave her absolutely everything you had and wanted me to come by and get it.”

“Get what?”

“Benol said that you told her that you didn’t find anything about Brayton.”

“Yes. That’s what I said. That’s the truth.”

The discreet truth, Xavier thought.

“Understand me,” the Parishioner said. “I’m not blaming you. Maybe Bennie wasn’t completely truthful for her part.”

“What’s your name?” the detective asked.

“Noland.”

“Noland what?”

“Egbert Noland, but I go by my last name.”

“And you say you’re Miss Richards’s cousin?”

“Second cousin, once removed.”

“How’d you get that crack under your eye, Noland?” Baer-Bond asked.

Xavier wondered whether he was trying to show that he was a tough guy who wasn’t afraid of a scary-looking black man crowded into the janitor’s closet—with the door closed.

“Brayton stole Benol’s car,” Xavier said. “She’s kind of a free spirit, you know. Moves around a lot. So the car is sometimes her bedroom, sometimes her safe-deposit box.”

Xavier didn’t think that Lou meant to raise his salt-and-pepper eyebrows. He might not even have been aware that he had done so.

“She looked pretty solid,” the detective said.

“Her car looks like a car.”

“What are we talking about here, Egbert?”

“I don’t know, Lou. That depends on what you got to say.”

“Maybe,” the detective said. “Maybe Brayton has disposed of the vehicle. Maybe he’s cracked the safe.”

“There’s a trick to the hiding place,” Xavier said, “and if he got rid of the car we’d like to know where he did that, and to whom it went.”

“Whom? You’ve read a book, Mr. Noland.”

“Yeah. Studied my letters in downtime. Now … do you have anything to say to me?”

“I’ve already told your cousin …”

Xavier stood up, pushing the red chair away with the backs of his knees.

“But …” Baer-Bond said hastily. “But I might have abbreviated my report. Who’s to say that I didn’t come across a guy who knew a guy who heard something somewhere? Not enough to give as fact but more like a whisper or a hint.”

“And why would you keep Benol in the dark when she was paying you?”

“The lead didn’t go anywhere. I told your cousin that if she wanted to put me on a retainer I’d nose around. But I think she thought I was trying to play her. So she paid me my three hundred and I put the whole thing out of my mind.”

Xavier was beginning to have fun. He liked sparring with the gray man behind the dented pine desk. It almost felt social.

The Parishioner repositioned the chair, sat down again.

“Okay, Lou, here’s what it is. Benol has had her car stolen by this Brayton guy. There’s some money involved.”

“I don’t remember the particulars of the case off the top of my head,” the fleshy detective said. “There’s not much room in here, and so when I finish with a job I file it in my garage.”

“You could look it over after work,” Ecks suggested.

“And why would I bother?”

“If you can prove to me that you have a lead on him, and if you give me that lead, I will pay you six hundred dollars and you can buy more cigarettes and chili dogs.”

“What kind of lead?”

“You know better than I do, man. Here’s my card. Call me if you think of something.”

Xavier gave the PI a special card imprinted only with his cell phone number.

“There’s no name on this card.”

“You know my name already.”

“I don’t think I’ll have anything for you.”

“If you do there’s six hundred dollars in it.”

The detective pursed his lips, again probably unconsciously.

Marilee Pepper worked the sixth-floor research center at the main branch of the LA Public Library. Sixty years old, she was at the zenith of her abilities by Xavier’s estimation. Tall, six one, and white like antique ivory, she was all the way gray and serious about her work. Xavier had met her while researching jobs in the Los Angeles labor market. That was when he had just arrived in LA; seventy-two hours or so after he and Swan had slaughtered Marquis Bertrand.

“Hello, Mr. Noland,” Marilee said. She even smiled, a little.

“Ms. Pepper.”

“It’s such a beautiful day, isn’t it?”

“Every day is beautiful in paradise.”

They always shared the same words of greeting. It was like the delivery of passwords under cover of darkness during a bloody civil war.

“How can I help you?” the librarian asked.

Xavier didn’t know exactly where the schematics were stored or how to read them if he had. But Ms. Pepper could call up the right blueprints and maps that would reveal the corner where, twenty-three years ago, there was a suspended stoplight that worked at the intersection of two streets, at least one of which was a boulevard, in Culver City.

“How’s Mr. Matthews?” Xavier asked, while Ms. Pepper studied the computer screen on the desk before her.

The severe librarian had a soft spot.

“He had to have an operation.”

“What was wrong?”

“A growth in his abdomen. They said that the only way to tell if it was benign or not was to get it out.”

“How did he do?” the once heartless gangster asked.

Remember kindness and repeat it, Father Frank had preached. It doesn’t matter if it feels unnatural or forced. Goodness sets its own table.

“He’s doing just fine. For the first week he tried like heck to scratch off the bandages but I’d hold him and we finally made it through. It was my first vacation from work in thirty-one years.”

“That calico has nine lives and you are every one.”

Marilee Pepper looked up gratefully. Her hard, white, and oval face was brightened by the glow of the computer screen and sentiment.

“There are four possible intersections,” she said. “Twenty-three years ago four-way signals were in some use. I’ll print out the cross streets.”

“I really appreciate this, Ms. Pepper.”

“As do I,” she replied.

Ecks tried two of the intersections before pulling up to the curb on Lancaster Avenue where it met Kasidis Boulevard.

There was no individual house standing on the corner of the first two cross streets. If the baby trafficker’s home had been at any one of those intersections it was now rubble underneath an ugly, rectangular apartment building.

He sat in his car by the curb wondering about architecture and the way planners named streets in Los Angeles County. Avenue and boulevard were big names for such small side streets. He couldn’t quite make out why there was a stoplight there at all. It must have been, he thought, management for the larger streets and people taking shortcuts through the neighborhood. Or maybe a child had been run over and a neighborhood group had pressured the local political machine.

There was very little traffic at that time of day: little traffic, three gaudy apartment buildings, and a solitary house the lawn of which arched from one avenue onto the other boulevard.

The stucco apartment buildings had all been built in the last twenty-three years; Xavier was pretty sure of that. They were cheap but not yet dilapidated, like so much of LA that was not Hollywood, Beverly Hills, or one of the other neighborhoods colonized by the rich and the pretenders to wealth.

The one house was older but dark blue, not brown as Benol had remembered. However, paint was inexpensive and its reapplication necessary under the constant glare of sunlight on the Southern California desert landscape.

Twenty-three years. What was he doing there? Why had Father Frank set him on this path?

The rapping on his window testified to his distraction. Back in the day, in Harlem, no one could have come up on him unawares like that.

The white policeman had tapped the glass with his nightstick.

Xavier smiled out of reflex as the cop moved his hand and fingers in a circular motion, indicating that he wanted the window to come down. The displaced Harlemite complied.

“Afternoon, Officer.”

“Step out of the car, please.”

The pistol was in a hidden pouch under the driver’s seat, and so Xavier felt comfortable getting up and out of his vintage car. To the left stood the young policeman’s partner, a milk chocolate black man with steady eyes and no hint of humor.

“License,” the white cop said.

They stopped him because he was a black man sitting in a parked car at an intersection where he obviously did not belong. Once he emerged there was even more fuel for their suspicions—much more. The brown shirt and lime suit were bad enough, but his shoes were the color of mottled grapefruits—there were very few professions that wore this uniform, and most of those were illegal.

Xavier handed over his California license and smiled.

The black cop scowled while the white one read.

Rule noticed that there was an angry pimple on the left side of the white policeman’s neck. Half the diameter of a dime, it had a yellowish eye that seemed about to explode.

“What are you doing here, Mr. Noland?”

“Deacon.”

“Say what?”

“Deacon Noland of the Interfaith Church of Redemption.” He plucked a blue business card from his breast pocket and handed it to the policeman.

All ninety-six parishioners were deacons. They were given cards with the private line of the church across the bottom. During business hours, and at most other times, there was a secretary named Clyde Pewtersworth who would happily answer any questions about the cardholder.

Xavier smiled. The only legal profession that allowed him to dress like he did in the old days was deacon. He could see that thought come up in the policeman’s eyes.

“What are you doing here … sir?”

“On a mission. One of our members’ father is sick and he’s been asking for his sister—a Miss Sedra Martin. He remembered that she lived in a house at this crossroads here. I’ve come to see if I could find her and let her know about her brother’s condition.”

“Seabreeze City,” the policeman said. “I’ve never heard of it before.”

“Small town just a little north of Ventura.”

He was racking up points against the impromptu investigation. A deacon from up north named Egbert. This was all he needed—almost.

“Why were you sitting in your car?” the cop asked, handing back the card.

“I just drove up, Officer. The information I had was that there was a house on every corner and that Ms. Martin lived in a brown one. As you can see, the only house here is blue. When I saw what I was faced with I took a moment out to pray that a brown home had been painted blue. I find that prayer often helps.”

The policeman moved half a step to his left and put his hand on the front hood of the classic car. Xavier stopped himself from smiling. He knew that the hood would be warm, proving his story with no real proof.

The cop stared a moment more. No self-respecting law enforcement officer trusted a man in greenish yellow shoes, but the pieces seemed to fit.

“Sorry for the trouble, Deacon Noland. You have a nice day now.”

Crossing the street as the black-and-white cruiser drove off, Xavier thought about Benol. She was the kind of woman he would bed, but only in a hotel. She’d go through the drawers, closets, and elsewhere if she had the run of his home. And at her place he would have felt vulnerable to attack. A woman like that, he thought, could never be trusted.

On the other hand, he knew that if he had the opportunity to be with her that he would take that chance.

As he walked up the stairs of the front porch, he asked himself again why he was there.

The woman who answered the doorbell was younger than Sedra had been when she bought and sold blond children two decades before. She was slight and blond herself, dark blond with green eyes. She was no more than five feet and probably didn’t top a hundred pounds. Her white skin was healthy, not like Lou Baer-Bond’s doughy hide. She smiled at Xavier.

“Yes?”

“I’m looking for a woman named Sedra,” Xavier said easily, feeling once again the seductive seeming honesty of California.

“Sedra Landcombe?”

“That’s her.”

“What do you want with her?”

“I’m here for my cousin, Benol Richards. Twenty-three years ago she had some business dealings with Ms. Landcombe and a man named Welch. She—my cousin, that is—is looking for Welch and thinks that Ms. Landcombe might help.”

“What kind of business?” Even the young woman’s frown seemed friendly and inviting.

“I’m not completely sure. This Welch guy did the actual transactions. It might have been work for some kind of adoption agency.”

The frown deepened.

“And your name is?”

“Noland, Egbert Noland.”

“Why does your cousin want to speak to this man?”

“That’s a private matter that she hasn’t shared with me,” he lied. “But she’s a good woman. I can’t imagine that it’s anything too unpleasant.”

“Why didn’t she come herself?”

“Why are you asking so many questions?” Xavier said.

“Oh … excuse me. I don’t mean to be rude. My name is Doris Milne. I’m Sedra’s niece.”

“Benol is down in Miami. She called me from there and I agreed to look.”

“Come in, Mr. Noland.” Doris took a step backward, allowing Xavier to enter the foyer of the old house.

The walls were painted rose and the floor paved with golden tiles. There was a large healthy fern growing in one corner looming over a generously stuffed carmine chair.

“Have a seat, Mr. Noland,” Sedra Landcombe’s niece offered. “I’ll go see if my aunt can speak to you.”

An angry spasm wrenched through Xavier’s chest, reminding him again that he was a violent man, a killer without much remorse and less reason. He had often felt that it was this immediate willingness to fight and brutalize, more than any other trait, that made him a success in the old neighborhoods.

He reached out and touched the young woman’s shoulder. She turned her head to regard him.

“Thank you,” he said. “Make sure to tell her that it’s about someone involved in the adoption service.”

She smiled and went through a double-wide doorway toward her human-trafficker aunt.

Sitting up straight with his hands on his knees, Xavier went through his memory for the proper sermon.

We all have desires, inclinations, and compulsions, Frank had once lectured. This is our animal side, our innocence. But once we make these urges into reality we find that we are cast out. Why? Because we are animals but we are also human beings. These feelings that rise up in us are like the growl of a lion. We want and we take. But if you stand back a moment, if you learn to control the animal appetite in you, then the kingdom will open up and you will find deliverance.

Frank never mentioned God or his relatives. He talked about concepts and consequences—every now and then offering a religious metaphor.

Xavier didn’t understand what Frank had done to him on that late Wednesday morning in the dark bar where he had, only minutes before, considered murdering a woman over something he might have confessed to.

My name is Frank, he’d said, and I think I can help you.…

“Mr. Noland?”

Xavier didn’t want to break away from the reverie. He enjoyed remembering, counting the moments that led to a completely unexpected deliverance.

“Yes?” Xavier said.

“My aunt will see you in the yard.”

Doris Milne led Xavier through a sunken living room that was furnished with gaudy golden-colored wood and blue fabric furniture. The floor was wooly brown shag surrounded by walls hung with more than a dozen oils depicting differing types of flowers. There were rose, cactus blooms, and bird-of-paradise—pansies, poppies, and a spray of purple orchids that seemed as if it might sway if a breeze came along.

There was the feeling of corruption coming from every innocent detail of this large parlor. The Parishioner didn’t know whether this was because of the story he was given by Benol or a sixth sense he’d developed in a long career of bad men and women plying their trades without concern or remorse.

On the other side of the semisubmerged living room was a step up to a long sliding glass window. The transparent door was open, leading out to a brick-laid patio surrounded by tall cedars and set upon by dappled sunlight and shade bisected by bark and leaf.

In a metal chair that had been painted pink sat a small, elderly woman in a jade-and-wheat-colored dress. Her feet didn’t go all the way to the bricks. On the pink metal table next to her was a tall, slender glass filled with a bright green liquid that Xavier was sure had a high alcoholic content.

Hatless, her hair had been ruthlessly dyed an impossible black. Her face was neither round, oval, nor heart-shaped, but rather like a box with the corners smoothed by age. She was eighty, maybe more. Her dark eyes had all the awareness of a long life spent traveling on a one-lane highway with no exits and no end in sight.

“This is Mr. Noland,” Doris Milne said with bland deference.

The elderly white lady made an expression that was intended to be a smile.

“Hello, Mr. Knowles,” she said, gesturing at another metal chair on the opposite side from her. This seat was painted turquoise.

As Xavier moved forward Doris asked, “Can I get you something to drink, Mr. Noland?”

“What’s in the glass?”

“Lime rickey,” Sedra said with a real smile.

“I’ll take one of those if it’s not too much trouble.”

“No trouble at all,” Sedra said for her niece. “Go make up another pitcher, hon. Use the good gin.”

And so Xavier sat under the shifting template of shadows and sun as Doris went off to mix the alcohol and Kool-Aid.

The predators gazed lazily across the expanse of the table both of them deeply honest and still insincere.

“You told Dodo that you were here about somebody named Ben?” Sedra asked.

“Benol. That’s a woman’s name.”

“Oh.”

“Do you remember her?”

“No. No. And I think I’d remember such a unique name.”

“She and her boyfriend, Brayton Starmon, sold you three blond male babies for forty-two thousand dollars twenty-three years ago.”

“Excuse me? What did you say?”

“I said that I’m working for John and Minnie Van Dam,” Xavier replied, using names from Benol’s confession. “They hired me to find their son, Michael, who was kidnapped from a private child-care home by Benol and Brayton.”

His voice was the hammer while the words were nails. Sedra gave almost no inkling of the pain or fear he inflicted, but Ecks was not fooled.

When the old woman’s left eye fluttered Xavier was sure of at least one part of his client’s story.

At that moment the cell phone in his breast pocket throbbed. A few seconds later Doris came out carrying a silver tray on which stood a large, sweaty tumbler filled with bright green fluid.

“Are you two getting along?” the niece asked.

“Like pigs in slop,” Xavier said.

“Excuse me?”

“Everything’s fine, Dodo,” Sedra said. “Leave us alone, would you, dear?”

“Are you okay?” Doris asked.

“Fine. Fine. I just want to speak privately to Mr. Knowles.”

“Noland,” Xavier corrected.

“Yes,” Sedra agreed.

“I’ll be in the den knitting,” Doris said, but she didn’t move.

“Go on,” her aunt urged. “I’ll be just fine.”

Niece and aunt exchanged glances.

Xavier took a sip of the green cocktail to show that he wasn’t bothered by their concern. The drink was sweet, tart, and very strong.

As he put the glass down on the table Doris was leaving once more and Sedra tried to smile again.

“I don’t know who you are,” the spinster said, “but I will not be threatened in my own house.”

“I’m looking for the boy,” Xavier said easily. “I don’t care about you or Benol or anybody else. The Van Dams hired me to do the work that the police failed to do.”

He considered taking another sip but decided against it. Drinking had its place but that wasn’t in the middle of a showdown between villains.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Sedra said in a metered tone that seemed to be saying, or at least meaning, something else.

“All I have to do is give the police what I have,” he said. “Just give them your name and let the pieces fall where they will.”

Sedra opened her mouth but no words came out. A confused look came over her face. This artificial expression, added to the sound of a deep bass gong going off in Xavier’s head, tipped him to the unspoken narrative of his predicament.

He stood up suddenly and turned. Doris was standing there with a Louisville Slugger grasped in both hands.

“Hit him!” Sedra yelled.

Another deep vibration detonated behind Xavier’s eyes. He knew that he couldn’t avoid the young woman’s bat for too long and so he went on the offensive.

The bat arced down, glancing off the left side of his head.

“Hit him!” Sedra was screaming.

He was aiming for her jaw, but Xavier’s fist hit Doris over the heart. She grunted in a decidedly unfeminine manner and fell on her bottom.

When Xavier was stepping over her she grabbed at his ankle. If he hadn’t taken that sip her grip wouldn’t have fazed him. As it was he tripped, pulling away from her and staggering forward. He would have tumbled to the bricks if there weren’t a house there to catch his fall.

Sedra was screaming without words now and the living room seemed even more menacing as he plunged ahead. He made it to the foyer and out the front door.

Ecks felt clumsy. It was as if his body had somehow duplicated itself while neglecting to double the motor skills. He’d become two men with four legs but still could move only one foot at a time.

“That wasn’t just no knockout powder,” the Ecks running behind himself said. “That girl was trying to kill us with that drink.”

The Parishioner almost turned around to catch a glimpse of himself muttering.

“Run, fool!” the voice shouted, strangely echoing the desperation in Sedra’s screams.

By then Xavier was in the front yard and on his way to the sidewalk. He knew that his car was somewhere near, but this intelligence was useless to him. He started running in one direction with all the strength his four spaghetti legs could muster. The world before his eyes was reduced to snatches of scenes like blurry snapshots taken from a speeding car—through a tinted window.

He was running, almost falling, going straight ahead, away from people who were trying to destroy him. Xavier didn’t bother with any logic more complex than this. He didn’t worry about arrest or the discovery of his past. There was no later if he didn’t run right now.

There arose a sound like music, like jazz … no, a car’s horn. There was a red light overhead, a hard shove, then someone, not Sedra or the other him, shouting. At that point gravity decided to take over and he fell, landing on his shoulder, then rolling up into the air. Before he came down again, the burden of consciousness had lifted with something akin to sleep taking its place.

He woke up choking from a noxious gas that filled his sinuses.

The burning odor shot up his nose like a venomous snake writhing in and biting the inside of his head.

“What the fuck?” He rose up on a hospital bed flanked by two men and a woman.

She was a nurse, probably Korean, young, her hard black eyes disapproving. The Hispanic police captain in full uniform loomed from behind her, searching Xavier’s eyes for awareness and subterfuge. Next to the cop stood a short white man with very long fingers, dressed in a too blue suit.

Shaking his head in an attempt to dislodge the nasal viper, Xavier still had the wherewithal to wonder where his clothes were. He shopped for suits sometimes for months before he found just the right one. He was hoping that the accident hadn’t ripped the cloth too badly.

“I want to say again, Dr. Mendel, that this is not proper procedure,” the Korean nurse said in perfect California English.

“This is a special circumstance,” the policeman murmured. Ecks knew that this man rarely raised his voice.

Across the room a thin man with a manicured mustache and a thick mat of brown hair was sitting up in his hospital bed to watch the altercation.

A television set was on, tuned to a nostalgia channel playing a repeat episode of I Dream of Jeannie.

Xavier grunted. His head felt like a balloon filled with opposing gases.

“It’s quite all right, Nurse Kwan,” the white man in the blue suit said. “There’s no permanent damage and the police need information.”

“The use of smelling salts went out with leeches, Doctor,” the nurse insisted.

“If you believe that we’ve acted inappropriately, make a report,” the policeman said as he put a hand on her shoulder, pushing her gently from the vicinity of the bed.

“What are you doing?” Nurse Kwan protested.

“This is a witness to a crime,” the captain said patiently. “We have to ask him a few questions.”

“I have to check his blood pressure and vitals before—”

“This is an urgent matter, Nurse. I will not hesitate to restrain and even arrest you.”

These words cut through the professionalism of the young woman’s mind-set. She understood being restrained and arrested and knew that the protection of her white uniform did not extend nearly that far.

As she exited the room, little Dr. Mendel began pulling the yellowy nylon curtains around the hospital bed. Once they were blocked from view of the three other patients in the room, both men pulled up chairs to Xavier’s bedside.

For his part the newspaper delivery man had made it to a sitting position.

“What were you doing out there, Ecks?” the captain asked softly.

“How you doin’, Guilly?” Xavier replied. “Lance.”

Guillermo Soto and Lawrence Mendel were parishioners like Xavier. The policeman had smuggled Mexican and Guatemalan laborers across any border they paid for, and Mendel performed illegal medical procedures on political prisoners around the world.

Both men had left scores of dead bodies in their wake, but they had been granted sanctuary under the protection of Father Frank. The one rule of their church was to refrain from passing judgment on one another. So Xavier didn’t judge the men—but he didn’t like them either.

“Pewtersworth called,” Mendel said. “When the police got to you after that car ran you down they found the church card and called in. Clyde P. contacted us and we came. What’s going on?”

Xavier focused on Soto, the lesser evil, in his eyes.

“There’s a house on the corner of Kasidis and Lancaster. Anything from that?”

“A witness said he might have seen you running from there. When the police rang the bell nobody answered. It didn’t look like a break-in, so they left it alone.”

“Nobody came to the door?”

“No. Did you break in?”

“Any bones broken, Doc?” Xavier asked Mendel.

“Some bruising and swelling, that’s about it.”

“A car hit me?”

“Not head-on. It was driving past and you ran into the side. Bounced you like a rubber ball. If you weren’t drunk it might have been worse.”

“Where are my clothes?”

“Folded on the bench at the foot of the bed,” Soto said. “What were you doing there, Ecks?”

“Nothing to break my oath.”

“That’s not good enough.”

“It’ll have to be.”

Soto was in his midforties, though he looked older. He was hale and powerful but that didn’t bother Rule. He was never afraid of force—only failure.

“Are you working for Frank?” Dr. Mendel asked.

“What I’m doin’ is what I’m doin’, Doc. Don’t crowd me.”

“I could have you arrested,” Guillermo Soto suggested. “All I’d have to do is stand aside.”

“That’s your business,” Xavier said. “I can’t tell you what to do.”

“Are you going to cause me trouble?” the cop asked.

“I been in trouble since before I was born, Guilly. So much that people stay outta my way so rocks don’t fall out from the sky on their heads.”

The policeman stood. He had glistening tawny skin and deep, dark eyes. In contrast Mendel was a dry white color, like alabaster on a desert landscape. The white man had blue eyes that, Xavier knew from Expressions, had seen acres of innocent, unwilling blood.

“Take care of yourself, Ecks,” the doctor said.

“Get the fuck outta here.”

“What are you doing?” Nurse Kwan said to Xavier’s back minutes later.

He was standing at the foot of his bed trying his best to put his pants on without toppling to the floor.

He stopped and sat on the bench to rest.

“I’m going out for pizza. You want some?”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Noland, but you can’t leave until you have been released.”

“This is America, honey. Here every man is free. Woman too.”

“The doctor on duty has to sign you out before I can let you go.”

“Watch me.”

Feeling stronger with something to push against, Xavier Rule stood, pulling up his pants with the same motion. There was some dirt on his suit but no tears that he could tell. Xavier not only loved his clothes but felt loyalty toward them. He’d hire a tailor to work for days to save a suit he cherished.

Nurse Kwan left. While the other patients watched he donned his chocolate shirt and lime jacket, cranberry socks and grapefruit shoes. He had just stood from tying his laces when two orderlies came in, followed by the nurse. The men were both white. One was dirty blond while the other sported a healthy brunette mop. They seemed able enough, one a bit taller and the other somewhat shorter than Xavier’s five-ten.

“Gentlemen,” Xavier greeted. “What time do you have?”

“Time for you to get back in the bed,” the taller blond said.

“If I didn’t get in the bed for a cute nurse, why would I do it for you?”

“We’re not jokin’ with you, dude,” the other orderly said in a no-nonsense tone.

Almost effortlessly Xavier reached down and broke a fifteen-inch wooden leg off the bench that had held his clothes, showing his would-be jailers that he had powerful, practiced hands.

As the bench teetered and fell he said, “Then let’s not play around.”

At the admittance office on the first floor he requested his property. When they asked him for his discharge papers he told them to call Nurse Kwan in the emergency admitting ward.

A dozen minutes later he was on the street waiting for a car that he’d called.

It was late in the afternoon and Xavier didn’t know whether he was going to vomit or experience cardiac arrest, but he stood there patiently happy to be above the ground and out of the penal system, away from the carnage he had thought was human routine.

The fifty-seven, plum-colored Pontiac sidled up to the curb and Winter Johnson leaned toward the passenger’s window.

“Hey, Ecks. Where you goin’, man?”

Winter was somewhere in his thirties and more yellow than brown. He was slight and wiry, friendly to a fault. He had been attacked by a man on Flower Street just a few blocks from Xavier’s apartment. The man was easily twice Winter’s size and had assaulted Johnson because he took exception to the way the chauffeur had glanced at his girl. The young woman in question had a siren’s figure and wore a close-fitting red dress that was shorter than it was tight.

Winter hadn’t said anything to the woman, only swiveled his head as she sashayed by.

All Xavier had to do was pull the blustery boyfriend off of Winter and shove him a few feet into a brick wall. That ended the fight and began the first true friendship in the Harlemite’s new life.

“Hey, Win,” Xavier said as he dropped into the seat next to the driver. “Thanks for getting me.”

“I had another pickup but I told the dispatcher that my brother was in the hospital.”

“You don’t have to lie for me, man.”

“That was no lie.”

“How’s it goin’, Win?” Xavier asked his friend on the ride from the midtown hospital back to Culver City.

“Met a girl named Cindy on Monday last,” the young man said with a smile. “Took her to dinner, a movie, and then a dance from Tuesday through Thursday. She works in a department store and is taking fashion classes at Santa Monica College. She came over Friday night. I made her pancakes the next morning.”

He stopped talking as they entered the on-ramp to the freeway.

“And?” Xavier asked after a few minutes of silence.

“And what?”

“What happened with Cindy?”

“Oh. That was a real nice week. Her kisses tasted like bottled water and she had this wiggle when I hugged her that made me go wild. But don’t get me wrong; it wasn’t only sex. One night there, before we even got to the bed, we talked until the sun came up. I don’t even remember what we said. It was just … just … perfect.”

Winter was an able driver. He weaved through the six lanes of heavy traffic as if his Pontiac were the only car on the road. He was smiling again, remembering.

“How’d it go with Cindy on Saturday afternoon?” the hard man from back east asked softly.

“She got a call on her cell phone. You know I hate them damn things. Makes it like you can’t evah get away from nuthin’. I got one but I turn it off when I’m with company. Anyway … she went out on the porch and talked about fifteen minutes or so. When she came back she asked could she plug it in. Talk so hot and heavy that she ran outta juice, I guess. She didn’t smile no more after that. When I asked her if she wanted to get some dinner she said that she had to go home. I thought maybe we could try some day next week and she said, ‘We’ll see.’ ”

“Who was on the phone with her?”

“The week before we met her boyfriend of two years said that he needed some space. Space’s name was Laurel Timmons. Cindy met me and I made her forget Braxton. But then Laurel flitted off and Braxton wanted Cindy back. She said that time with me was great but when she heard his voice she knew she couldn’t stay away. I drove her home and that was that.”

“So why you still smiling, Win?”

“Me?” he said, seemingly unaware of his own happiness. “I guess it’s because I had the best week that girl could give. I had her wiggle and peck, her dreams about a future. That was enough for me and more than Braxton could ever have. And just when I was beginnin’ to feel kinda desolate you called me up and said you needed some help. Man, I figure that if the almighty Ecks needs help then I ain’t got nuthin’ to complain about.”

Ecks sat back in his seat and they remained quiet for the rest of the ride.

Twenty minutes later Winter pulled his classic car up behind the Edsel and parked.

Snorting, Xavier glanced over at the house where he almost died.

Winter said nothing.

“I’m going to make a call,” Xavier said. “Could you wait a few minutes?”

“As many as you need.”

The phone rang nine times before he answered.

“Church services, Clyde Pewtersworth speaking.”

“Hey, Clyde, Xavier Rule here.”

“Mr. Rule.”

The congregation used real names with the church staff; that, Father Frank said, was a matter of trust.

“How come you put Guilly and Lance on me, man? You know what they’re like.”

“You needed help and they were available.” Clyde was not loquacious. He said what was necessary, rarely a syllable more.

“Who told you you could even call them?” Xavier asked.

The momentary silence made Xavier smile. It was rare to get a leg up over the switchboard operator.

“Frank told me to help you in any way possible.”

“Really?”

“What do you need, Mr. Rule?”

“I might need a lawyer before this night is through. Cylla Pride in town?”

Another pause on the other end of the line.

“What shall I tell her the charges are to be?”

“Nothing nearly as bad as what she’s done. Just breaking and entering, maybe some burglary if I see something shiny.”

“Call me if you have a problem,” Clyde said. “I’ll make sure you two are connected.”

“You go on, Win,” Xavier said, standing in the street next to his friend’s car.

“At least try and start your car first.”

“No. I’m gonna stay around here for a while.”

“For what?”

“Business.”

“Let me help you, brother.”

“This is no car wash, Win. This is what the bastards on Wall Street call ‘outside the box.’ ”

“I know. I knew that when you threw that dude up against the wall and put your forearm across his throat. I saw in his eyes the kinda business you in. But you know, brother, I’m California born and raised. We follow the sun out here … wherever it go.”

“Okay. It’s your funeral. First let me get a couple of things from my car.”

The front porch was partially hidden by vines of pink roses grown over crosshatched wooden trellises. Xavier knocked and then rang. When there was no answer the duo moved to the left, broke through the hidden side trellis, and went down to a path that led around the side of the house.

The brick patio was dark but the Parishioner could feel his way around.

“Here.” Xavier handed his friend one of six pairs of latex gloves he took from the hallway outside of his hospital room. “Put these on.”

Using the tiny hand-pressure flashlight on his key chain, Xavier could see that the sliding glass door was closed. After a couple of little shoves he knew that it was locked. He then took the twelve-inch tire iron he retrieved from the car and wedged it in the lock mechanism of the door.

“Hold up, Ecks,” Winter said. “They probably got an alarm system on a nice house like this one here.”

“No, brother.” Xavier savored the short phrase a moment and then continued. “We in my neighborhood now. People like me and the folks live here don’t have alarm systems. We use semiautomatics and dynamite, Dobermans and ice hooks—but never no alarms.”

Xavier wrenched the short, thick tire iron and the lock cracked. The door didn’t come open because there were two other places where internal bolts had been thrown. He loosened them up and the glass door, which didn’t fracture at all, slid open.

Upon entering the sunken living room, Xavier sought out a wall switch that turned on the overhead chandelier. It was a gaudy light fixture made from amber-colored crystals and real amber beads.

“Hey, man!” Winter complained.

“What?”

“People might see that light from the street.”

“So?”

“What if they told somebody they were out of town or somethin’?”

“They don’t know their neighbors.”

“Are these friends’a yours?”

“Not exactly.”

“Then how you know who they know?”

“Like I said, Win, we in my neck’a the woods. I understand these people like a California surfer knows his wave.”

They went from room to room of the two-story home, Xavier looking for anything suspicious and Winter just gazing around nervously.

The freezer in the kitchen was filled with TV dinners, and the refrigerator held nothing but condiments and a moldy loaf of white bread.

The back porch was stacked with cardboard boxes that were empty and seemed to be quite old, covered with dust and inhabited by spiders.

They found a tiny bedroom next to the porch. It was spare, almost a cell. There was a single-mattress bed and a simple oak bureau with three drawers. There were no clothes in the closet or the drawers. The only trash in the blue plastic wastebasket was an empty tampon carton. This single clue told Ecks that this room had recently been tenanted by Doris Milne. There were no pictures on the night table or hanging from the wall. There were no holes from nails that might have been used to hold frames, nor any blemishes or discolorations from posters a young woman could have taped up.

In contrast, Sedra’s bedroom took up at least half of the second floor. It was carpeted with real animal hide, probably deer, and contained a bed that was at least a hundred inches in width covered by a fire-engine red silk down comforter. The drapes went from ceiling to floor and were velvet, the color of gold, if gold could rot.

The wall-wide closet was stuffed with hanging dresses and coats, pantsuits and scarves from over the decades. Perpendicular to the closet stood a highly wrought, curved chest of drawers covered by an ivory veneer. Xavier pulled out each of the eighteen drawers, dumped whatever was in them on the hide floor, and checked all the sides for possible secrets. Two-thirds of the way through his thorough search he found a red fabric-bound journal taped to the back of a drawer that had been filled with staples, a stapler, dried-out rubber bands, and large rolls of black electrical wiring tape.

The journal was the size of a mass-market paperback book, at least a hundred and fifty pages. The paper was of a higher quality—acid free and heavy. Two-thirds of these pages were covered with minuscule writing. Most of the scribbling did not comprise normal lettering but character symbols like punctuation, dollar signs, and mathematical indicators. These symbols appeared without spaces. Sometimes a character would be half-size on the upper portion of where a full-size representation might be. Nearly the entire book was filled with this meaningless jabber, about forty lines to a side. No breaks, spaces, or paragraphs appeared anywhere. Now and again there was a change in the tone of the ink, but it was always blue. If Sedra and her niece hadn’t tried to murder him he might have thought that this was the meaningless, obsessive scribbling of a madwoman.

He pocketed the journal and continued his way through the drawers.

“Hey, Ecks,” Win said.

He was standing in the doorway. Xavier hadn’t even realized that the young man had wandered off.

“What?”

“You got to come see somethin’, man.”

In a pantry off the kitchen was a door. This door opened upon a down stairway.

“A basement,” Xavier said in a matter-of-fact tone.

“How long you been in LA, Ecks?”

“A few years.”

“Not long enough to learn that nobody has a basement or cellar out here.”

“Oh, yeah?”

The huge green metal door at the foot of the stairs seemed to be built for some kind of giant. To call the locks that held it shut padlocks would be like calling Fort Knox a safe. They were huge, ugly things made from metal, specially designed to be unbreakable.

“What the fuck you think they got in there, man?” Winter asked.

“The answers to all my questions. Probably something neither one of us wants to know.”

“I’ont think you got to worry about it, brother. ’Cause unless you got some kinda key to them locks we not gettin’ on the other side’a that mothahfuckah there.” There was more than a little relief in the driver’s tone.

The basement light was weak but good enough for Xavier to see.

“You need to go, Winter?”

“No. Why you ask me that?”

“Because I intend to break down this door and get on the other side. I sure do.”

“How? You friends with Batman or sumpin’?”

“Neighborhood I come from Batman stayed away.”

Xavier hefted his miniature tire iron and rubbed it thoroughly with a rag from the floor while studying the door closely.

“This ain’t no glass door, Ecks.”

“But you see, Win. The door got hinges.”

“Shit, man. Them things look like they frets on a battleship.”

“Sure do,” Xavier said with a nod. “But the outer edge is anchored in concrete, not steel. All I got to do is pull the outside of the hinges out the wall.”

“What about the locks?”

“They’re anchored in concrete too.”

It took a little under three hours, but Xavier, with some help from Winter Johnson, wrenched the hinges from their moorings and levered the five-hundred-pound door from its frame. It hit the floor with a mighty crash, but no toes were broken and the sound was swallowed by the earth.

The smells of fresh soil, with a hint of rotting flesh, wafted from the shadowy underground chamber.

The interior was dark, and Xavier hesitated to use his little flashlight.

“What’s that smell?” the professional chauffeur asked.

“Death.”

“What?”

“Listen, man,” Xavier said. “I let you come this far—to get your feet wet. I know you’re scared. You’d be a fool not to be. But maybe right now you should listen to that shiver in your heart. ’Cause you know, Win, this shit here is about to get bad.”

Winter’s eyes were light brown and small like their owner. He squinted at Xavier and his shoulders quivered.

“In for a penny,” the driver said, “in for a pound.”

This phrase was like the flip of a switch in the ex-gangster’s nervous system. The violence, as always, was most evident as a sensation in Xavier’s forearms. His jaw clenched, clamping down on the evil smile that wanted out. He turned abruptly, entering the tomblike vault, guided by the little plastic flash.

The chamber was largish, fifteen feet deep and twenty wide.

Toward the far end of the unfinished space, lying on a short mound of moist soil, was Sedra Landcombe. There was a pale blue slip over her withered flesh and a bloody gash on the left side of her head. The force of the blow had caused the eyeball on that side to come out of its socket, falling down the side of her face and hanging next to her left ear.

“Oh, shit!” Winter cried.

Xavier knelt close to the body, looking for anything that might tell her story. But she was dead and bereft of any signature, jewelry, or sigil. Probably murdered in another room, Xavier mused, most likely the master bedroom. Xavier thought that Dodo had hit her aunt with the bludgeon, maybe more than once, dragged her down to the family tomb, and then gone back upstairs to wash up any blood.

“Oh, fuck, no,” Winter whined.

He was standing at the door holding a small dark and lightweight stone in his hand.

“No,” he moaned.

“What is it?”

“A baby’s skull, man. A baby’s little head.”

Winter dropped the stone and fell to his knees.

Xavier went to the area of the tomb that his friend had come from and saw various bones both jumbled and arranged. Most remnants belonged to children and babies, but there were at least three adult skulls in the mix. Xavier poked at the bones with his tire iron but he didn’t touch them, not even with gloves on.

The bruise on his side, from the car accident, suddenly flared. This was the only indication he had of some kind of feeling of vulnerability. His minister had sent him into slaughter and he, in turn, had brought along an innocent friend.

“What we gonna do, Ecks?”

“We get our ass outta here, Win.”

At the top of the stairs, still in the pantry that contained the door leading to the basement, Xavier had a premonition. There was something wrong—a feeling on the air.

“Ecks—” Winter began.

Rule put up a hand and moved in front of his friend. With a further gesture of the same hand he imparted that the driver should stay where he was.

The pain in his side disappeared as Xavier Rule, aka Egbert Noland, moved quietly through the kitchen and into the living room.

The two men wore dark clothes. One was white and the other, an ecru-colored man, probably hailed from below the southern border; either he did or his ancestors had.

Xavier surprised them. They were carrying large duffel bags and weren’t expecting to come across anyone. But these men were professionals and so they dropped their bags and reached for things inside their clothes.

The violence in Xavier’s forearms went into action without volition. With his left hand he threw the crowbar like an underhand javelin, and before it had punctured the white man’s chest he was firing with the specially made Afghani pistol. The gun made little noise and no flash. Both men fell to the ground, decimated by the ambidextrous stone-cold killer.

“What happened?” Winter said. He ran into the room upon hearing the coughing of the whispering gun.

Xavier hurried to the men he’d defeated. The white man had managed to get a pistol in his hand, but Xavier slapped it away. The other man had four bullets in him, head and chest.

“Stay back!” Xavier said to Winter. “Don’t let him see you.”

Then the church deacon searched the bodies and bags of his sudden enemies. The duffel bags contained shovels and spades, kerosene and a black plastic body bag. The Hispanic man had two keys in his pocket, held together by a piece of string. Xavier would have bet that they were a fit for the front door and the underground tomb. The white man had a money clip in his pants pocket. There were a few bills and a slip of paper held fast by the silver clamp.

“Help me,” the white man wheezed.

Xavier might have considered killing him if Winter were not a witness.

“I’m dying,” the man with the crowbar protruding from the middle of his chest said.

Xavier searched the man’s pockets, found nothing but a cheap cell phone. He stood up, watched closely by the dying white man, turned his back, and went to the kitchen.

“We’re going to leave now,” he said to his shivering friend. “When we go through the living room keep your back to the one still alive. Don’t turn to look, and keep your hand up over your face so he don’t see you in any glass.”

On the way to the street Xavier told his friend to meet him at an all-night club on Pico west of Sepulveda.

“It’s behind the taco stand in the little minimall on the northwest side of the street. You don’t have to knock. Somebody’ll come out to meet you. Tell him you there for Ecks and he’ll let you in.”

Xavier drove in the opposite direction from his friend. A block away he entered a call on the phone he lifted from the dying man. The call was answered almost immediately by Clyde Pewtersworth.

“Church services.”

“Don’t you sleep, Clyde?”

“I try.”

“Connect me to Soto.”

There were three clicks, a spate of silence, and then a phone ringing. There were at least a dozen rings before a groggy voice answered, “Que?”

“That house? The one they saw me coming from? It’s a killing field, but one of the bodies is still breathing.”

Xavier disconnected the call and threw the phone from the car window. Then he did a U-turn in the middle of the street and drove his Edsel toward the no-name, after-hours nightclub.

On the way, following the speed limit like a teenager taking his first driving test, he remembered:

Swan was tall and hefty, not nearly as black as Ecks. He got in a fight over a woman outside the Chilean’s Bar on East 143rd and then got carried away. His opponent died when Swan twisted his neck after knocking him unconscious. The police had no choice but to put him under arrest. Swan got word to Betty Rynn that a young churchgoer, George Napier, had witnessed the slaughter and offered to bear witness in the trial. Everybody else at the Chilean’s knew better than to have seen anything. But George put his faith in God, and Betty told Ecks to have a talk with the young man.

No one was supposed to know that George was a state witness. No one would have if it weren’t for one of Swan’s relatives who worked for the district attorney’s office.

Napier had a girlfriend named Lena. He was in the habit of spending time with her at her parents’ house off Flatbush in Brooklyn.

Ecks meant to talk to the young man, to scare him. He wanted to show him that he would never be safe or secret again. Maybe if Lena’s kisses weren’t so sweet and George had left at ten instead of twelve forty-five, maybe then Ecks wouldn’t have had time to think and the opportunity to kill rather than scare.

Those hours he spent waiting in the shadows he worried that the young zealot might get stupid and try to implicate him too. There was no one on the street or sidewalk when George came strolling out. He walked right past Xavier’s hidey-hole. His eye came out of its socket too. He died and Xavier went to fuck Betty Rynn, Swan’s girlfriend, as payment for getting her man out of a jam.

“You give me this right here,” Ecks told Betty, “and I promise your old man be outta jail by the end of the week.”

She gave it to him good. So much so that he suspected she liked him more than she ever let on.

Ecks parked down the block from the nameless West Los Angeles minimall. The street was empty and his suit barely soiled. He had almost been murdered, struck down by a moving car, killed one man, and maybe another. There was a witness who knew his name, his address. He was three years out from the rat-infested harbor that had been his life but now he could see his past looming on the horizon—and there were sinister shadows moving along the shore.

Shirley’s Den was a pink stucco bunker hidden by buildings on all sides. It had a drab green door, no windows, and no external lights. Regulars knew to stand at the door and wait. Newcomers were met by a man whom Xavier knew only as Sentry. Sentry was a big brown man who asked strangers what they were doing on his property. He stayed in a side shack monitoring the door, opening it for regulars and their guests—shooing away the rest.

Sentry opened the door for Ecks and he walked through wondering what he should do next. He had money and a fake passport. He knew some Spanish and had connections in Cartagena, Colombia.

Shirley’s Den was a large room, bright and tinted green. There were fifteen triangular shiny red tables and a large gray-and-green marble bar. Jazz, always jazz—representing every decade and style—played on the lifelike-sounding speakers. That night it was Sidney Bechet barking out “Bechet’s Fantasy,” giving Louis Armstrong a run for his money, if not his genius.

There were maybe a dozen customers in twos and threes scattered about the emerald-and-scarlet room. Winter Johnson was sitting in a corner looking like a rich man’s dog left out in the cold for the first time in his pampered life.

“Hello, Ecks,” a woman said. She was half the way through her forty-first year, auburn haired, plain faced and yet somehow provocative.

Shirley Henn was from Montreal originally. At the age of seventeen she met a French Canadian named Robert, who spelled his name phonetically—Robair. Robair and Shirley spent six weeks touring the American South, robbing pawnshops, banks, convenience stores, and anyplace else that could stack two dollar bills together. They killed nine people. They did. Shirley had been initiated in weapons, liquor, and sex by her adoptive stepfather—Jacques “Jack” Henn. She fired as many shots as Robair did and was probably a bit more accurate.

Shirley loved Robair like moths loved flame. She clung to his skinny side and often shivered when he said her name. That six weeks felt as if it were an entire lifetime.

Shirley and Robair began to have differences when they invaded an upscale cabin in the Tennessee woods where a wealthy Houston family took their summer vacations. She didn’t mind when they shot the father or even when Robair forced the mother and teenage daughter to do a striptease before killing them. It was when Robair got into the family liquor cabinet and decided to take the four-year-old son in the backyard to use for target practice that Shirley spoke up.

“Don’t do that, Robert,” she’d said. Even then she realized, when calling him Robert, that the love affair had foundered.

They were standing on the back porch of the summer home. Arabella Marquette and her daughter, Fawn, lay naked and dead in the kitchen just behind them. The acned, twenty-one-year-old Robair gave Shirley a petulant frown as he simultaneously shot the little boy at his side.

Shirley raised her own pistol and shot her man in the center of his forehead. His lips formed a tight O. He didn’t lose his footing until he was already dead.

The weight of that condensed six-week lifetime settled on Shirley and she found in her heart that she could not deny one thing that she had done or that had been done to her.

“I sit in my home,” she said in an Expressions session that Xavier had attended, “and think about going back to Montreal and killing my stepfather. He’s old now and living in a retirement home. I’ve bought six tickets over the years. But every time I think about going I remember that look on Robair’s face when I shot him. He’d only talked big before he met me. He wanted to be evil but I was the one who allowed him to, who empowered him. And when I killed him there was no relief—not in me and not in the world we scarred.”

“Hey, Shirley,” Xavier said. “How you doin’, honey? Gettin’ any sleep?”

“I have a new barmaid,” Shirley said. “She’s not gay and neither am I.”

“Yeah? You don’t say.”

“But I told her about my sleep problems and she offered to lie in the bed with me, next to me. She’s a runaway and many times she goes out with her boyfriends. But on those nights she lies there by me I sleep like I did when I was child before my mother remarried.”

Xavier heard the words and the echoes they set off in the spree killer’s heart. He knew not to comment on her therapy and so said, “Thanks for lettin’ my friend in.”

“He looks scared.”

“He should.”

When Xavier pulled out the green straight-backed chair at Winter’s table the young man leaped to his feet.

“Just me,” Xavier said.

The words did not seem to have a calming effect on the youth, but he did sit down again.

“What we gonna do, Ecks?”

Xavier was a practiced killer but he rarely planned his crimes. He killed when he had to or when the opportunity arose and it seemed like the proper move.

At one time he would have probably killed Winter. It just made sense to tie up loose ends.

“That’s up to you, Win,” he said.

“Me?”

“Those men had guns, son. They would have killed us both and then burned the house down around our bodies. The way I see it, it was self-defense plain and simple. But the law could have different ideas. And I got a history, so they might not bring me down on this, but there are other warrants, in other places.”

“What about that man with the tire iron in his chest?”

“I used his phone to call the cops. They might get there in time to save him.”

Winter clasped his hands and then ripped them apart.

“What should I do?” he pleaded.

“If the guilt is too much for you, you can call the cops. Tell ’em that I made you come with me and that you waited to tell them because you were afraid I’d kill you. Give me a heads-up and I’ll be gone before they get to my door.”

“I can’t just turn you in like that, Ecks.”

“Maybe not, but if somebody saw your license plate or something, and the cops come up on you, then tell ’em that you drove me to my car, that I forced you. Don’t lie for me but for yourself, kid. Understand?”

“What was goin’ on in there?” Winter asked then.

“I’m on a job,” the Parishioner said. “I’m looking for three boys went missing twenty-three years ago.”

“You think that was them in the basement?”

“Maybe so. Maybe. I got a lead or two and so I’ll see. But right now you order a few shots of cognac and drink ’em down. After that I’ll give you a ride home and you sleep on what you should do.”

After dropping an inebriated and distraught Winter Johnson at his apartment on Crest Drive, Xavier drove down to the beach using surface streets.

On the way he took out his cell phone and entered a number.

“Yeah?” a gravelly voice answered midway through the second ring.

“I need you to take my route for the rest of the week, Bud,” Xavier said.

“Starting when?”

“In the morning.”

“Okay,” the voice said. “You all right?”

“Canned peaches and sour cream.”

At the ocean he veered right, heading up the Pacific Coast Highway. A twenty-four-hour jazz station was playing early Thelonius Monk for no particular reason. The complex rhythms reminded the killer of his late-night Harlem apartment home after the beatings and turmoil subsided, when peace reigned in the living room and the record player cooed with trumpets, saxophones, and piano. His mother had cried herself to sleep by then and the old man was passed out, or nearly so. Xavier would sit in the doorway to the bedroom he shared with his brother and cousin, listening to the music and the silence.

It was a quarter to three in the morning and the road was fairly empty. His forearms no longer ached for violence.

Ecks is an ambidextrous mothahfuckah. He can kill a man with either hand, mocha-colored Swan used to say about his friend. He’s the Sugar Ray Robinson of the street.

He’d never counted the number of lives he’d taken until Father Frank had him confess at Expressions: twenty-two if the white man died, twenty-nine if you held him accountable for the times he’d been an accomplice.

For a brief moment he considered driving off the cliff to his left.

“Even the criminal cannot pass judgment,” Frank whispered from somewhere in the car.

He reached the Seabreeze City limits at four forty-five in the morning. It was still shy of five a.m. when he rolled to a stop on the unpaved parking lot.

The iron-strapped ebony wood doors opened when he placed his thumb on the tiny crystal plate that operated the sophisticated locking system.

The overhead lights came on as he walked down the narrow aisle between the simple pews, through to the back door, and out into the yard. He strode up to Frank’s rectory, intending to walk right in, but before he got there the door swung inward and Frank was standing there fully dressed in his signature black.

“Come on in, Brother Ecks. I’ve been expecting you.”

And it was true. There were two chairs facing each other before an iron candelabra set with more than a dozen wax sticks burning intensely. Frank used candles that burned brighter than normal tapers. They were more like small torches.

“Have a seat,” the self-proclaimed minister offered.

“I don’t want to sit.”

“Do so anyway, Brother Rule.”

Xavier obeyed even though he promised himself that he would resist the man who had sent him out to break his oath.

“Soto called,” Frank said as he seated himself. “He told me about a subterranean killing field, one man sorely wounded, and another man dead.”

“The white man’s not dead?”

“Not yet.”

“I lashed out at them as if I had never spent one Sunday in this church,” Xavier said.

Frank allowed these words their own space. He did not dispute or deny the Parishioner’s claim.

Light began to break upon the ocean from the eastern sky.

For a moment Xavier shivered uncontrollably. Tears streamed down his face and he found it hard to maintain his balance on the chair. He leaned forward, putting his elbows upon his knees and his face in his palms. As the light grew so did his despair. This was one of those few emotional moments that surpassed the violence in his heart and mind. This anger, this hostility he knew was not an aspect of the war that surrounded his upbringing. His cousin had become a practical nurse and his brother, Warren, was an accountant in Montclair, New Jersey.

“Ecks,” Frank said at last.

Xavier raised his head and teetered in the chair.

“Tell me what happened,” the minister said. “All of it.”

By the time the declaration was over Xavier was sitting up again. He neither shivered nor cried. But he felt empty, directionless.

“The sun is up” were the first words Frank uttered after Xavier’s story. “Let’s take a walk down to the beach.”

The path from the church down to the seashore was a gentle sloping trail through succulent plants and hardy grasses. There were small blue and white flowers here and there and huge white boulders that made Xavier think of superior beings so advanced that they could afford to ignore us, finally outlasting the passage of man.

“You brought your friend back to his home and told him to follow his own mind,” Frank said as they walked north on the hard-packed sand.

“Yes.”

“You only protected yourself from men who would have certainly murdered you and him.”

“If you want to look at it that way.”

“That’s the only way, Brother Rule. The only way. You’ve taken up this cause for a good reason. You weren’t looking for trouble, not really.”

“Sedra is dead because I kicked the hornets’ nest.”

“She’s dead because she lived a life dealing in slaves, suffering, and murder.”

“But if I hadn’t gone there …”

“Somebody else would have gone. Benol was dead set on this course.”

“Do you believe Benol?”

“I believe that she abducted three babies. I believe that she will lead you to those lives that were stolen.”

“But is she an innocent or at least a penitent?”

“I don’t know,” Father Frank admitted.

“Then why send anyone to follow her lead?”

“Have I ever told you what I think men are, Ecks?”

A seagull cried, and Xavier’s heart quailed one of the few times when life was not on the line.

“No, sir,” he said.

“Earth,” the minister intoned, “is a multitiered plane of existence. For the animals and plants it is, for the most part, an Eden of extraordinary beauty and wonder. For these beings life is one continuous story with no beginning or end.

“But for humanity this life is hell. We were once, I believe, angels existing in some higher dimension. We faltered in our duties or our faith and were thrown down here among others like us to experience the anarchy that a failure of duty causes. We don’t remember where we’re from or what we did to bring us here, but here we are—up to our necks in blood and shit, torture and death.

“We cannot escape the reality foisted upon us by whatever powers there are … maybe something without sentience—like fate. Maybe our consciousness is just some ephemeral biotic that we must experience before returning to the unconscious unity that once embraced us—I don’t know. What I do know is that we must act. We have to work for what we think is good. We will stumble and fall and take many wrong turns on this journey. But we have to keep on getting back up and searching for our bearings. We must try to do right in a world where everything is wrong.”

They walked for two hours after that. Xavier wanted to respond; he wanted to ask about the details of his minister’s complex faith. But the words remained unformed—inarticulate.

When they finally climbed back up to the rectory the small table was set out with two bowls of steaming porridge and cups filled with hot coffee for Xavier and black tea for Frank.

“So you’re telling me that anything a man does is forgiven if he does it trying to do what’s right,” Xavier said when they sat down to the repast.

“I’m saying that we are unforgivable but still we have to press on.”

He ordered waffles and crisp bacon at a seaside hotel restaurant where Pico Boulevard meets the ocean. He liked the coffee there and also watching passersby through the windows who were drawn to the shore.

For nearly an hour he went over the minister’s private sermon, wondering whether it was all a Bible story or if Frank actually believed that humanity was the definition and the real manifestation of hell. This question seemed very important to him, more so than the dead and dying left in his wake.

“More coffee?” a young woman asked.

She looked to be in her twenties if you didn’t notice the thin lines around her eyes. Her hair was natural blond with dyed blue highlights and her skin was pale copper.

“What’s your name?” Xavier asked.

“Benicia.”

“From Brazil?”

“Rio.” She smiled for him.

“Coffee’d be nice, Benicia.”

The notepaper in the money clip had Sedra’s address scrawled across it. There was no signature or printing on the small sheet, but when holding it up to the sunlight Xavier could see the watermark: The Federal Hotel.

“Have you been to my country?” Benicia asked as she poured his coffee from a white ceramic thermos.

“Yeah.” He smiled. “Friend of mine had a place down on the water outside Bahia.”

When her eyes widened Xavier could see the woman’s irises were green and gold.

“It is so beautiful there,” she said.

“And real,” he agreed.

Three days after he left Bahia his friend down there had been killed. Word was that it was the police. They had come to the seaside condo looking for Rule.

“Too bad I don’t speak Portuguese,” he added. “I think you can’t really get to know a Brazilian woman without speaking her tongue.”

The copper of Benicia’s skin deepened and she hurried away.

“Federal Hotel,” the proper man’s voice on the phone said. “How can I direct your call?”

“Concierge, please.”

“Concierge, yes, sir.”

The phone rang once and another courteous man’s voice said, “Federal Hotel. How can I help you?”

Benicia put Xavier’s bill down in front of him while at the same time removing his silverware and empty plate.

“This is Mr. Gonzalez from Fleet Florist,” Xavier Rule said. “We’re supposed to deliver a bouquet of sweetheart roses to a Ms. Doris Milne.”

“Yes?”

“It’s what we like to call a time-sensitive anniversary. She and the man who is sending the roses, Lawrence O’Kate, met at three forty-six a year ago. He wants them delivered at exactly that time. Can you do that?”

“Let me see,” the practiced voice said. “Milne … Yes. Of course we can. When will you be delivering the flowers?”

“Just after noon. But please don’t tell her. Mr. O’Kate wants it to be a surprise.”

“It’ll be our pleasure.”

The inflated bill had the waitress’s name and phone number written across the bottom. Benicia Torres.

Xavier’s disquiet receded between the private talk with Frank, the beautiful Brazilian, and having a purpose. He bought thirty small roses and wrote a note on the card. After that he went home and donned a dark blue coverall jumpsuit with the name Fleet Florist embroidered over the left-side pocket in yellow thread. It was one of the many tools he’d collected from garage sales in preparation for unexpected eventualities. He delivered the bouquet at one twenty-nine, went to his Edsel, and took off the overalls to reveal a yellow suit and olive shirt, and then went over to MacArthur Park, where he sat watching young (and not so young) lovers, brash teenagers, and retirees taking it all in like breaths of fresh air through an oxygen mask.

“Ecks?” Winter said answering his phone.

“How you doin’, kid?”

“Can’t sleep.”

“It’ll come. Don’t worry.”

“I don’t know what to do.”

“That’ll come too, Win. There’s no rush.”

“They say on the news that the guy with the crowbar in his chest is expected to live.”

“Good for him.”

“But won’t he tell about you?” Winter Johnson asked.

“Probably not. He’s got enough trouble.”

“They didn’t say anything about the vault downstairs,” Winter was saying.

“No. I don’t expect they would. You shouldn’t say anything about it either, Win. Even if you turn me in, you should say that I went downstairs alone.”

“But then why didn’t I run?”

“Maybe you did,” Xavier postulated. “Maybe you stayed until I went downstairs and then you ran. That way you wouldn’t even have been there when I had the shoot-out. You could say that you were afraid that I’d kill you.”

“You wouldn’t, though, right, Ecks?”

“No, I would not.”

Xavier had brought with him the first of a condensed three-volume set of The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. At their last scheduled private meeting Father Frank had suggested that he read for two hours every day on top of his correspondence college studies. On Sundays, when he remembered, he perused one of the major religious texts, but on other days he read history, sometimes philosophy. Most of what he read he did not understand, but Frank had said that it didn’t matter, that understanding was more like a surprise than a goal you could see or predict.

“Just keep on reading,” Frank had said, “and the truth will come up on you from the night side of your mind.”

At six forty-five Xavier went to a small coffee shop across the street from the park. Doris Milne was sitting at a table in the window wearing a tan dress that might have been made from canvas. Her bag was Crayola blue and her shoes maroon. She was a pretty woman, Xavier thought again, somewhere in her late twenties.

He went up to the counter and bought a double espresso before going to her small table. She hadn’t seen him come in.

“Hello,” he said, and she flinched.

“Mr. Noland.”

“Can I sit down?”

“You can do whatever you want,” she said. “You made that quite clear.”

Xavier smiled and pulled up a chair. He sat down and looked at her a moment or two.

“You’re very pretty,” he said.

“Sex? Is that what you want?”

The question surprised him, enlightenment coming with the mild shock.

“No. I mean—yes, I am a man, and the kind of man who likes to have sex—but not from you. What I need from you is information.”

“Or you turn me over to the police.”

“I might give them your name.”

“And if I do what you want?”

“Depending on what you say, I’ll leave you alone. I might even give you a name—one that you could use.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I know that you killed Sedra. Probably bashed her in the head with the same baseball bat you tried to brain me with.”

The statement hit the girl like a slap across the face. Upon recovering she looked around the small café. There was no one right next to them, but Xavier agreed with her unspoken caution.

“Let’s go to a bench in the park,” he offered.

It was late spring and the sky held on to the light of day. They sat side by side on a red bench, their paper cups in hand. She sipped her chai latte, looking nervous. A muscular young white man zipped up on a unicycle and moved back and forth, trying to get Dodo’s attention. It was only when Ecks looked directly at him that he decided the flirtation might not have been worth the exertion.

As the unicyclist moved on, Doris Milne began to speak.

“That house is the only home I’ve ever known,” she said. “Sedra raised me there. She told me that she had found me abandoned on the front porch and decided out of the goodness of her heart to take me in. I was her niece and hand servant. Later I became her accomplice.”

“She bought you.”

“Probably. I used to beg her to tell me who my parents were, but sometimes she’d say that they didn’t love me and now and then she said that they died.”

“Did Brayton Starmon bring you to her?”

“I don’t know. I asked him one night but he wouldn’t say.”

“You knew him?”

“He brought babies for me to play with. I used to think that we were an adoption service, like you said. Until …”

The unicyclist whizzed up and then off again like a hummingbird wondering whether a spider’s web still blocked entrée to a flower filled with nectar.

“Until what?” Ecks asked.

A policeman stopped to look at the odd pair on the red bench.

Doris wasn’t actually crying but there was pain in her face, and her thin frame seemed contorted with agony.

“There was this tiny little baby boy that Brayton brought to the house. He was so cute and loving.”

The policeman walked on.

“I called him Little Mr. Smith,” she said. “He was fine at first but then he got sick. There was something wrong with him. I told Aunt Sedra that we should take him to a doctor but she said that he just needed a little medicine and rest. He suffered for about a week and then one day Auntie came to my room and told me that he was dead. She said that I should bury him in the vault downstairs.

“But when I went to the nursery I could see the mark on his head. She had killed him … I knew it. I knew it even before I saw him.”

“How old were you?” Xavier asked.

“I don’t know, maybe five, six. I buried Little Mr. Smith and prayed for him every day since then. I don’t pray for the other ones, because I didn’t name them after that. I just fed them and changed their diapers like Auntie wanted. It’s like she said, ‘Love is only the bait for pain.’ ”

“You knew what she was up to,” Xavier said after a long silence.

Doris nodded.

“Why’d she keep you?”

“She said it was because she loved me.” There was a hint of hope in her voice.

“But you knew what was happening. There’s more than one body in that vault downstairs.”

“I used to ask her when she was going to retire so that we could move someplace where we wouldn’t have to do adoptions anymore. She would say that we couldn’t do that until I got a passport.”

“You could have called the police,” Xavier suggested.

“She kept the phone locked up.”

“There’s a lot of pay phones in the world.”

“I never left the house alone, except when Auntie took me someplace.”

“You didn’t go to school?”

Doris shook her head and Xavier wondered about the nickname—Dodo.

“You don’t know how to read?” he asked.

“No.”

“Then how did you know to meet me here?”

“I had the nice man at the desk, Mr. Connors, tell me what your note card said.”

We have to talk, Dodo, the note read. I don’t want to tell anyone else about you and your aunt but we have to talk. Meet me at the Bean Grinders coffee shop at 6:30 if you want to keep the authorities out of this.

It was definitely a threat but there were no damning details. Maybe Mr. Connors would keep it quiet.

“But you knew what you were doing was wrong. I mean, even if you couldn’t read there was radio and the TV.”

“Auntie didn’t believe in the boob tube and she only had a record player. I learned how to sew and color.”

Xavier thought a moment more. He was trying to wrap his mind around a lifelong prisoner who had no way to imagine herself free.

“How did you know about the hotel?”

“Auntie would take me there sometimes to have sex with men,” she said simply. “They would bring me gifts and I would do the things Auntie taught me.”

“Damn,” the New York gangster said. “Goddamn.”

“Is that what you want?” Doris asked.

“What?”

“Sex? Auntie said that all men want is sex. That’s why they give girls gifts and kisses. They don’t care about the heart, only the sex.”

“Did you love your aunt?”

If Xavier had been watching Doris from afar he might have thought a sudden chill breeze had kicked up. The girl began to shiver. Her small hands clenched and her eyes filled with tears that refused to fall. Her left heel was pumping up and down.

He watched her go through this pantomime for two minutes or more before reaching out and taking her two fists into his left hand. Instantly she stopped shaking. She gasped, holding that breath like a practiced swimmer.

When she exhaled the words came out, gushing like waters from a dam.

“I could always tell from the tone of Auntie’s voice what she meant. The words didn’t always mean the same thing, but it was the sound of her voice that told me the story.

“If she said, ‘Let’s go have dinner at the Federal,’ it could be that she just wanted to go out. Sometimes I could tell that she wanted the company. But it might mean that there was a man who wanted to have sex with me. It was always the sound of her voice and not the words she said.

“After you got away …” Doris stopped talking for a moment. She looked up from her hands clasped in his. “We were going to kill you, you know.”

“Yeah,” Xavier said. “I got that idea.”

“You don’t care?”

“That’s what creatures do,” he said.

“After you got away Auntie said that it was bad. She said that you could hurt us and we had to move. I lived my whole life in that house and she said we would leave it behind. She told me to gather my gifts from the men and that she would pack her clothes. She said that I should bring everything down to the vault so that we could hide it in there until things died down and we could send people in to get our stuff.

“But I could tell by the sound of her words that she meant to kill me down there in the vault. There was always a sound that she had. It was the same sound when she told me that Little Mr. Smith was dead, or when we planned to kill the men that Brayton needed to get rid of.

“I told her I’d go down to my room, but instead I got the bat and snuck up into her bedroom. She was still in her slip. She didn’t hear me because her hearing was bad …”

“You don’t have to go on, baby,” Xavier said. “I know what you did.”

“I did love her. She was the only person I ever really knew. I broke the lock on her phone and called the taxi company to come bring me to the hotel. She has—had—an account with the Federal. All I had to do was say that she’d be coming that afternoon. She had already sent her travel bureau on ahead.”

Doris tried to pull her hands away but Xavier held on tight. She bowed her head until it was resting against his shoulder. It was only then that the tears fell from her eyes onto their hands.

She panted and made small animal sounds that Xavier interpreted as despair. He put his right hand on her shoulder and she moved to hug him. It was a fierce embrace, beyond innocence or love. There was strength in her arms—the strength to knock an old woman’s eye right out of its socket.

Xavier let her hold him. He’d walked past many tragedies in his life: dead men and women, sometimes children. He’d sold drugs to addicts who had death in their eyes, and women to men who had no love for women.

“She was going to kill you,” he whispered. “You didn’t have a choice.”

“I loved her,” Doris said.

“I know you did.”

“She loved me.”

“No. Never.”

Doris squeezed his neck hard enough to feel uncomfortable, but Xavier didn’t push her away. He held her close and even, somewhat reluctantly, kissed her cheek.

“I need to show you something, Dodo,” he said after the great long hug.

“What?” she asked, wiping her face against his yellow suit.

He took out the little red journal and showed it to her.

“That’s Auntie Sedra’s book,” she said.

“What does it mean?”

“Whenever we took in an orphan or sent one out she would sit down at the dining room table and write in it.”

“Did you ever ask her what it was she was writing?”

“She said that she was telling the little babies’ stories. You know, where they came from and where they were going—and when.”

“But you can’t read it?”

“I can’t read. I can sign my name and write Auntie’s name. I know some numbers but that’s all. I used to listen to stories on the record player at night. And I can recite a hundred poems that Auntie taught me.”

“You can?”

“Yes.”

“What poems do you know?”

“I know ‘The Raven’ by Edgar Allan Poe.”

“Let’s hear it.”

Doris Milne sat up straight with posture most modern young people never learned. She recited the poem with muted but still dramatic inflection while staring at a point midway in the darkening sky. Passersby turned their heads at the recitation and two older women actually stopped to listen.

Xavier was thinking that the woman-child brought him back to some old time when there was no radio or TV or movie theater. He wondered what was going on in Sedra’s mind when she kept Doris. Was the girl her whore or her daughter, her hand servant or adoptive blood?

When the poem was over the older women walked on and Doris was smiling, satisfied.

“We have to get you someplace safe,” Xavier said.

“Yes,” she agreed.

“I know somewhere out of the city. I could take you there right now.”

“I need to get my things.”

“The hotel might not be safe anymore.”

“I’ve stayed there many times.”

“But Mr. Connors read my note,” Ecks offered. “He might have called the police.”

“I told him that I knew you and that things would be fine,” she said. “Aunt Sedra let him have sex with me sometimes in the summers when we went to the hotel so I could swim.”

“Did you like sex with Mr. Connors?”

“He used to bring me porcelain dolls,” she said. “And he never made me hurt.”

“Used to? You don’t have sex with him anymore?”

“He likes young girls,” she said, as if talking about someone who preferred plum jelly to clotted cream.

The rooms in which Doris and Sedra usually stayed looked down on Wilshire Boulevard not far from downtown. The hotel was old but retrofit for modernity, chic and at the same time stuck-up. All the employees of the Federal had stared at Xavier as Doris led him through the constricted lobby toward the elevators.

“Good evening, Ms. Milne,” a white man in a gold suit said from behind the concierge’s desk.

“Hi, Mr. Connors.”

“You okay?”

“Oh, yes. Everything is fine.”

There was a suitcase on the made bed of the second bedroom in the suite. In the larger room there stood an old Chinese chest with doors lined with shallow drawers. The doors were set on hinges that swung open to reveal a closet filled with the dead woman’s clothes.

“Did you bring this with you?” Xavier asked.

“No. Auntie Sedra always sends it the morning before we come. That’s part of the reason I knew she was going to kill me.”

“Why?”

“Because every time before she had me put my suitcase in the closet space. She told me to pack but she didn’t put my bag in with her clothes.”

Each drawer had a brass keyhole in the center, and every one was locked.

“You got keys for these?” Ecks asked.

“Aunt Sedra always kept them hid.”

Twenty-seven drawers of cheap wood. Xavier smashed them one at a time while Doris went about repacking her suitcase.

Sedra was very organized, like most sociopaths Rule had been acquainted with. There was a drawer filled with platinum jewelry, also ones for gold and silver settings too; a drawer brimming with unset jewels and then separate ones for ruby, emerald, and diamond rings. And there was money: euros, dollars, bearer bonds, and gold coins. In the twenty-fourth drawer there was a folded piece of parchment that was the key to the journal’s code system: !-a, @-b, #-c.… At the bottom of the legend was a line of letters that stood for punctuation marks.

“I think Auntie would have wanted me to have that money and stuff,” the girl said to Xavier.

“I thought you said she wanted to kill you?”

“But that was only because I might get her in trouble,” Doris said simply. “It doesn’t mean she didn’t love me.”

“Maybe she would have wanted you to have the money,” Xavier agreed. “But I think we’ll hold on to it for a while until we work out all the details of the murders and kidnappings. Maybe later on somebody can use it to help the people she harmed.”

Doris didn’t respond to his statements and accusations. She just looked at him brimming with California innocence.

Leaving the wrecked bureau behind, Xavier and Doris drove up the dark coast in silence.

After talking to Doris for more than an hour, Frank decided to ensconce her in the small room on the north side of the church encampment. Sister Hope, Frank’s stalwart number two at the church, took the girl off for food, a bath, and a night’s sleep.

“You were right to bring her here, Brother Ecks,” Frank said.

“She might have been there when Benol and her partner brought the three boys in. She’s the right age. I didn’t have the heart to interrogate her that far yet.”

“Do you want Sister Hope to ask?”

“No. No, I’ll do it tomorrow. But could you get Clyde to decode the contents of this journal using this.” He handed the red book and parchment page to the minister.

“Will you be going home?”

“I was hoping you’d let me sleep on one of the pews tonight.”

“That’s a hard bed.”

“I’ve always wanted to do that, Frank. Sleep in the room with no one else around.”

Frank smiled and then nodded.

Xavier slept on the front pew to the right of the Speakers’ Spot. He lay on his back, hands crossed over his chest like an undertaker’s approximation of eternal sleep. There was a half-moon peering in from the westernmost southern window. The lunar glow was peaceful, but it was the silence that made Ecks smile in his sleep: a hush so complete that it felt imposed by some greater being, some outer force too large to enter the church in its entirety. There was no electric hum or water flowing through wall-bound pipes, no cars from the road or distant music.

Even asleep Xavier reveled in the quiet. In that room slumber was a blessing, silence a sanctity, and breath the consecration and proof of the sermons Father Frank espoused.

“Brother Ecks.”

Xavier was aware in a separate, unconscious place in his mind that he had a role in life. His heart and mind, muscle, and even his rage were indentured to a fate beyond his control. He had not killed the white man with the crowbar in his chest. He allowed Winter Johnson to decide his own fate. Almost every step he had ever taken was the wrong step, and still he was there on this bench—a pawn of something possibly divine and definitely unknowable.

“Brother Ecks.” He felt a hand on his shoulder.

Xavier Rule had been born, he thought, with the potential for purpose. He could have turned away. He could have strangled Pinky in her sleep and never met Frank. He had lost hope, but hope had not forgotten him.

He opened his eyes to see Sister Hope leaning over him on the pew. She wasn’t smiling, but she never smiled. Her face was twice the size you’d expect. It dwarfed her head, which, in turn, seemed too large for her slender form. Her skin was the color of bright amber, and she had met menopause and conquered its storm like the conquistadors on ships bound for a new world.

“Hope,” he said.

“People may start coming in soon for morning meditations,” she said. “They don’t always come, but we would like to keep the room hospitable for them if they do arrive.”

“I’ve never seen you at Expressions,” Ecks said.

Her eyes were darker amber. She grimaced sadly.

“No,” she said. “I am the matron of the plant. I keep it running. That’s my job, my only penance.”

“And what is your sin?” Xavier asked the question almost innocently, without force or even the expectation of being answered.

The large face turned down and somehow in on itself. The dark beads of her eyes went cold.

“In the old country my father was a drunkard and my mother had too many children. She died and during a famine when I was not yet a woman it was up to me to make sure that my younger brothers and sisters survived.…”

In a rush of intuition Xavier understood that part of Hope’s self-imposed punishment was to confess her sin whenever asked. It was why she never left the church. It was her iron maiden to bear..

“… I lured a boy into a trap I’d made. I killed him and skinned his body. I cut him into pieces and brought him home to feed my starving family. I did that fourteen times.”

Xavier sighed and then stood. He wanted to apologize to the woman, but even that, he realized, would be another burden.

She squared her shoulders and adjusted the loose, full-length black uniform that she always wore. They peered into each other’s eyes and accepted the pain they both felt.

“Ecks!” a man’s voice commanded.

The shout seemed to fit the situation. There would be no easy egress from the cannibal child-memory.

Captain Guillermo Soto was striding down between the pews on a collision course with the Harlem hard man.

“Guilly. How’d you know I was here?”

“I called Clyde.”

“Oh. I see.”

“I’m placing you under arrest,” the LA cop exclaimed. He reached out to clamp his big hand on Xavier’s steel-banded left forearm.

This was a mistake.

Pivoting from his hip, Xavier pulled the larger man off balance. At the same time Ecks sent out a straight right fist that knocked the big cop flat on his back on the flagstone floor.

But Guillermo Soto was not a soft man. He bounced from the floor with a .357 Magnum in his left hand.

In his mind Xavier had already kicked the right-hand bench at Soto, was already crouching to his left and pulling the throwing knife he kept in a sheath on his right shin. In Xavier’s mind Soto was almost already dead.…

“Stop!” Father Frank called from the doorway behind the Speaker’s Spot.

Sister Hope stood there passively, understanding that she, at that moment, could not stay the foolish men.

“I can’t stop, Frank!” Soto shouted. “This is my prisoner.”

“This is sanctuary,” Frank replied.

Xavier stood up straight.

Soto lowered his high-powered pistol.

“There’s a woman dead, Frank,” the LA cop said. “A man too, and one critically wounded. There’s a girl missing and a basement filled with the skeletons of children.”

“There was a truck left out in the Arizona sun with sixteen dead workers in it,” Frank said. “There was a shoot-out in Chihuahua where women and children were caught in the cross fire.”

A shudder ran through Soto.

Xavier squelched the desire to kill the man.

“It’s my job,” Captain Soto said.

“I’m speaking to your faith.”

“Did you kill them, Ecks?” Soto asked.

“I shot the one guy and threw the crowbar into the other one’s chest. But they were getting ready to kill me and burn down the house. I think they wanted to remove Sedra’s body, maybe the skeletons too.”

“What about the girl?”

“She was gone when I got there.”

“Where is she now?”

“You have all the answers you need, Brother Soto,” Frank said. “Brother Ecks is blameless.”

“You aren’t the law, Frank.”

“I am within these walls.”

“I have a life, man,” Guillermo said, “and a duty.”

“A life maintained by Hope and Ecks and the rest of us.”

Guillermo Soto tucked his gun into a holster on his hip while staring at Xavier.

Sister Hope turned away and left through the exit door.

Frank watched both men with a wary and yet somehow world-weary eye.

“Are you telling me everything, Ecks?” Soto said.

“I told you enough.”

“Where’s the girl?”

“Free at last.”

The big Mexican’s eyes narrowed. He seemed about to ask something else but swallowed the words.

Turning to Frank he said, “I got a job to do. You can’t blackmail me or browbeat me or talk me down. I will find out what happened, and those that are guilty will pay. It doesn’t matter if you turn me over too. I will do what’s right.”

“I would never betray your trust, Brother Soto,” Frank said. “Your confessions among us are sacrosanct.”

“Even if these crimes were committed by members, Frank,” Soto uttered through clenched teeth. “You’ve said more than once that you are not here to protect us if we stray.”

“Just so,” the minister said.

Another shiver went through the big cop’s frame and he turned on his heel, strode up the aisle and out of the church.

Xavier was still thinking about the young girl who killed and gutted children so that her brothers and sisters could survive. For a moment he was nearly overcome by the feelings of empathy and impotence.

“You will have to take her out of here,” Frank said.

“Who?” Xavier asked; he was still thinking of the cannibal.

“Doris. Guillermo might turn his work over to an associate and they could very well get a warrant.”

“That would destroy the church,” Xavier said, the sheathed knife in his mind.

“I doubt if it will come to that. But better be safe. Brother Soto may be having a crisis of faith.”

“What will you do?” Xavier asked, trying to shake the knife out of his thoughts.

“Pray for him. Maybe pray with him. He doesn’t like you and so it is easy for him to believe the worst.”

“I hear that.”

“Find Hope and tell her to bring you out of here through the Revelation Road. Take the girl somewhere where Soto won’t find her. Leave the church and its safety up to me.”

Sister Hope was kneeling in the corner of a doorless white stone room carved out of the inner wall of the courtyard. He suspected that she was praying for the spirits of eaten children.

“Hope,” he said softly.

She stood up automaton-like and turned her huge head and face toward him.

“Yes, Brother?”

“Frank told me to ask you to get Ms. Milne and show us the way out down something called the Revelation Road.”

“Certainly.”

Hope walked across the yard with measured steps and climbed a rough-hewn ladder up to the second tier of the fortress wall. Then she disappeared within the catacomb inside.

Xavier sat at one of the outside tables and wondered about the inevitability of a violent death.

He had always been a fighter. Ambidextrous, naturally strong, and bathed in the hormonal chemistry of rage—he had never backed down and rarely lost a contest. This state of being for him was natural, like rats in an alley or the sun chasing after the moon. He didn’t realize that he was an evil man until the day that he and Frank sat and talked in that dark bar. He wasn’t able to remember most of the words that passed between them. All he knew was that he’d follow Frank anywhere. Right after that initial meeting Frank took Xavier up to Seabreeze City to spend three weeks in a solitary fourth-floor room that faced the ocean. Food and drink were brought for him at regular intervals and there was a bathroom down the corridor.

He met with Frank every Wednesday and Saturday and sat on the back pew at the services on Sunday. He attended the Expressions but was asked not to speak or comment.

He was instructed in how to pray by giving life to the Spirit rather than asking for boons, apologizing for being human, or thanking the Infinite for being.

He disliked Guillermo but still considered him a brother. They were all on the same page of damnation and they all worked hard to dispel the stench of their lives.

Soto might have shot him in the main hall; or Ecks might have killed the cop. But these actions were not from hatred, not hatred of each other. And even if they despised each other they were still brothers—even in conflict.

Xavier smiled and shook his head.

Always give yourself enough time to reflect, Frank had said on more than one occasion. The Infinite always takes the right step. We are like the Infinite, only infants that are, ever so carefully, experimenting with first attempts at walking.

“Mr. Noland?”

Doris Milne was wearing a green dress with yellow polka dots that came down just below her knees. The neckline was high and the sleeves short. Her pumps were medium gray and she carried a small pink suitcase that Xavier did not remember bringing.

“Where’d you get the bag?” Ecks asked.

“Sister Hope gave it to me. I didn’t have anything the right size.”

Hope was standing there behind the girl.

We are all sinners, Frank said at some point in every sermon. Xavier understood this claim more and more each day.

Inside Frank’s antechamber, behind an antique African tapestry depicting an early European settlement somewhere on the Ivory Coast, was a doorway that Xavier had not seen before. The tapestry was composed like a rude painting, with some people made from white cloth and others rendered in red. Frank had explained that the red people were the whites whose skin flushed under the strong African sun.

“And the white ones are black like me,” Ecks had said.

“Amen, Brother.”

The doorway led to a ladder that carried the trio down forty feet or so to a wide tunnel that had been excavated and reinforced decades before.

“Bootleggers once used this route to move their liquor and guns,” Hope said.

“You mean this wasn’t always a church?” Xavier asked.

“It was always a house of worship,” she replied. “Sometimes their intentions had gone astray.”

The tunnel went on for nearly a mile until they came to another ladder. At the top was a door that was disguised from the outside as a stone slab. They exited into a cave where the smell of the ocean was strong.

Outside, from behind a stand of coastal mugwort brush they came to a parking lot not twenty feet from the sand beach. The lot was made for eight or nine cars but there was only one vehicle there—a dark green 1961 Cadillac with its stubby fins and heavy white shark form.

“This is the minister’s private automobile, brother,” Hope said. “He asks everyone who borrows it not to dent it—if possible.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“It’s only a car,” Hope said.

Knowing her past, Xavier thought that he understood what she meant.

“So,” Xavier said as he drove the Fleetwood in heavy morning traffic down the coast highway, “how did those two thugs know to come to the house?”

“What?”

“Come on now, Doris. Two men came to the Culver City house to remove evidence and burn the place down. They even had a plastic body bag with them.”

“Did you kill them?”

“I’m asking the questions.”

“I … I knew somebody was coming but I didn’t call them.”

“You knew that they’d get rid of your aunt’s body.”

“She called them. She told me that they were going to do scorched earth on the house.”

“What about the body bag?”

“Isn’t that obvious? That was meant for me.”

“The note came from your hotel.”

“Auntie had a whole stack of that stationery. If you have the note you can see that it’s in her hand. Anyway, I don’t know how to write.”

“So you figured they’d take Sedra out with the bones. That way there’d be no evidence against you.”

“I didn’t know what would happen, not exactly. It was her plan.”

“But her death was definitely first-degree, premeditated murder.”

This time Doris merely nodded.

“You’re a very dangerous woman, Ms. Milne. And, you know, coming from me that’s saying something.”

“I did what I had to do,” she said in an odd tone.

“Did your aunt Sedra used to say that?”

“Yes. How did you know?”

“How many of the children buried in the vault did you kill?” Xavier asked.

“None.”

“You sure?”

“I helped Sedra kill the two men and a woman, but the children were either sick or they got in trouble. One came to us with a broken arm and Sedra told me to kill her but I said no.”

“And what about the adults?”

“She’d tell me to drug them, then use the bat.”

“How old were you?”

“I was thirteen when we killed Mr. Moulton.”

“Who was he?”

“Him and Brayton used to bring babies together every few months or so, but then Mr. Moulton wanted to bring us kids on his own. He didn’t know that Brayton had a deal with the people Sedra used to find the kids’ homes. When Mr. Moulton brought us his first kid without Brayton, Sedra told him that they’d celebrate the new arrangement with a glass of wine. She told me that when he started talking funny, I should run out and hit him with the bat or he’d kill us all.”

“Why did you kill Sedra?”

“Because she was going to kill me. Because she said we were going to go away but I knew I didn’t have a passport and she had always said that she couldn’t take me anywhere without a passport.”

“Do you feel guilty about killing her?”

Doris turned her head to regard her new acquaintance.

“No,” she said. “I’m scared to be alone. I don’t have a passport or anything.”

“Had you been thinking about killing Sedra before yesterday?”

“I thought about it. I thought that if she ever tried to kill me or anything that I’d have my bat. I used to practice hitting a tree in the backyard sometimes, and if she ever asked me why I’d just say that I wanted to be ready if she needed me to use it again.”

“Why did you worry about her hurting you? You said you thought she loved you.”

“When she’d drink she’d tell me she had done terrible things. She never said what exactly. She said that if I ever knew what she’d done, she’d have to kill me so that I would never say. She said that because I was an accomplice in what we did to those people she didn’t have to worry about that, but the other things …”

For a time after that they sat in silence. Doris turned away, then rolled down her window, allowing the smell of the sea to rush in. Unexpectedly the odor calmed Xavier. He hadn’t realized that he was getting riled listening to the crazy logic of the young woman’s life—not until the atmosphere of salt and sea wrapped around him.

Taking in long breaths, Xavier felt a wolfish smile form on his lips. This, he knew, was a kind of anticipation, the way he felt before he and Swan would go out and transact business.

“You bruised my chest,” Doris said, looking out her open window.

“Huh?”

“When you hit me at the house.”

“I was trying to break your jaw.”

“Are you going to have sex with me?”

“What?”

“Sex.”

“You keep asking me that,” he said.

“Men always want to have sex. Aunt Sedra told me so.”

“She also said that your parents were dead and that they didn’t want you back.”

“So?”

“She lied. Everything was a lie. That house, the adoptions, you needing a passport … Everything she told you was untrue. So if you want to know the truth, just think of what Sedra told you and the opposite is the right answer.”

Doris turned in her seat, bringing her left thigh up to lie flat on the emerald cushion. The skin flashed white beneath the green of her hem.

“I’m not wearing my panties.”

“Oh?”

“And I shaved my pussy so there’s only a razor line of hair pointing down at the clit. The hairs fan out like a feather.”

Suddenly Xavier yanked the steering wheel to the right. The Cadillac jerked and Doris yelped. Two cars behind honked long and loud but Ecks paid them no heed. He pulled off onto a slender shoulder perched twenty feet or so above the beach.

He turned like she had, pulling his right knee up, revealing a portion of his sheathed knife.

“Listen here, girl. You need to understand something. Most men are walking down the street not thinkin’ nuthin’ special. Pizza they ate last night. The ache in their gut. Maybe they’re worried that they’re gonna get fired or found out. They see a young thing like you and they might think, ‘Hey, she’s pretty,’ and walk on. But you come up and start talkin’ about your panties, pussy, and clit and they will get a hard-on. They will. But not ’cause they want sex—it’s because you want them to want to have sex. That’s what your aunt taught you. She taught you how to be a whore.

“Whores make men want to have sex and then they get paid for givin’ it. Whores do that. The only woman I want to have sex with wants to have sex with me. If she don’t want it, I don’t want it. You understand that? It’s not a trade-off but a give-off.”

It was then that Xavier realized that Doris was trembling. He had lost his temper again. He had crossed the line that Father Frank had drawn for all the parishioners of his church.

“I’m sorry,” he said, sitting back against the Fleetwood’s door.

“A-a-about what?”

“I just got mad there. Instead of makin’ me want sex you got me mad. Pretty young woman like you should be all nervous about what’s under your dress and in a man’s pants. It should make you giggle and blush.”

Xavier turned back to the steering wheel, looked over his left shoulder, and pulled out into the crowded highway. A car or two honked briefly but there was no collision.

A few minutes later she said, “Sometimes Sedra made me be with men that hit me.”

“Do you remember Brayton bringing you three blond baby boys?” he replied.

“Yes.”

“You do?”

“It was a few weeks after Little Mr. Smith died. I remember that they were so cute, but I wouldn’t give them names because of how hurt I was over the baby dying.”

“What happened to the boys?”

“People came and took them.”

“All three together?”

“No. They each went with someone different.”

“Do you remember anything about the people they went with?”

“Can I come stay with you if I promise not to talk about sex?”

“What?”

“Hope said that you were taking me someplace to hide while you found out what to do about Aunt Sedra and the house.”

“No, baby. I mean … yeah, I am gonna take you someplace, but you can’t be with me. All the women stay with me got their panties on … at least at first. No, you can’t stay with me.”

“I have underwear in my bag.”

“Do you remember anything about who took those boys?”

“There was a nice couple. I think their name was Brown, something like that,” she said. “If I promise to be good can I stay with you?”

“No.”

“I don’t remember hardly anything else. I think one of the boys was taken by a man. He smelled like perfume and had a light suit. I remember all three boys were wrapped in these blue-and-brown-checkered blankets.”

“That’s good enough for now. It was a long time ago.”

“I really want to stay with you.”

“I know. But you don’t have much experience. You’d want to stay anywhere after Sedra’s. Where I’m going to take you is the perfect place for you to begin to learn all the things you don’t know.”

The Hammer and Nail hardware store was on Santa Monica Boulevard in the middle of West Hollywood. Xavier found a parking place down the street and carried Doris’s pink suitcase as they walked in the front door.

“Hey, sailor,” a recorded male voice said suggestively when they set off the electric eye.

It was a normal hardware store dealing in metal fittings, power tools, and screws and nails of all types and sizes.

On the left side of the spacious room was the sales counter. Behind this stood a tall, powerfully built pink man whose lips were thick and roughly in the shape of a heart.

“Ecks,” the man said.

“George,” Xavier Rule replied.

“Who’s your friend?”

“This is Charlotte.” It was a name they agreed on a few minutes before parking. “Frank needs for her to lie low for a few days. And you shouldn’t tell anybody—especially no one from the congregation.”

“Okay. And you know she’ll certainly be safe in my house.”

“Charlotte, this is George Ben,” Xavier said. “You two have a lot in common—you both like men.”

“Girl, you look too cute in those polka dots,” George said, and for the first time Doris smiled without a self-conscious look in her eye.

“Thank you,” she said.

“Forgive her if she doesn’t know how to act, George. She’s led a very, very sheltered life.”

“In the closet, huh?” the big pink man said.

“Under a trapdoor at the back of the old coats,” Xavier said, “with a padlock on either side.”

“Don’t you worry, Charlotte. You and I will be best girlfriends.”

Doris’s eyes creased and Xavier had one of his rare laughs. He turned to leave but Doris grabbed at his sleeve.

“George has my phone number,” the gangster said. “If you need something you can call me anytime.”

“I’ve never slept anywhere but Sedra’s house and the Federal,” she said.

“There’s a whole new world out there. And one thing’s for sure—no one will hurt you with George Ben on your side.”

“That’s a fact,” George said.

Doris looked between the two men, released Xavier’s sleeve tentatively, and brought her hands together.

“If you call me I’ll come,” Xavier promised before walking out the front door.

“Hey, sailor,” the recorded voice said.

Xavier liked Frank’s dark green Fleetwood almost as much as he did his pink, sea green, and chrome Edsel. Old classic cars delighted him. The only things he felt unambivalent passion for were gaudy clothes, fighting, and classic cars. He had tried to change but even that late morning, climbing over the mountain through the canyon, he found himself luxuriating in the driver’s seat and wanting to resurrect Sedra so that he could slap her face.

Down the canyon road, then a short jaunt on the freeway and Xavier found himself in Pasadena. It wasn’t long before he parked in front of a big house that looked like a miniature baronial estate on Galleon Drive.

Upon getting out of the car he paid momentary obeisance to the lovely eighty-two-degree Southern California day. The sky was blue and the fat palm tree in the Berbers’ front yard seemed lively enough to pull its shallow roots out of the soil and do a jig.

The lawn was so green that it looked painted, and the flat-faced violet flowers that grew on vines clinging to the trellis of the front porch gave the vague impression of laughing faces.

Southern California didn’t seem to be on the same planet that New York City inhabited. The days were longer and the nights shorter. People smiled more and cared less. And in Los Angeles there was more of a chance of you disappearing with no one noticing that you were gone—or remembering that you’d been there at all.

Xavier walked up the six white steps to the wide porch and advanced on the closed door.

“Can I help you?” a voice to his right said.

Ecks turned but all he saw were two wicker chairs facing the flowering trellis. They were old, weather-worn chairs fitted with faded cushions.… Slowly a shape came into view; an elderly man was seated in the nearest straw throne. He was so thin and wan that he blended into the washed-out fabric like a chameleon might subtly come to resemble branch and leaf.

“Mr. Berber?”

“Yes?”

The man leaned forward, coming fully into being before Xavier’s eyes. He had an oblong head, which was bald and marked by two liver spots. His glasses had perfectly round lenses way too large for his face, and his waxen smile had forgotten the humor that spawned it.

“My name is Arlen, Arlen Johns,” Xavier said. “I’m a deacon of the Interfaith Church of Redemption.”

The vapid smile broadened slightly, gaining no sincerity at all.

“A deacon?”

“I’ve come here on a church mission,” Xavier said. “You are Clay Berber, are you not?”

“Yes.”

“Can I sit with you for a few moments?”

Berber was probably in his late sixties, but he might have been eighty by the way he held himself. The older man seemed to consider Xavier’s request in earnest, weighing all of the consequences of the pending decision.

“What is it that you want, Mr.…?”

“Johns.”

“What is it that you want, Mr. Johns?”

“Can I sit down?”

Once again the old skull cogitated. After deep consideration it nodded its assent.

Xavier lowered himself into the far seat, taking on, in his heart, the role of a church deacon.

He returned the old man’s cold smile.

“A woman came to us through an intermediary,” Xavier said. “Her name is Charlotte Moran.”

Maintaining his vagueness, Clay Berber nodded.

“She lived at the home of a woman named Sedra Landcombe twenty years and more ago,” Xavier continued. “While she was there she remembers that one night a man named Brayton Starmon brought three blond baby boys to Sedra’s home and left them there. In the days that followed people came to take the children. Money changed hands.”

The meaningless smile evaporated.

“Charlotte didn’t remember much, but she told us that she believed the children were wrapped in blue-and-brown-checkered blankets.”

“We got a deal on those covers,” Clay said. “Rose bought them from the main distributor in Tarzana.”

“Our church researcher found out that twenty-three years ago you had three babies kidnapped from a nursery you ran out of your home.”

“God knows we didn’t need the money,” the old man said to the flowering vine. “I was a machinist at McDonnell Douglas and made more than enough. But Rose just wanted something to do. She loved children. She loved Benol, but that child was a bad seed, bad seed.”

“Do you think that those babies Charlotte saw were the ones stolen from your house?” Xavier asked.

“Why haven’t you gone to the police, Mr. Johns?” The dreamy distance of his bearing was suddenly gone.

“We didn’t have any kind of corroboration, Mr. Berber. It was just a young woman talking about a child’s spotty memory. But now that you have identified those blankets we can go to the police. We can get them to track down this Sedra Landcombe.”

Clay was trembling in his chair.

“It’s getting cold out here,” he said, shocked not by the weather but by memories he’d rather have gone undisturbed.

“Is your wife still alive, sir?”

“What?”

“Your wife. Is she still alive?”

“Alive?”

“Yes.”

“She’s alive,” he said, as if the state were somehow conditional.

“May I speak with her?”

“Speak? To Rose?”

“Yes. I’d like to know if she remembers anything else.”

“It was my fault, Mr. Johns. I brought Benol into this house. She was the one kidnapped those boys. My younger brother married her mother when Bennie was only two. As soon as his lust was satisfied Edward left Benol’s mother. When his ex-wife died my brother was already a drunk. I took the girl in when the foster care services of Miami reached out to me. Worst mistake I ever made in my life. It was my fault that those children were stolen. Mine alone.”

“I’m a Christian,” Xavier said—it wasn’t really a lie. “I cast no stones or blame. I merely want to be of service.”

“You want to talk to Rose?”

“Yes, sir, I do.”

“You won’t get anything out of her.”

“I won’t lose anything either.”

Clay Berber smiled with real humor. The phrase, or maybe its simple structure, reminded him of a happier time.

“Well … help me up then.”

The house was open and barren. The first room they passed through contained only a gold-colored stuffed chair against a scarred wall that was sheathed in dulled, peeling wallpaper. The next room was larger, with no rugs on the dusty oak floor and a sofa sitting in the middle of the otherwise vacant space. The faint smell of garbage wafted through a doorway that probably led to the kitchen.

In the middle of the back wall of the living room was a black door that opened onto the shaggy overgrown yard.

The grounds behind the Berber home seemed to Rule like the edge of some vast wilderness. A giant blue pine loomed over the house and front portion of the backyard. Tall grasses moved in the afternoon breeze, seeming to have almost animal mobility. Tropical-looking flowers with purple petals and triplet yellow stamens hung from a vine from which also depended the occasional egg-shaped golden fruit. These vines served as covering for the high redwood fencing. Unkempt, man-size bushes and overgrown weeds vied for space among the outer shadows of the tree. Down a path of white stone disks Clay led Xavier through this wasteland and to the other side, where a weeping willow sat behind a self-generated curtain of light green leaves.

There came the faint sound of a human voice from behind the blind of branches and tiny, razorlike leaves. It was the sound of continual meaningless mumbling. This voice was hoarse from overuse. Maybe a woman.

Clay stopped at the swaying barrier. He brought his left hand to his chin.

Xavier waited for the old man to build up courage. He was in no rush.

Finally Berber brought his hands together like a swimmer or a praying penitent and parted the hanging branches. Xavier followed him through, into shadows.

The soil underneath the willow was barren for lack of sunlight. It was cooler under there, and empty except for an old stocky white woman in an ankle-long colorless bag of a dress sitting on a wooden crate and talking, talking, talking.

“Ooo de bal into seem it been,” she said grinning happily. “Popo tom is far long at ti ti remo pie.”

She sat spread-legged on the low fruit crate talking and gesticulating, living in a world removed.

“She sleeps on the couch in the living room and comes out here every morning,” Clay said. “I bring her water and tuna fish sandwiches, sometimes tomato soup.”

Xavier noticed the water bottle standing beside the wooden seat. Next to that was a large leather purse with big looping handles.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Berber,” the highly specialized deacon said. “How are you today?”

The woman stopped babbling and seemed to notice the men for the first time.

“Hello?” she asked.

“Yes,” Xavier replied, “hello.”

She grinned broadly, showing her few remaining stumpy yellow teeth.

“Ooo ti do my.”

“He came to ask about those boys,” Clay Berber said. “The ones that Benol kidnapped.”

The snarl that came into Rose Berber’s face caused a physical reaction in Xavier, just as if he had encountered a feral beast in the backyard jungle. It was then that he noticed the odor of urine mixed in with the stronger scents of plant and soil.

Rose made her interpretation of a muffled roar and stood up.

Clay took a step backward.

“Why don’t you let me talk to Mrs. Berber alone for a moment?” Xavier said to the hapless husband.

“You heard her,” the old man answered. “She can’t talk at all.”

“Sometimes the words aren’t in the mouth and ear,” Xavier said, quoting from one of Father Frank’s sermons. “Sometimes hearts and minds communicate.”

Xavier hadn’t known exactly what Frank meant until meeting Rose Berber. But Clay understood immediately.

“I’ll just be a few feet away,” Clay said to his wife and their visitor.

When he passed through the wall of willow leaves Rose sat down on her crate again.

Xavier approached her and she looked up at him—her eyes filled with wonder. There was no fear there at all.

“Ooo ti.”

Xavier crouched down, bringing his head a few inches below hers and about a foot away. She took in a breath of anticipation and held it for a moment or two. When she exhaled the stagnant gust broke across Xavier’s face, but he didn’t flinch or move away. He’d been in New York’s filthiest back alleys and in the company of dead bodies and their gases. He’d smelled the rot of crack dens and heroin addicts’ beds. He’d breathed in the blood of his enemies.

“Can I look in your bag, Rose?”

“Abara abba.”

“No,” he said patiently, “in your bag.”

He gestured toward the openmouthed leather sack with its big arching handles. It had once been brown but had faded and whitened until it was mouse colored, tawny, and cracked.

“Hello?” Rose Berber said.

“Bag?”

“Ooo la la?”

“Oui oui.”

Rose grinned at some faint memory of language. Xavier touched the nearest handle of her bag and she froze. He touched her hardened, weathered hand and she grabbed his thumb with the strength of a powerful infant.

Using his free hand Xavier reached into the bag, grabbed onto the papers inside, and secreted them under his jacket. All of this was driven by intuition. He felt the old woman’s secrets, smelled them on her dress and in the dirt around her crate.

He stood up quickly, pulling his thumb from her grasp.

“Osh barning, barning,” she lamented, and Xavier wondered if maybe there was some kind of sublime meaning to her nonsense.

He didn’t ponder this riddle but walked out of the tree room into the wilderness yard where Clay Berber waited.

“I told you she couldn’t talk,” the old man said.

“She does nothing but talk, brother. What you meant to say is that we don’t understand.”

While walking down the front pathway from the Berber residence, Xavier felt like he used to when leaving the scene of a crime he’d just committed; furtive and vulnerable, angry and even a little bit giddy.

Clay was standing on the topmost white step of his home, watching as Xavier unlocked the door of the Fleetwood.

At that moment a tortured scream came from behind the house. Clay turned and, hobbling in the pantomime of a run, headed through the front door. Xavier slid behind the steering wheel, turned the key, and drove off before his crime could be discovered and avenged.

On the rooftop parking lot three blocks from his Flower Street apartment, Xavier brought out the thick tattered sheaf of papers he stole from the wilderness woman and her sad, fading husband. There were newspaper and magazine articles about the kidnappings. There was a picture of Benol at the age of twelve or thirteen that looked something like her—but not enough for an ID. There was a letter from a police detective, Simon Lowe, stating that, though the investigation would never be closed, the police had come to a dead end in finding their niece or the babies she’d taken.

Xavier sifted through the articles, reading a bit of one and then passing on to another. He already knew the names of the children’s parents; Benol’s document had provided all that. He thought that he knew more than anything Rose Berber could have collected until a postcard dropped from the stack onto the seat next to him.

There was an alligator attacking a blue heron on the photo face. The bird was just rising up from a lake, its whitish blue-gray wings struggling against the air. The alligator had clamped onto its left claw, however, and was pulling the beautiful bird down into murky green darkness.

On the other side of the card the postal stamp said Tampa, Florida, and was dated February 9, 1993—five years after the kidnappings.

C, I need some money. Not too much. Just enough to pay rent and groceries for two months. $856. B

The card was most probably addressed to Clay Berber but what was the threat? Benol had moved to Florida; she admitted that herself. “B” had signed the postcard.

Xavier walked the long way ’round to his apartment building, considering what the postcard meant. The papers felt hot in his hand and so when he passed the neighborhood post office he went in and sent an express mail package, containing the papers he stole, to Father Frank and Sister Hope. He sent everything but the postcard.

That done, he headed for his building, thinking that this would be a nice evening for peppermint schnapps and Charles Dickens.

He took the stairs two at a time while recalling the old days, when he was often going up or down the back way to keep out of sight from the cops. Technically he was still on the run, but he didn’t see his life like that anymore. Now he was a new man in a new life, far removed, invisible, and free—to serve.

He stopped at his own door, a sixth or maybe seventh sense warning him of something, something.

But Ecks was not the kind of criminal who was controlled by fear. He felt the pangs of terror, lived under the reign of threat, but he only ever took a step backward so that he could attack from a better position; that fact, as his alcoholic father often said, was both his creed and his breed.

So when he opened the door and saw the big man sitting at his yellow table, he felt mild surprise but not fear. The men in suits flanking the inside of his front door were no revelation either. He didn’t back up because he could hear the footsteps behind him in the hallway.

Xavier walked into the center of the small room and stared.

“Mr. Noland?” the seated man, who was obviously in charge, asked. He had an accent: French, not French Canadian.

Xavier had never met a French cop before.

“And you are?”

“Detective Andre Tourneau.” He wore a darkish tan trench coat with buttoned flaps on the shoulders and a sash hanging down to the floor. He was a big man but not necessarily fat. Ecks wondered at the violence that might reside behind his small green eyes.

“Cops?” Xavier asked, moving his head to take in all of his company.

“Have a seat, Mr. Noland,” Tourneau offered. It was almost as if the apartment were Tourneau’s office and Xavier was the unwilling guest.

Ecks lowered himself onto one of his hardwood chairs and leaned back onto the two back legs. A glance out the window told him that his Edsel had been returned, parked as it was behind his newspaper delivery truck.

Xavier then peered at his surprise visitor. He would have called himself a white man, though his skin was light olive. His hair was like a weathered brown roof atop a country cottage. Tourneau was in his fifties but exuded the vitality of an animal in the wild. Either he had good genes or he paid close attention to his physical health.

“Do you know why I’m here?” Tourneau asked.

“To give me a citizenship award of some kind?”

“You were seen running—staggering, actually—from a home in Culver City yesterday. The next day that domicile was found to be a crime scene.”

“Oh? And who is the criminal?”

Tourneau smiled.

Xavier took a look at the four standing cops who were now crowding his small studio. They were all suited, tall, and of almost every race the city had to offer.

The Rainbow Squad, Ecks thought, and then he smiled at the phrase.

“Something funny?” Tourneau asked.

“No,” Ecks said to the cop. “I went to Mrs. Landcombe’s house to ask her about a friend of mine, an Albert Timmerman, who lived in Seaside. Albert knew her in his younger days. When he was dying he asked me to tell her about his passing. All he remembered was her first name and the corner where her house was. I went there and she offered me a drink. The next thing I knew the room was spinning and someone tried to hit me with a baseball bat. I ran out the door, down a long street, and smack-dab into a moving car.”

“Did Timmerman die?”

“Yes. Heart attack. He’s buried in the graveyard in Seaside. That’s a little town just north of Seabreeze City.”

The detective stared for a moment, two. He was digesting the information, moving it around behind his beady eyes like puzzle pieces that had multiple resolutions—but only one true answer.

“Why didn’t you give this information to Captain Soto?” Tourneau asked.

“At first I didn’t remember. I didn’t know anything when I woke up in that hospital bed. Not a damn thing. The blow to the head added to whatever drugs they gave me. It’s only been coming back in snatches.”

“Maybe you decided to go back to Mrs. Landcombe’s home and confront her,” Tourneau offered.

“Look, man,” Ecks said with an edge to his voice. “I’m not gonna argue with you or suppose this or that. I didn’t go back to that house or commit any kinda crime. You wanna arrest me and take me to jail … okay, I’ll go. I’m not gonna fight you either.”

“That’s a good decision,” Tourneau said, and Ecks realized that he was facing someone who was very much like him—violent and proud.

Xavier held out his hands, palms up and steady, saying, “Handcuffs?”

He stared into the detective’s green beads, letting him know that in a dark alley, with no one else around, the fight would be on.

“How did a high-ranking captain like Soto get your case?” the displaced Frenchman asked.

“Say what?” Xavier put his dark hands on the bright yellow table, palms down.

“You understand.”

“I understand the question, but I have no idea what happened after that car hit me. I woke up and your brother in blue was standin’ over me. I sure in hell didn’t call him, and I have no idea how the LAPD dispatches its police.”

“Why did Landcombe try to kill you?”

“I don’t know that she did. Maybe she just wanted to knock me out.”

“This isn’t your first police interview, is it, Mr. Noland?”

“Black men talk to cops all the time, Detective. I don’t know what it’s like in the country you come from, but here in America there’s a great intimacy between black men and officers of the law, not much friendliness but close, still and all.”

Tourneau raised his eyebrows and opened his eyes wide for a moment. The possibility for normal-size eyes was a surprise to Ecks.

“You haven’t asked about the crime committed at Landcombe’s home,” the Frenchman noted.

“I don’t care. I’m finished with that woman.”

“Did you see a young woman there? White, blond?”

“No. Must have been somebody, though, because I was lookin’ at Sedra when the baseball bat hit me.”

“How did you know it was a bat?”

“I grabbed the suckah and pulled it away from my attacker. You know I got a hard head, man. I ran for the door with the bat in my hand and dropped it before goin’ outside, or maybe I let it go on the lawn—I really don’t remember. Either way, I didn’t get a good look at who hit me. And if I did I forgot. But you could understand that.”

The policeman smiled. He was beginning to enjoy himself. He sat back and laced his hands together, elbows placed at a wide angle on the table. After assuming this pose he pursed his lips.

“You have no verifiable explanation for your visit to Landcombe’s home,” he said. “This Albert Timmerman is dead. So is Sedra Landcombe.”

“Oh? How’d she die?”

“Bludgeon, maybe a baseball bat. It was quite gruesome.”

“Got my fingerprints on it? Is that why you’re here?”

The detective smiled again, enjoying the back-and-forth.

“Are you busy right now, Mr. Noland?”

“Just talkin’ to you and your friends.”

“Would you like to accompany us to a place where we can settle this issue?”

“What issue?”

“We know you were at the Landcombe residence once,” he said. “Some of my associates think you may have been there at yet another time.”

“What kind of place?” Xavier asked.

“A place of goodwill.” Tourneau smiled again. Ecks liked this smile.

“Sure. Why not?”

He rose from the chair and the two business-suited cops, one black and the other Asian, who were standing at the inside of the door came up quickly, each grabbing an arm.

Ecks held his arms down straight and stiff so that the men had great difficulty trying to get his wrists close enough together for the handcuffs. After a moment of strain Tourneau’s smile broadened.

“Release your arms,” the black cop warned.

“Let him alone, Mr. Jason,” Tourneau said. “After all, he’s not under arrest. Not yet.”

Elfin Incorporated was a medium-size medical building on Robertson Boulevard, a few blocks north of Wilshire. The five policemen and Xavier Rule walked in near four in the afternoon. The small elderly woman behind the round, clear plastic reception desk was disturbed by men so many and so big.

“C-can I help you?” she asked.

“Dr. Topaz, if you please,” Tourneau said.

“Can I tell him what it’s about?”

“Police business.”

“And you are?” she asked.

This last question caught Rule’s attention. The woman was bothered by the men but had more connection to her job than to her fears. She was what was now called African-American, with skin the color of faded ten-carat gold.

“Detective Andre Tourneau,” the cop said, unperturbed.

The receptionist hesitated a moment and then picked up the phone. She cupped a hand around the receiver, mumbled something, listened, mumbled a bit more, and then looked up.

“Room four-oh-four, fourth floor,” she said.

Xavier wondered if she could say that four times fast.

The hallway was pink and gray, with no ornament, and lined with closed doors. The floor was carpeted. There was no chemical smell on the air. This was a livable domicile not designed for serious illness or big brutal men in pretend civilized wear. If the doors could speak, Xavier mused, they would have politely asked the mob to leave.

But there they were, walking toward room number four-oh-four.

This door was ajar.

The Hispanic cop pushed it open.

It was a nice large room with one bed and a window looking out into the western sky. A buxom nurse in her forties was seated in a chair where she could personally monitor the IV drip and the various electronic screens gauging the patient’s biological functions. The nurse was white with handsome features that once must have been beautiful.

A tall East Indian man in a white smock was standing next to the bed. He smiled at the police. Tourneau smiled back.

“Dr. Topaz,” the detective said.

“Sir.”

“How is the patient today?”

At that moment Xavier noticed the purple iris in the tube-shaped vase on the patient’s nightstand.

The man in the hospital bed was the one he’d impaled with the crowbar. His eyes were partly open.

“I just wanted Mr. Mathers to see if he recognized my friend Mr. Noland.”

Ecks felt a hand on his shoulder moving him forward into the bright swath of sunlight coming in through the window.

Mathers looked up with some difficulty.

Xavier was still looking at the flower.

“Who’s this?” the wounded man whispered.

“You don’t recognize this man?” Tourneau asked.

Mathers shook his head no.

“Are you sure?”

“He’s still very weak,” the nurse said. She had risen from her chair and migrated to the bedside.

“You don’t have to worry about this man,” Tourneau went on, ignoring the nurse. “We have him in our custody.”

Xavier smiled. Dr. Topaz frowned, looking into the semiretired criminal’s eyes.

“I don’t know him,” Mathers said. He took a deep breath through his mouth and exhaled through his nostrils.

“Doctor,” the nurse complained.

“Is that all, Detective?” Topaz said.

“Has anyone inquired about the patient?” Tourneau replied.

“A friend of his sister came. She left this flower.”

“What was her name?”

“She called herself Constance Ravell,” the Indian doctor said, “but she was from my part of the world—at least her ancestors were.”

“Did you hear what they said?” the policeman asked the nurse.

“He asked for a few moments alone.”

“I understood that he would have someone with him at all times.”

“This is a hospital, Detective,” the nurse said. “Not a prison.”

Xavier glanced at Mathers. The crook looked him straight in the eye.

He wasn’t one of Father Frank’s though. Ecks wondered what Iridia had said to the man.

Tourneau watched the men as they silently agreed upon mutual silence.

“Who was she?” Tourneau asked Xavier.

“Obviously a sophisticated woman with refined tastes,” Ecks said softly. “Somebody who will come when she’s needed by the sick and the needy.”

The look on the policeman’s face was one of wonder. He had embarked on one kind of journey but suddenly found himself facing a detour sign.

“Thank you, Doctor,” the policeman said. “I guess I was wrong about Mr. Noland.”

Outside on Robertson the cops stood around Xavier. He wondered whether they would beat him right out there in public.

“We don’t have the time to take you home, Mr. Noland,” Tourneau said. “We have multiple murders to solve.”

“Hey,” Ecks said easily, “I understand. You got an important job to do. I know how to take the bus to any stop in the city. I got one’a those transit maps in my wallet.”

The cop smiled and then grinned.

“But you could tell me something,” Ecks added.

“What is that, Mr. Noland?”

“How did a Frenchman ever become an LA cop?”

“My father was French,” he said. “My mother American. When my father died my mother left Nice to come home to California. I was sixteen and I was crazy about girls and police movies. The girls liked my French accent and the police liked my test scores.”

“Takes all kinds, I guess,” Ecks said.

The plum-colored Pontiac pulled up to the curb about half an hour after that. Winter Johnson was behind the wheel. There were bags under his eyes and the weight of deep thought hanging around him like black curtains over an old-time horse-drawn hearse.

“I didn’t ask the company to send you, Win,” Xavier said as he climbed into the seat next to his friend.

“No. But the dispatcher knows I drive you. He called me at home. I was takin’ me a sick day—to think.”

“You didn’t have to come, man. You look like you really are sick.”

Johnson forced a smile and said, “Looks can be deceiving.”

“There’s not a bone of deceit in your entire body,” Ecks said.

The car had not moved.

“No,” Winter agreed, “but you know I got this phone call.”

“From who?” Ecks asked. He wasn’t worried, but if the call had come from the police he might never see his apartment or run his paper route again. He might even have to go into self-imposed exile from Father Frank’s church.

He wouldn’t be the first.

“Cindy,” Win said.

“The girl that dropped you?”

“Uh-huh. Where you wanna go?”

“Home.”

Winter glanced over his left shoulder and eased out into the street, headed south. Approaching Wilshire he put on the left blinker.

They had made it all the way to La Brea before Ecks asked, “So what does Cindy have to do with you coming to pick me up?”

“She said that Braxton was a dog and he was still seein’ that Laurel chick on the side.”

“Okay.”

“She said that she realized that she shouldn’t have left me, that I was good to her and she was a fool.”

“Then why aren’t you with her instead of me?” Ecks asked. He appreciated Winter’s gesture of friendship and more—he was happy for the distraction from the murder investigation and the sudden turmoil in his life.

“Did I tell you what Cindy looked like?”

“Just about her kisses and wiggles and how you could talk all night.” This gave Ecks a notion. “With all that it didn’t seem to matter too much how she looked.”

“When I was in high school the girls didn’t like me too much,” Winter said. “I never was too big and I got tongue-tied real easy. Even today if a girl smiles at me I’m liable to blush.

“So when Cindy come up I didn’t know what to do. Her face is gorgeous and she got the body of a Playboy model. You know—high breasted and a tight butt like a ripe apple. I know I’m not supposed to look at women like that but it’s hard, you know.”

“I certainly do,” Ecks said.

“Anyway … Cindy said that she wanted me to forgive her and get together tonight.”

“And?”

“I said no.”

“You said which?”

“No.”

“Wow. No?”

Winter smiled, and Ecks wondered why his parents hadn’t named him for a warmer season, or maybe a summer month.

“I just said no. She asked me why and I said that I had some things on my mind. I was sorry about her boyfriend but that didn’t have anything to do with me. She asked if maybe I’d call her sometime. I said maybe. And you know what, Ecks?”

“What’s that, Win?”

“I actually didn’t care about that girl no more. And that was a real change for me. There had not been one solitary moment in my life up until that moment that I wouldn’t have given my left nut just to be seen on the street with a girl like that. I could’a had cancer and I’d still be at her door with chocolates and condoms. Shit. You know I hung up that phone and said to myself, ‘Winter Johnson, something has changed in you.’ ”

They were still headed east, getting closer to Flower Street.

“So?” Ecks said to continue the conversation.

“So what?”

“What does any of that have to do with you coming to get me when the last time we were together I killed one man, almost killed another, and brought you down into a graveyard of dead children, men, and women?”

Winter winced and then said, “You from back east, right, Ecks?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’m a California boy, born and raised. We all New Age and cuttin’-edge around here. I know that if I wake one day and the world is different I got to pay attention. If I could say no to Cindy Simpson and not even care—well, that’s better than a PhD from UCLA. You put me through hell, Ecks, but I come out the other side. You had to fight them men, and it’s obvious you didn’t put them people in that vault. That was truly horrible down there, but I saw it and I survived. And when Cindy called me I told her, ‘No, baby, I’m a man now.’ ”

Winter grinned and Xavier Rule laughed.

“You a fool. That’s what you are,” Ecks said.

“Prob’ly so. I can’t deny that, brother. But you know, every day I woke up for the last seventeen years I was the same man lookin’ at me from the other side of the glass. And if you ain’t changed then you ain’t lived. That’s all there is to it.”

The laugh dried up and died in Xavier’s chest. His friend’s silly words seemed to anchor themselves somewhere between his former life and the carrot of salvation that Father Frank and his congregation offered.

“What’s wrong, Ecks?”

“What you mean, Win?”

“You look like somebody just kicked you in the teeth.”

“I was just thinking about what you said.”

“And we parked out in front of your place,” Winter added to underscore his meaning.

“Oh.”

On the way up the stairs Xavier thought about the broad arc of his life, though he might not have put it in those words. He thought about how he had always been angry just below the surface, about wanting to change when confronted by Frank in that dark bar on Skid Row.

He had tried his best to become a new man. It took Frank and an entire congregation to put him on the path he now followed. But he had never done anything as brave and as singular as what Winter Johnson had accomplished almost solely on his own.

Up until then Xavier had still thought that his strength and single-mindedness were what made him special. Now he wondered whether it was these same qualities holding him back.

She was leaning against his front door doing nothing—not reading or looking at her smartphone—she didn’t even seem to be thinking. She wasn’t doing a thing, just standing there staring at the blank wall opposite her.

“Ms. Richards,” Ecks said.

“Elizabeth,” she said.

“Say what?”

“That’s what my father wanted to call me. My mother said that he lost the privilege when he abandoned us.”

“Why?” Ecks asked.

“Why what?”

“Why did he leave?”

“That’s a cruel question.”

“Maybe,” he said, taking the front door key from his pocket, “maybe not.”

“She died before I could think to ask her.”

Ecks pushed the door open and said, “Come on in.”

They sat across from each other at the yellow table. She had declined a drink. He’d poured himself a Mexican beer. She wore a pink dress festooned with big black outlines of squares. There were spaghetti straps up over her shoulders, pretending to be holding the dress up. Her pumps were white and sleek.

Benol Richards had dressed for this encounter. She was sexy and vulnerable, looking younger than her years and wise beyond Ecks’s ken.

“What can I do for you?” Ecks was saying.

She pursed her lips, considering a different meaning to the same words.

She smiled.

“Come on now, girl,” he said. “We way beyond all that.”

“Never,” she said.

He felt a flutter in his chest. It was part enchantment, part fear. This sudden feeling put him back in the stairwell, where he was climbing, climbing, and at the same time, with similar strain, questioning the value of his vaunted manhood.

He felt his nostrils flare.

Benol’s smile broadened.

“What can I do for you, Ms. Richards?”

“I said you could call me Bennie.”

Xavier laced his fingers and put his elbows on the table as Detective Tourneau had before him. He perched his chin in the soft web of skin between the forefinger and thumb of his right hand and looked hard at his guest.

“You know you don’t have to be so serious all the time, Mr. Noland,” she said lightly. “A woman sits across from you in a summer dress and smiles. That’s nice, right?”

“You and me,” Xavier said, “we been through the back door of the shit house enough times to know what it’s like.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” She was still smiling.

“That air freshener don’t take the place of good plumbing.”

Her smile vanished and was replaced with something like controlled anger. She considered things. In her eyes and shoulders Xavier could see her standing up and walking out, slapping his face, spitting on the pitted linoleum floor.

Her left nostril raised in a sneer.

“I got a lead on Brayton,” she said.

“You did?”

“You sound surprised.”

“Twenty-three years is a long time. How’d you even know where to look?”

“You.”

“Me?”

“You asked me all those questions and I told you about Beatrix Darvonia, Brayton’s old girlfriend. After thinking about it for a while I realized that she wasn’t really all that old. I mean, I was a kid and she was maybe thirty-five, forty. So I looked her up and found her number. She was still living in the same house.”

“And you went there?”

“Of course not. I couldn’t be sure that the police hadn’t interviewed her after what happened.”

“You called?”

“I told her that I was a secretary for a lawyer and that Brayton had been named in an uncle’s will.”

“Did she say anything about the police?”

“No. She said that the last thing she heard was that he changed his name to Robert Welcher and bought part interest in a restaurant-bar called Temple Pie. It’s down in Venice.”

“Like apple pie?”

“Yes. I looked up the address and wrote it down.” She took a slip of paper from her purse and placed it on the table.

“Did you go there?”

“No. I mean, I thought about it, but since you said you’d help I thought it would be better if a man went to talk with him.”

“Temple Pie?”

“Yes.”

“I went to see that woman you told me about—Sedra.” It was Ecks’s turn to be provocative.

“What did she tell you? Did you find out where the boys went?”

“She tried to kill me.”

“She must be near eighty. How could she even fire a gun?”

“Poisoned drink and a baseball bat.”

“Oh, yeah, I can see the bump on your head. Obviously she didn’t succeed. Did you find the boys?”

“No.”

“We should go talk to her again. She knows what she did with them.”

“Why?” Xavier asked.

“Why what?”

“Why do you need to know?”

Benol shifted in her chair. There was heat to the movement.

“Two decades late and a million dollars short but I have to do what’s right,” she said. “I ripped those boys from their families. I have to try to bring them back together.”

Her sincerity was as perfect as her dress.

Xavier was back in the stairwell of his mind, reeling as if there were a hundred floors above him … and a thousand below.

“She’s dead,” he said.

“What? How?”

“She got me close enough to Death so I could tell you what his breath smells like. I barely got away from her, and by the time I got back there she was dead.”

Real grief showed itself in Benol’s face.

“Dead?” she said.

“Completely.”

“That’s terrible. It wasn’t because of you, was it?”

“She was an evil woman and got what she gave, that’s all.”

“I’m so sorry for her,” Benol said, turning her head as she spoke. She was looking out of the window into the alley. “I feel like all of it is my fault.”

There it was, the chance for him to comfort her. He could have spoken kind words or even knelt down next to her chair, putting an arm around her shoulder. Then maybe a kiss and a hug, a heartfelt murmur of, It’s okay.

“If they knock you down,” he said instead, “you just got to pick yourself up or get kicked in the head.”

“I don’t know if I can,” she murmured with just the right amount of reserve.

“Got to,” Xavier said as he rose from his chair. “You drivin’?”

Benol shook her head and looked up at him, confusion blending in with the sorrow.

“You better go home, girl. You want me to call you a car?”

“I don’t know if I can be alone,” she said.

“Do you know anybody? Someone you can stay with?”

“Can’t I stay here for a while?”

“I have to look for your lost boys, Ms. Richards. No time to hold hands or rest.”

Benol took in a deep breath and then exhaled. She did this again and smiled.

“I understand,” she said. “Do you have a driver you use?”

“A service. They’re right down the block. If you go downstairs they’ll be there in just a bit.”

She stood too and held out a hand.

When he took this offering she said, “You’re very kind, Mr. Noland. Very kind.”

Another opportunity for a kiss … missed.

When Benol was out the door Ecks called Winter and explained the situation.

“Take her where she wants,” Rule told his friend. “Don’t let on that you know me.”

“Okay, Ecks.”

“I don’t think that there’ll be any trouble, but don’t get out of the car. I mean, if she asks you to come in or anything you tell her that you got another pickup.”

“Got it.”

“You sure now?”

“Oh, yeah, man. Dead sure.”

“Hello?” she said, answering the phone after the third ring.

“Benicia?”

“Yes?”

“This is Egbert Noland, the man you gave your number to at the restaurant this morning.”

“Oh. You called.”

“You surprised?”

“Kind of. You know I … I never really do things like that. I mean … give my number to men I don’t know.”

“Well,” he said softly, “I’m glad you broke the rule this time. I wanted to ask you for your number but it didn’t seem right. I try not to make people feel uncomfortable.”

“You were sweet. People usually look right through those that serve them.”

“Anyway,” he said, wondering a little at the structure of her sentence, “I know this is a little awkward, but I’m going to this restaurant, Temple Pie, over in Venice this evening and I thought you might want to get a drink or maybe something to eat. I mean … we could meet down there so it wouldn’t have to seem like it was a date or anything.”

In the silence of her thought Xavier wondered about his motives.

He’s an intelligent child but he doesn’t use his mind with purpose, Miss Logan had said to his mother at the sixth-grade parent-teacher conference. He does things by sense or instinct. And even though he’s right often enough, he’ll never progress unless he begins to wonder why.

“It’s the place over on Lincoln?” Benicia asked. She was using her phone or a computer to look it up.

“Yes,” he said, “that’s it.”

“I guess we could meet,” she said. “I haven’t planned dinner yet. What time?”

“Seven thirty?”

“Um …” She hummed, one last chance to say no … “Okay.”

“That’s great. I’ll see you then, Miss Torres,” he said.

“See you then, Mr. Noland.”

Xavier Rule sat down at his yellow table, exhausted as if he had actually been walking up stairs for hours on end. He didn’t trust Benol, but Frank was the one who asked him to do this job. He was no closer to finding the lost boys than he had been sitting in the pews and seeing Benol for the first time—at a distance. His notion of manhood had been put into question by the shy and skittish Winter Johnson.

And he had killed a man without hesitation.

Killed a man.

For the first time in his life Ecks felt the world of his mind and body come to a halt, a complete stop. The light brown man he slaughtered was like a wall suddenly erected in an aimless path. Xavier didn’t even know the corpse’s name or origins. He had no feeling toward him or satisfaction at his passing.

This, he knew, was what was wrong. No one should be able to kill without feeling. And so he looked into himself for the emotion that allowed him to take the life of the nameless gunsel and so many others. But his memories and even emotions were just like old dry pages in a book written in a foreign tongue. There were no illustrations, no familiar lettering. Like Sedra’s obsessive red journal, his life was gibberish.

But even this thought failed to raise passion in Xavier’s breast. It was as if his soul were captured in a feline’s body, imbued with instincts that had no reference to guilt.

He was guilty. He knew this and it tormented him, but not from the inside, not where it counted.

His cell phone played Monk.

Xavier slapped his hands together and then slapped his own face.

The phone kept playing.

He took the little receiver from his jacket pocket and saw that it was one of the phones that Clyde Pewtersworth used.

“Hello.”

“You sound odd, Brother Ecks.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“I got the journal decoded.”

“The whole thing?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Even for you that’s a stretch, man.”

“Not really. I used the key you gave me and then the characters she wrote. I took a dozen variations of each character and read them into Charlie Mothers’s decoding program. Then I scanned the journal into the system with Sister Hope’s help and now the whole thing is translated into English.”

“How many pages?”

“Eighty-two.”

“Dates?”

“That’s what separates the entries.”

“Put it in an attachment and send it to me.”

“You got it, Brother Ecks. Be there in less than two minutes.”

“And, Clyde,” Ecks said quickly, before the church operator could hang up.

“What?”

“Thank you, man.”

“Oh. Sure. You’re welcome.”

Xavier looked up Robert Welcher in his online directory but found nothing. He also looked up Beatrix Darvonia under various spellings. To his surprise he found the number.

“Hello?” a woman’s pleasant voice answered.

“Ms. Darvonia?”

“Yes?”

“This is Randolph Drake from Winston, Naybob, and Goines. We’re representing the estate of Laura Simmons, born Laura Welch.”

“Does this have to do with Brayton’s inheritance …?”

Ecks went through with the charade of the interview. He got the name Welcher, as Benol had done. He was surprised that Benol had not lied to him. In his experience, at least up until the time he met Father Frank, almost everybody lied as a matter of course.

The text attachment that Clyde sent was a dense block of lettering with no spaces at all. Ecks scrolled through the document until he finally came upon the right month and year. From there he scrutinized the lines more carefully until coming to April 27, 1988. On that date Sedra Landcombe had penned a solitary entry:

Three baby boys. All blond. All blue eyed. The chubby one goes to the Marcuses for $31,500. The happy one discounted to the Lehmans for $28,000. And the one with the dimples to Verify for $35,000. Adoption papers acquired for the legitimate adoptions.

Xavier felt a cramp in his left cheek and realized that he was grimacing. While rubbing the muscles at the hinge of his jaw with one hand he used the thumb of the other to dial a number. He pressed send and waited. There was no ring, no sound at all. After maybe twelve seconds the silent call was answered.

“Brother Ecks?”

“Frank.”

“Something wrong?”

“I need to use church resources and we haven’t talked about that. I mean, I asked Clyde to put Cylla on notice in case I get popped, but now I’m going to need real labor.”

“Whatever you need, brother,” Frank said. “How’s my car?”

“In a parking garage. It’s the structure on the east side of the street three blocks north of my apartment. In the Jiffy parking lot. Ticket is in the driver’s-side sun visor, keys under the passenger’s-side carpet.”

“What do you need, Brother Ecks?”

The Parishioner gave his requests and then repeated them. Frank said he’d see to their execution.

“I’ll send someone for the car,” the minister said. “Call me if you want anything else—anytime.”

Temple Pie was a small bar that served food as an afterthought. It had six tables and eighteen bar stools, most of the clientele was either on a stool or standing near enough to place their drinks on the broad mahogany bar.

Ecks arrived exactly on time but Benicia was already sitting at a table. She wore an orange sundress and black-and-yellow zebra-striped pumps. There was a glass goblet of white wine, set down without a coaster, in front of her.

Benicia was the only person sitting in the dining area of the establishment. Ecks figured that a chair meant you had to buy food. And the young crowd was in too much of a hurry to waste time with menus, knives, and forks.

“Hi,” he said, pulling up the dark walnut chair opposite the off-duty waitress.

“Hi.” She smiled, expressing only a hint of uncertainty.

They shared a moment of silence.

“Kind of like a one-eyed date,” he said.

The wall behind the woman had a couple dozen photographs in thin black frames, behind real glass. There were pictures of movie stars and others enjoying the ambience of the dive.

“One-eyed?” she asked.

“Well,” Ecks offered, “it’s not really a blind date because we set it up ourselves. But it’s not like we know anything about each other either.”

“I thought you said it wasn’t a date?” she said half-playfully.

“Are you going to eat?” a man asked. It was their waiter. He wore black slacks and a red shirt open at the throat and begging for a tie.

“I am,” Ecks said. “Can I see the menu?”

“It’s on the chalkboard on the wall,” the thirty-something, taciturn white man said. His hair was thinning and with it his patience for service.

Xavier turned his attention to the wall again. He perused the photographs while pretending to read the menu. One particular shot held his attention.

But instead of commenting he turned to his date. “You see anything you like?”

“The Caesar salad looks good,” Benicia said. “Can I have that without the anchovies?”

Ecks glanced at the waiter. The man in red and black grimaced and moved his head to show he understood.

“Isn’t that Robert Welcher?” Ecks asked then.

“Who?”

“That man,” Ecks said, gesturing toward a frame with only one subject: a man wearing a white jacket with salt-and-pepper hair, except for the forelock—which was all white, just the way Benol had said it was.

“No. That’s, um, I think it’s Sam Sprain. He’s one of the owners. At least, he was.”

“He sold out?”

“Something like that. He comes in now and again. Lives around here, I think.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know. What would you like to eat, sir?”

“Cheeseburger looks good. You say that’s Sprain like an ankle sprain?”

“I never had to write it down. You want fries or salad?”

“Both.”

“It only comes with one.”

“So charge me extra.”

The waiter showed his irritation with an unconscious twitch of his nose and then went away to place their order. A man at the bar was trying to balance a beer stein on his bald head.

“I bet this place gets loud later on,” Ecks said to Benicia.

“That was very smooth,” she said.

“You like the way I order food?”

“Are you a policeman?”

“Why would you ask that?” Xavier said.

“My father was a cop in Rio,” she said. “A detective. He used to take me with him sometimes, to talk to people. It was against the rules, but he wasn’t much for rules.”

“I thought that’s what separated policemen from crooks, the rules.”

“No.”

“No? How’s that?”

“It’s the same reason that God made snakes the way they are.”

“Which is?” Ecks found himself having unexpected fun.

“When the rat goes down into his hole the snake is designed to go after. He makes his body into the crooked road the rat travels.”

“Sounds worse than the rat.”

“It is—if you’re a rat.”

“Your father still a cop?”

“He got shot,” she said, shaking her head solemnly.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be. It was the best thing that ever happened to him.”

“Does that have something to do with snakes too?”

“He was involved in a shoot-out. He killed four bank robbers and got shot four times. He’s a superstitious man and thought the parity meant something. So he retired and came up here to live with his sister’s family.”

“And your mother?”

“She died when my brother and I were very small.”

The food came and the bar got rowdy, as predicted. Ecks and Benicia ate and laughed and had to raise their voices to be heard above the din but didn’t seem to care.

At one point he asked her, “How does an immigrant from Brazil know the word parity?”

“If she studies chemistry at UCLA she has to.”

Two men started shouting at each other a little after nine. It seemed as if they were about to come to blows. The bouncer, a big black man, took them by their arms and shoved them out the door.

“You didn’t seem bothered about the fight,” Ecks said to Benicia after the tableau was over.

“They were just posturing,” she said.

“You know, I’m having a really nice time with you, girl.”

“You sound surprised.”

“I am. I mean, you’re nice and everything, but I’m not the kind of guy that usually has a nice time.”

“Why not?”

“Where I come from there’s not a lot of leeway. You’re always looking up ahead to see what’s coming next.”

“Hard life,” she said. Xavier couldn’t tell whether there was sympathy or a sneer behind the words.

“Just life.”

“And what’s different tonight?” she asked.

“I’m not sure. I think maybe … maybe it’s just that time.”

“Time for what?”

“I’m gonna go up to the bar and settle our bill,” Xavier said. He stood up.

“Does that mean you’re not going to answer my question?” Benicia’s eyes actually glittered with mirth.

“Oh, no, no. I’m going to answer it, all right. But not tonight. Tonight I’m going to walk you to your car and see you off safely. Then, in a day or two, I’m going to call you and ask you on a full date with two eyes and everything. Then I’ll tell you whatever you want to know—mostly.”

“Mostly?”

They kissed with moderate heat next to her red Saab. She touched his chest and looked into his eyes, saying silently that he was welcome to follow her home if he wanted.

“I’ll call you soon,” he said.

She smiled and got into her car.

He watched her taillights until they had blended in with the traffic around them and then turned his attention to his cell phone.

Information had Sam Sprain living on 6 Marietta Circle. MapQuest told him that the address was walking distance from the restaurant-bar. After finding the quarry, Ecks turned his phone off.

Number six was a small house hemmed in by two nonresidential buildings. In the dim light, colors were not able to reach their full potential. It stood high behind a wire fence and had white and possibly red flowers cascading from the elevated porch. The house was either yellow or white and definitely looked like a woman’s domicile. There was a light on, on the second floor of the two-story structure, and also weak porch light glittering above the front door. The only access to the circle was through Marietta Alley. Xavier stood in the shadows of the mouth of the alley watching and waiting—for what he was not sure.

There was no life in the cul-de-sac. No music playing or dutiful husbands taking out the trash. There were seven houses and the two buildings that flanked Sprain’s place. It wasn’t like New York, where life was always spilling out of doors and windows into the street.

But Xavier didn’t mind. He was wondering about the answer to Benicia’s question. Why did he suddenly feel something about someone? It wasn’t love or lust, sex or the desire to make babies. It wasn’t even a deep connection. No. He had come to an understanding about himself and the blockade of his emotional life had fallen unexpectedly without fanfare, like an explosion in outer space. When he looked up that morning Benicia was standing there. Kismet.

He waited in shadow for long minutes, thinking about his heartbeat and the last time he remembered feeling that physical palpitation—that is, when he wasn’t running for his life. It was indicative of a transition from invulnerability to something mortal and frail: like Superman under the spell of one of the more exotic Kryptonites—but with weakness also came the unexpected feeling of euphoria.

When he pulled open the gate to the wire fence it gave off a weak metallic whine. A dog in one of the houses started barking angrily. Xavier thought that the canine waited all day to hear that particular sound. It was the squeak of danger and he would warn the world.

The front door was ajar.

Xavier pressed the doorbell with the knuckle joint of his index finger; it sounded and the dog doubled the ferocity of its warning.

No answer but the dog.

He pressed the bell again. There were three chimes: short, long, short. Almost a tune.

Xavier waited a moment more, donned a thin pair of the medical gloves he’d appropriated at the hospital, and pushed the door inward. Even then Ecks remained cautious. He realized that the man standing at the door was not the new man in his mind. He was still the tough-minded gangster from the old neighborhood when it came to breaking and entering, smashing and beating, shooting and stabbing, wounding and killing. The new Ecks was something cradled in his mind: an infant who was not yet ready to come out into the world.

He closed the door and turned on a light. There was a jumbled living room on his right, a staircase to the left, and a small utility kitchen straight ahead. The rooms were so small that Ecks had the feeling of entering the cabin of a harbor tugboat.

The brocaded cushions of the pink-and-red sofa had been thrown to the floor. The matching chair had been turned over; it lay there with its gauze bottom torn out. China had shattered and the carpet was rolled up and now slumped into a corner, bent over and teetering like an unconscious drunk.

And there was still the light up above.

Ecks took a moment to consider leaving. He imagined himself walking down the stairs and into the circle, through the alley and back to his Edsel. Oddly the pink-green-and-chrome classic made him wonder whether Frank’s car was still in the lot. This tangent told the Parishioner that it was not yet time to leave.

The second floor was divided into two rooms. On the right was a bedroom and to the left a bathroom that seemed too large for the place.

The mattress of the bed had been thrown off so that it teetered over the side of the box spring. All the drawers of the walnut bureau had been pulled out and dumped on the pine floor. The freestanding closet door was ripped off its hinges. Clothes were scattered everywhere. A bone shoe lay on its side at the edge of the slumped-over mattress, the sole was worn and pitted.

The large bathroom didn’t even have a medicine cabinet. Nothing was out of place, because there was nothing to move. Ecks sat on the edge of the iron tub, waiting for inspiration.

The dog had stopped its barking. The only sound now was the steady drip from the bathtub spigot onto the greenish, corroded copper-collared drain.

Ecks considered calling Benicia. Her kiss had been soft and promising, the look in her eye and her hand on his chest undeniable. She would ask him over if called right now.

He knew that this thought was somehow inappropriate, that New Ecks should not be thinking about a woman he was interested in while searching through the wreck of a man’s life.

Where was the other shoe?

Lifting the mattress Ecks revealed the corpse. Brayton Richard Starmon Welch Welcher Robert Samuel Sprain lay on his side, a bullet through the right eye and another in his chest. He was wearing a charcoal suit and a light gray shirt. The orange-and-brown tie was knotted perfectly, even in death. There wasn’t much blood; no time to bleed.

Death had been kind to the kidnapper and thief. It had taken him quickly.

Half an hour later Ecks was ready to leave. There was no wallet left behind, not even any lint from the new suit pockets. The Parishioner almost left it at that when he decided to take off the man’s shoes. This revealed nothing, but once Ecks had gone that far he couldn’t turn back and so peeled off the corpse’s argyle socks. The right sock was empty and the left one too.

He left the shoeless, sockless cadaver with its pockets turned out. On the way back to his car he threw the gloves in a public trash can. Driving back to his home he tuned the radio to an oldies station that was playing an uninterrupted hour of comic songs from the fifties and sixties. He listened to “Alley Oop,” “Mr. Custer,” “Monster Mash,” “Tie Me Kangaroo Down,” “Lost in the Jungle,” and many others.

Back at home he turned the cell phone back on. There were four messages.

“Hey, Ecks,” Winter said in a conspiratorial whisper. “I took her to a hotel on Vine not too far from Hollywood Boulevard. It’s called the Regency Arms. Kind of run-down but not a dive or nuthin’. I charged her the company rate, thirty dollars, and she asked me if I had change for a hundred. I did and she gave me a dollar tip. A dollar tip. Can you believe that? Anyway, the only other thing was she got on her phone and called somebody. She said that she didn’t have anything for them yet but she was sure to know something in a few days.”

“Yo, Brother Ecks, Charlie Mothers here. Frank said that you need something and I got it. But you know I don’t trust the body electric as far as I can throw it. So come on down to the marina and we’ll talk.”

“It’s me,” the cop Soto said on the third message. “I took myself off the case for obvious reasons. You must know that by now. But I still got a finger in the pie. If you need me or I can do anything I guess that’s okay. I talked to Frank after we met at the church and he set me straight about what you’re up to. Sorry if I got carried away there. You know I’m trying to be here now like we always talk about. Sometimes I guess I get a little crazy.”

“Hi,” Benicia Torres said. “Um, I, I thought I might get you. I hope it isn’t too late. I had a really nice time and I wanted you to know that you should call. I want you to answer my question. Anyway … good-bye.”

There were two lovers walking down the alley, arm in arm. He stopped to kiss her. She wanted to keep moving but lingered long enough to keep his interest piqued. Then she pulled his encircling arm making him stagger on.

Xavier Rule watched them amble off. They were too far away for him even to know what race they were. All he knew was that there were two of them just like there were two of him sitting at that table.

He slept until eight in the morning, luxuriously late for the newspaper delivery profession. The sun didn’t actually shine in his window but there was a powerful solar radiance emanating through the glass from the urban desert outside.

Xavier felt the new man inside him surge up through his body. This made him smile.

While urinating he heard the Monk tune play on his cell phone. The fragment ended before he was through.

When he was finished he washed his hands in the sink, toweled them off, and then picked up the phone. He called the number that had called him.

There was a double-clicking sound and then, “That you, Ecks?”

“Yes, sir,” he said to George Ben, the hardware man.

“She left last night while I was asleep.”

“What time?”

“I don’t know exactly. I took her to the Pasta Place at seven and we talked and talked like BFFs. She told me all about the men her aunt made her whore for. I thought we were making a connection but then I started getting tired. I think the little minx might have drugged me. We walked home. I was leaning against her shoulder. I don’t remember anything after that. I don’t even know how I got into the bed. I must have really been out of it.”

“She take anything?”

“Not that I can tell. But you know I can hardly get up. I’m just calling to let you know.”

“Maybe you should see a doctor.”

“No, no. I don’t need a doctor. I know the symptoms. They’ll pass in thirty-six hours. I figure you got to pay your dues sometimes.”

“I hear that, Mr. Ben. I hear that.”

There were many paths set out in front of Xavier Rule that morning: Benol at her hotel and Charlie Mothers on his yacht, the murderer of Brayton Starmon. And then there was the new man inside him: the man who felt unsure, who thought about life in a different way and had feelings about his actions, inactions, and the things that he thought.

The day was clear and Benicia’s kiss still a physical sensation on Ecks’s lips.

Xavier was smiling and disturbed, glad to be alive and afraid that his happiness might shorten the life he was just beginning to enjoy.

He picked up the cell phone and entered a number.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Winter. What’s up, man?”

“Ecks. What time is it?”

“Not eight thirty yet.”

“Wow. Hey. I’m just wakin’ up, brother. What can I do you for?”

“Breakfast at the IHOP on Olympic in half an hour?”

“Add fifteen minutes to that and I’ll be there.”

Winter ordered chocolate-chip pancakes with caramel syrup and hot chocolate. Xavier asked for steak and eggs.

“How you doin’, Win?” Ecks asked when the waitress went off to give their order to the cooks.

“Every time the phone rings or there’s a sound anywhere near my door I start shakin’. I been eatin’ antacids like they was my mom’s famous pralines.”

“Sorry I brought you into it, man.”

“No need to be sorry, Ecks. No need. Because, you know, when everything is quiet and I’m not worried I realize over and over that this is what I always wanted.”

“What is?”

“I’m supposed to be livin’,” the chauffeur said, “not just drivin’ a car and payin’ the bills, hopin’ that some young girl will wanna take off her clothes with me. The things we do got to be important. I mean, standin’ on line and waitin’ your turn ain’t a life. Shit. You opened a door for me, man. And even though I’m scared one outta every three minutes, the rest of the time I feel like a man.”

When Winter nodded his entire torso bobbed. Ecks smiled at his friend.

“What?” Winter asked.

“I don’t know, Win. I been in houses like the one I took you to a hundred times. That’s the line I been standin’ on. I mugged my first crack dealer when I was twelve years old—busted that motherfucker’s head open like it was a pumpkin. I did terrible things, brother, and I never followed rule one.”

Winter sat back on his side of the red plastic booth, and the sixty-something waitress put their plates down in front of them.

“That shit is fucked-up, Ecks. I hear that. But you know, in a way you were doin’ all you could.”

“Maybe,” the dark gangster admitted. “But what I’m sayin’ is that it’s not manhood if there’s no man there.”

“I don’t get you.”

“I just do things, Win. Knife some dude get me mad, fuck a woman in her husband’s bed and then dare him to say somethin’ to me. But when I did shit like that I was an animal, not a man. It wasn’t brave. No, it wasn’t brave; I just couldn’t do anything else. I wasn’t a man, because I wasn’t standin’ up for nuthin’.”

Winter squinted and stared at his friend. He took a bite of the sweet meal and shifted his head for a better look, not at what Ecks was saying, but at what he meant. He wanted to speak but could not find the words.

“It’s like this, Win,” Ecks said to ease this tension of silence. “When I’m scared I run. Don’t get me wrong; I don’t get scared too often. But I don’t think about my manhood when something big and scary shows up. You, on the other hand, see somethin’ scare you half to death and face it. And when it’s ovah and you might go to jail, you stand up and try to do what you think is right, even if what’s right might be dangerous.”

“So I’m the man?” Winter asked.

“Hallelujah.”

From IHOP Ecks got in his car and headed for the beach.

Charlie Mothers’s yacht was in the wealthiest part of the marina. It stood as high as a three-story building in the water and had tiers and windows like a house. A powerfully built, bald Asian man with an orange-and-yellow tattoo like a sun around his left eye guarded the gangplank. He looked dangerous but Xavier wasn’t worried. Death, he knew, would come up on him like an unwanted surprise party. He’d probably be smiling just before the knife went in.

“Yes, sir?” the guardian said softly.

“Egbert Noland for the man who lives here.”

The security man made eye contact with the Parishioner. He was trying to see whether he could stare Ecks down. When this failed his eyes searched Ecks’s hands and clothes, looking for weapons. He accepted that the visitor was dangerous and didn’t want to use the walkie-talkie if that meant he would be vulnerable to attack.

Xavier saw all this and shouted, “Hey, Mothers, I’m down here!”

The exhortation bothered the protector, but before he could express this dissatisfaction a man said, “Hey, Soon, send Brother Ecks up!”

There were two skinny women with huge breasts and in impossibly small bikinis sunning themselves in beach chairs on the upper deck of Charlie Mothers’s yacht; white girls with blond hair, red lips, and skinny legs that looked like they could crush walnuts the size of pillows.

“Ecks!” a man shouted.

He was at least a demigod. Six-six with bronze skin and yellow hair. His eyes were the color of the ocean, and the muscles beneath the skin of his bare chest and arms undulated like huge snakes under a satin sheet. This deified man strode easily from the pilot’s dais onto the upper deck.

He wore dark blue sweatpants cinched tight to his thirty-inch waist, and his smile belonged to a presidential hopeful: white and contagious.

They shook hands and Ecks allowed himself a mild smirk.

The women sat up, aware that their host-provider wasn’t always so friendly and inviting.

“Nerd boy,” Ecks said in greeting.

Charlie Mothers laughed loudly.

“Can’t fool you,” the blond titan said.

“You got what I need, man?”

“I have things that you don’t know you need yet,” Mothers said. “I have things you couldn’t even imagine.”

“I can imagine a razor across the naked eye.”

“Come on downstairs, Ecks. Let us see what we shall see before we’re blinded by an Andalusian dog.”

Two floors down in the floating mansion Mothers brought Ecks to a large, nearly refrigerated room filled with computers, screens, and keyboards. Charlie took a zippered sweatshirt from a wall hook and wrapped it around his naked torso.

“There’s a coat hanging on the door behind you,” the taller man offered.

“No, thanks,” Ecks said. He was never really bothered by intense cold or heat. For that matter he was generally unfazed by any kind of pain. It wasn’t that he didn’t feel these sensations: it was that they intruded only as nuisances in his mind.

Charlie pulled two rolling chairs up to an eighty-inch LCD screen, pressed a few buttons on a red keyboard that had no wires. This keyboard he placed on his lap.

Ecks sat down and the screen came to life. There appeared the photograph of a man, woman, and teenage boy. They were standing together in front of a big Victorian, under an ancient, dark green pine. It was a driveway built for many cars. The man and woman were both short and dumpy, clad in leisure wear. His gray hair was receding and her black tresses came out of a bottle applied in an upscale salon.

The boy was blue eyed, blond, and taciturn. He didn’t want to be in that photograph, under that tree, next to his parents, or on the same planet where any of those things existed. He was carrying a multicolored skateboard, wearing artfully torn jeans, and had on a pale blue dress shirt that was soiled with all the buttons undone.

The woman was sneering at her son’s appearance.

The man was smiling forcefully at the camera.

“Balford and Jeannine Marcus with their son, Henry,” Mothers said. “This picture was taken nine years ago. Since then Hank went to college, dropped out, opened a surf shop, and developed a taste for various white powders. Jeannine died of a congenital heart problem, and Balford moved to Maui with a girl who graduated from high school the year after his son.

“The boy is in AA and falls off the wagon each year in July. Smokes too much and according to his Facebook account finds a new girlfriend every August.”

Mothers hit a pink key and two new photographs took the place of the one. On the left side of the screen stood a tall and slender man next to a buxom woman who looked like she should be grinning but instead forced a frown. Both in their forties, they had the old-fashioned aesthetic to look dour for portraits. It was an older photograph, fifteen years or so, Xavier thought. On the other side was a newer picture of a young blue-eyed, crew-cut blond man in an orange jumpsuit. He was sitting on the other side of a bulletproof glass window. A California prison. San Quentin, if Xavier wasn’t mistaken.

“Lester Lehman murdered his parents for no apparent reason on an April afternoon at their home in Oxnard,” Charlie Mothers said. “He used a shotgun. Killed his sister and the housekeeper too. He’s about to get a second trial because certain facts brought up in the original hearing were illegally obtained. Cylla Pride’s firm is representing him.”

“No shit.”

“The law is the law,” Mothers intoned.

“You think these two are my boys?”

“They were both adopted in April ’eighty-eight. The same witness signed both papers—Sedra Landcombe.”

Ecks frowned and sat back in the office chair.

Mothers went on. “But that’s not the kicker.”

“No?”

“Not nearly,” the bronze man said with an unconscious goofy grin plastered across his face. “This Verify thing was a real poser. I finally found a data trail of false identity papers for underage children that led to a legal adoption agency named Libertas, Unitum, Veritas Incorporated, called LUV. This nonprofit corporation is one of many subgroups belonging to Wicker Enterprises. The legal major revenue stream for Wicker is a company that makes commercials for third-world television companies. But if you look closely you can see that there’s another business buried beneath the commercial company.”

Mothers hit a key and a group of photographs organized themselves into the general form of Picasso’s Guérnica. The images in this collage were even more disturbing than the antiwar original: young boys being buggered by fat tattooed men, girl children suffering triple penetration by men wearing dresses, a naked child praying while a man ejaculated over his face and hands. There were two dozen images, each more unsettling than the last.

“Verify’s films cost at least a thousand dollars per copy,” Mothers said. “They’re sold all around the world. Even I can’t locate the IP where the offers originate and the money is collected. It’s probably in some country that has an absolute monarch or dictator. They make double-digit millions.”

“What does this have to do with the third boy?” Ecks asked.

Mothers switched off the image and turned to his fellow congregant.

“On May third, 1988, LUV gave Leonard Oscar Phillips to Loretta and Manly Hopkins for adoption. Again, Sedra Landcombe signed the adoption papers. Over the years the Hopkinses have adopted nine children—every one of them a moneymaker for Wicker Enterprises.”

“That, um, that poster,” Ecks said. “Was it Wicker’s?”

“No.… What I mean to say is that I got the images from a secret Wicker website but I used an image system that uses various surrealist paintings for templates to present collections of images. Like it?”

“Where do the Hopkinses live?”

“In the hills of Santa Monica. They’ve made a lot of money over the years.”

Xavier considered the information presented by the computer geek in the demigod’s body.

“How many hours?” Ecks asked Charlie.

“How many hours what?”

“Do you work with your trainer?”

“I’m down to five a day, three days a week.”

“Does it help?”

“I haven’t used a computer to blow up a Chinese robot factory or kill some guy in an ICU for a long time.” Mothers’s smile was sickly hopeful.

“What do they call that?” Xavier asked. “What you do.”

“Techno-anarcho-terrorism. Tat-a-tat, tat-tat-tat, the ultimate virtual machine gun of the modern world. The battle cry of the downtrodden and disenfranchised. Man-machine against machine-men.”

“But now you funnel these desires into bodybuilding?”

Charlie nodded, looking much less like a deity.

“Pretty much,” the pumped-up hacker agreed.

“Not completely?”

“I want to get into the guts of systems and strip them bare. A hunger like that doesn’t go away. Sometimes I want it so bad that I start sweating.”

“But the exercise stops you,” Ecks said, “that and the bikini girls upstairs.”

“That and the fact that I know Frank would have me killed if I crossed the line.”

“Killed?”

“After the baptism your soul belongs to the church.”

“My soul?”

“Didn’t Frank ever tell you his theory that Earth is Eden for animals but hell for humanity?”

“Just the other day.”

“Didn’t he add that it’s a proving ground and we are here to prove it wrong?”

“He didn’t say that exactly.”

“Frank, as far as I can tell, is the devil,” Mothers said. “Not some evil being but the last chance for evil souls like you and me. He’s there either to usher you into redemption or to bury you underfoot.”

“Nobody ever told me about a baptism,” Ecks said.

“It’s a secret ceremony. We’re not supposed to talk about it.”

“Then why are you?”

“Because, Ecks,” Mothers said, “because you’re special. All the anointed know it. Frank is … Frank is grooming you for something. He brings people into the fold now and then, but rarely does he go out recruiting, not for years now. When he brought you in we all knew to expect greatness.”

“Has Frank ever told you that he’d have you killed if you turned back to your old ways?”

“No. He didn’t have to.”

“You’re crazy. You know that, don’t you, nerd boy?”

“Maybe I am. Maybe it’s crazy to have faith in a higher power. I don’t know. All I can tell you is this—I was planning to put out a virus that would jam the controls of a hundred jumbo jets all at once, all over the world. Every one of them would have crashed in an urban setting. I had it planned down to the microsecond.

“I was nearing the end of the data distribution design when one Sunday morning I was grabbed in my own home and taken to Seabreeze City. I was brought to a sermon and I listened. I was made an initiate, as you are now, and then after three years I was given my first mission. After that I was baptized and now my life belongs to the church.”

Ecks wondered whether the new man in his heart had anything to do with the church of Father Frank. Did he feel the faith that Mothers did, or Iridia, or Captain Soto?

“Do you have all this information printed out for me?” Ecks asked Charlie.

“About the baptism?”

“About the boys.”

“Yeah … yeah.”

Charlie got up from his chair and went to a small shelf under a bank of computers somewhat larger than the regular desktops. There he retrieved a thick black folder and a thinner orange one. These he handed to Xavier.

“The orange one has the names of the kids and the people who bought them,” he said. “The black one has as much as I could get about Verify. It’s international and really, really corrupt. About twelve years ago there was a shakeup in the organization. After that it got much more difficult to define.”

“But it’s still child pornography?”

“Like a tobacco company,” Charlie said. “They stick to what they know.”

On the way back home Ecks found himself wondering about something he’d not considered before. It wasn’t an existentialist dilemma as he had studied in his Survey of Philosophy course online. He wasn’t searching for his identity but rather his purpose—what he was doing, not why. In church on Sundays he concentrated on what the words meant to him. Frank preached and people confessed in Expressions. They all hung together, trying to rid themselves of long lives filled with sharp knives and evil deeds.

But what happened after the end of the movie, when the bad man dropped his pistol and walked away from the intended victim? Where did he go? What was to become of him? Who was he then?

The Kokoran Building on Temple in La Puente was chrome and glass, overlooking a broad green park. There were no guards or even video cameras evident. The man sitting behind the reception desk in the broad, air-conditioned lobby looked to be a retiree who had taken this do-nothing job to supplement the rising cost of health insurance.

In essence it was the most banal, nonthreatening space Xavier had seen in a very long time. He sat in his car across the street from the boxlike nine-story structure and closed his eyes, trying to locate the reason his pulse had jumped and his forearms ached.

Finally he gave up this internal divination, reached under his seat, and pulled out a .38 pistol that was an exact duplicate of the gun that he’d discarded after killing the nameless Hispanic at Sedra Landcombe’s home. Pocketing the pistol, Xavier walked with slow steps across Temple and into the vast lobby guarded by the old man behind the oval green-glass reception desk.

“Can I help you, son?” the grizzled and graying white man said.

Xavier’s mind flashed back more than forty years. His mother had brought him to the Brownsville precinct to visit his father, who was awaiting arraignment. Xavier had been brought along with his younger brother and cousin because there was no one to take care of them, and Panther Rule was in jail for something called assault. Xavier’s mother, Pearl, brought them there to confer with his father about when the lawyer would come and what he would say.

Xavier was five and it was hard for him to bear the idea of his father in chains, his face bloodied, bruised, and swollen from the terrible beating the police had given him. He didn’t understand all the words that had been said, but he gleaned that Panther had attacked a white man in a grocery store who asked the question, “How can I help you, son?”

Xavier went to bed wondering about a simple sentence causing so much pain. The grocer was in the hospital and his father set to stand trial on charges that might send him to prison for years. All because of a question that Xavier had heard many times.

Standing there in that air-conditioned lobby, Xavier remembered the year that he spent silent because he thought that any innocent word he might say could call down a bloody beating.

Language is the great edifice of humanity, Father Frank had once lectured. Our words have thousands of meanings and histories longer than any nation, people, or tongue. Some of our utterances have come down from our animal ancestors and are older than the human race itself. Languages die and are reborn. They create our minds and transmit our thoughts down the long corridors of history. And so every word spoken is blessed and greater than the speaker and those who listen. Language is an avalanche of meaning and we, our minds, are tumbling stones babbling and muttering into existence the entire epoch of the divine.

“I’m looking for a man named Calvin Leigh,” Ecks said to the aged receptionist. “He works for Wicker Enterprises.”

“Do you know his extension?”

“Not really. I got his name from a friend. She needed me to ask him a question.”

“Why not call?” the old man asked.

“I’ll be happy to talk to him on the phone if you dial the number,” Xavier said, still wondering what his father might have done if the old man had called him son.

The semiretired receptionist stared at Xavier through watery brown eyes, weighing his next question.

“Who should I say is calling?” he said.

“Egbert Noland for Doris Milne, concerning Loretta and Manly Hopkins and their adopted children.”

“Say again?”

“I can write it down if you want.…”

The call was made and the introduction given. The old man waited a beat and then repeated the words that Ecks had written down for him. He waited a bit longer this time and then looked up at the man calling himself Egbert Noland.

“Mr. Leigh says to go right on up. He’s in nine-oh-nine on the ninth floor.”

If Ecks had been a superstitious man he might have consulted a numerology handbook before taking the elevator. Four-oh-four followed by nine-oh-nine might have meant something. But he just took the old man’s direction, walked to the lift, and pressed its rectangular chrome-coated button.

It was at the end of a long and wide hallway. The suite was behind double doors made from solid planks of white wood. The handles were brass and the ringer was an emerald glass button.

Ecks pressed the button, a click sounded, and he pushed the doors inward.

He walked in consciously keeping his hand away from the pistol in his pocket.

Behind a waist-high barrier of the same white wood the door was made from a big oak table stood in for a proper desk. Behind this table sat a voluptuous woman who was in her forties but had not yet given up the struggle for eternal youth. The dress she wore was tight and on a theme of peacock feathers. The fabric was silken and shimmery. From her earlobes hung fans made from strips of pink coral.

She had brown hair, brown eyes, and skin that gleamed from makeup that cost more than most receptionists made.

“May I help you?” she asked out of insincere courtesy.

“Calvin Leigh,” Ecks said.

“And what is your business with Mr. Leigh?”

“Private.”

The furrow of her eyes told Ecks that she wasn’t used to flippancy.

“Are you going to tell me?” she asked.

“No, I don’t think so.”

The woman squared her shoulders. They were impressive shoulders, wide and with some muscle. Xavier smiled, wondering whether the woman might try to remove him physically.

He might enjoy that.

“Mr. Noland?” a man’s voice said.

He was Eck’s height and suggestive of the desert. He wore a sand-colored suit to go with his tan hair and sun-burnished skin. His eyes were faded amber orbs. The silk T-shirt he wore was sweatpants gray. He might have been a Western desert in a previous incarnation.

“Mr. Leigh?”

“It’s okay, Fannie,” the sandman said. “Mr. Noland called.”

Fannie’s contempt might have been for either man, possibly both. She turned her head in a dismissive gesture, lifting a single sheet of peacock blue paper from the table-desk.

“Come with me, Mr. Noland,” Leigh said.

Ecks followed the man, who was somewhere in his thirties, down a long aisle that ran at an angle bisecting a pen of desks separated by waist-high, movable walls.

There were people moving around the cubicles in this area: office workers in dress uniform, men and women going about repetitive tasks like bees or starlings, grass growing, or zombies in one of George Romero’s films.

They came to a dark green metal door. This portal seemed out of place. Everything else was lightly colored, with vapid personality and air-conditioned breath. But this metal door was almost medieval, unashamed of its darkness and opaque nature. Xavier thought that if he were a night watchman and alone on this floor he would set his chair next to that door for company and solace (though solace was not the word he imagined).

Calvin pushed the door open and ushered Ecks in.

If the door was an anomaly the office was completely unexpected. The walls of two sides, north and west, were all glass looking out over the unmanicured park. The workspace was wider than it was deep—but it was very deep. The ceiling was also transparent with the exception of three steel girders holding up the roof. The furniture was all plastic, mostly colorless, and transparent.

Leigh lowered into a glasslike chair behind what should have been a classic walnut desk that was instead made from see-through plastic. Ecks could see the files and papers, paper clips and condoms, even the half-pint of amber-colored liquor in the bottom drawer. There was nothing on top of the desk: no computer or desk lamp, blotter or pencil jar.

The emptiness of the desktop reminded Ecks of the clutter on Lou Baer-Bond’s desk. The thought of the detective set off a concatenation of suspicions that had been brewing in the back of the gangster’s mind.

“Have a seat, Mr. Noland.”

The guest chairs were festive: green, blue, and red plastic—see-through like almost everything else in the room.

Ecks chose a red chair to sit in.

“How can I help you?” the young businessman in the see-through office asked.

“Pops downstairs asked you my question.”

“Something about adopted children,” Leigh said with a bewildered look on his face. “I didn’t understand.”

“You the president here?” Ecks asked.

“Executive vice president in charge of operations.”

“And you let just any old fool talking gibberish up in your office?”

“I …” Leigh’s pale amber eyes examined Ecks closely. Then he asked, “Are you in the business?”

“How do you mean?”

“You seem to be … a very physical man. You come in here talking about Manly … just a natural leap.”

Ecks laced his fingers and put both hands on his lap.

“Leonard Oscar Phillips,” he said.

“Who’s that?”

“A child that Wicker Enterprises bought from Sedra Landcombe.”

If Leigh was an expressionless desert, there was a storm brewing somewhere in the atmosphere above his head.

“This is America, Mr. Noland. As an African-American you should know better than anyone that slavery was outlawed here.”

Ecks tried to think of some urbane reply that would keep the conversation going in order to stave off the thunderstorm. But banter did not come easily when he remembered the photographs revealed by Charlie Mothers’s reinterpretation of Guérnica.

“I have the time but not the patience to dance with you, Calvin,” Ecks said. “You understand?”

“Are you threatening me?”

“Yes. Yes, I am.”

“That would be a grievous mistake, sir.”

“Your mistake, Mr. Leigh, not mine. I have been engaged to find three of Ms. Landcombe’s human transactions. I don’t care about your buggering and molestations. But I will destroy you and bring this glass house down around you and your bosses’ ears. I’m not alone and I’m not green.”

Ecks got to his feet.

“And one more thing, Mr. Leigh … I don’t mind a little pain—yours or mine.” Ecks took a special card from his wallet. “Call this number and leave a message where I can find Lenny. Do that or call your lawyer and make sure that your will is up-to-date.”

Ecks tossed the card on the transparent desk and turned toward the metal door. He pushed it open and was met by a large ruddy man dressed in a gray suit that was more of an afterthought than actual business wear.

The man put up an arresting hand. There was strength in the gesture and a gun in Xavier’s pocket. The Parishioner quickly went through the options open to him:

The strongman intended to push Xavier back into the glass room. There he felt that he could subdue the smaller, older black man with a few well-placed blows. He might have been wrong but there was Calvin to consider. Leigh could have brass knuckles concealed in his pocket, or maybe even a pistol.

Ecks had a gun himself. He could have drawn it and ended the possibility of a contest—maybe. But guns had the sometimes unwanted tendency to increase the stakes. When faced with death some men surged forward instead of making the sensible decision. Men were made for war, and war was defined by both stupidity and casualty.

The last choice, a microsecond into Xavier’s arc of thought, was to make it a struggle right there, along the slanted aisle of cubicles. There was still a whole fight left in him from the aborted confrontation with Soto at the Seabreeze City church.

Time was up. The battering ram of a hand was six inches from Ecks’s chest.

He decided on a straight left, jerked his right shoulder back (hitting Calvin, who had sneaked up behind), and striking the beefy pink man square on the tip of his chin. Calvin fell to the floor behind Ecks. The big man dropped on his derriere like a child’s teddy bear. Ecks was able to take three steps before the big guy was up. Xavier couldn’t avoid the punch he felt coming up from behind, but he moved to the side, making it a glancing blow and putting him in position to return the favor.

The big man was four inches taller with a longer reach, so Ecks moved in close, hitting his opponent on the chin with his skull, and dug two vicious uppercuts to the gut. The response was the man pushing hard against both Ecks’s arms and throwing him two yards. Xavier was surprised to find himself on his back.

“Stomp him, Lon!” Calvin shouted, and suddenly a hard heel was bouncing off of Xavier’s forehead.

He had a hard head; that’s what his mother, father, teachers, girlfriends, wife, and friends had always said.

Ecks rolled to his left.

A woman office drone screamed and he imagined a zombie suddenly conscious of her fate.

Xavier was on his feet. He blocked three fast punches and then hit Lon three times—hard.

That was when the men fell at each other, throwing caution to the wind and fists into flesh.

There came more shouting and screams too. Ecks tasted blood and felt the impact of Lon’s fists. He didn’t mind the attack. Actually he enjoyed it.

Men and women stood at the periphery of the battle behind the false safety of waist-high walls. There was nothing short of a fire hose that could stop the fight—nothing but a three-punch combination that first stunned Lon and then laid him low.

The big white man went down on one knee, tried to rise, and then fell on his side. From there he rolled on his back and then rocked from side to side, trying to remember how to get up.

The bastionlike door to Calvin Leigh’s office was closed. The sandy man was nowhere in sight.

Xavier wiped the blood from his forehead and turned toward the exit.

Fannie was gone from her desk.

Nine floors below, the man who had called Xavier son was also missing from his post.

Xavier crossed the street and unlocked his car door. He got inside, returned the Afghani pistol to its hiding place under the seat; then, after some fumbling, he found the slot for the ignition key.

He was three blocks away, almost to the freeway entrance, when red lights flashed in the rearview mirror.

Xavier knew then that Lon’s punches had had an effect, because he didn’t know what to do. Should he stop or drive on? Were the red lights for him? Maybe there was someone up ahead who had been speeding.

Lon could hit.

Thinking hard, Ecks came up with a plan. He would pull to the curb and if the police passed him he’d know that they were after someone else. He nodded to himself and flicked on the blinker, pulled to the side of the road, and was only mildly surprised when the unmarked black sedan pulled up behind him.

Was the pistol still in his pocket? No? Yes?

There was something familiar about the trench coat–wearing man who came up to the driver’s side and rapped on the glass.

Ecks rolled down his window and said, “Hello.”

“You’re bleeding,” Detective Andre Tourneau replied.

In the interrogation room, holding a cold pack to his forehead, Ecks wondered what the weather was like in New York. It was spring, so there would be plenty of light, though it probably wasn’t very warm yet. Swan would be gone. They had both been involved in the shoot-out with the East Harlem thugs.

Ecks wondered whether even Rikers could protect him from retribution.

His thoughts drifted awhile after that.

He remembered the first day he got to Los Angeles: He went down to the beach and walked for miles in bare feet and a light gold suit. He’d met a chubby white woman sunning herself on a striped blanket.…

Light from the doorway caused his head to ache and the vision of sex darted away.

Detective Andre Tourneau seated himself across from Ecks.

“What time is it?” Xavier asked.

“A little after eight.”

“I wasn’t in your jurisdiction when you grabbed me, was I?”

“How did your lawyer know you were here?”

“It’s still the same day, right?”

Tourneau smiled.

Ecks sat back and peered into the policeman’s green eyes.

“The lawyer is Cylla Pride,” Tourneau said. “She is very expensive.”

Xavier had the sudden urge to confess. It wasn’t the feeling of guilt but a kinship with the displaced policeman. He liked the man. He needed a friend.

As hard as Lon hit he couldn’t knock the New Xavier out.

But change was neither here nor there when the Old Xavier’s fingerprints were now being checked in the system.

“Why you warn me about a lawyer, Detective Tourneau? And how did you find me outside your jurisdiction?”

“Ipio.”

“Say what?”

“I-P-I-O. The Interpolice Information Organization.”

“Like the FBI?”

“Southern California is made up of dozens of unconnected municipalities.” The Frenchman managed the mouthful of syllables almost perfectly. “Lately most of the police departments have joined a local computer system where we can monitor active cases across city lines.”

“And you’re monitoring me?”

“Just so.”

“Why?”

“What were you doing at Wicker Enterprises?”

The question was like a pail of cold water dumped on his head. Suddenly Ecks was alert and conscious. His recovery from the heavy blows absorbed in the fight with Lon was, for all intents and purposes, complete. It was after eight. He’d been in custody for hours. Cylla Pride was nearby trying to get him out. Some computer in New York was comparing Xavier Rule’s fingerprints to Egbert Noland’s.

Or was it? There was no mention of extradition. Was there a computer down somewhere back east?

“How’s the other guy?” Ecks asked.

Tourneau frowned. “He’s in the hospital but not bad.”

“Am I under arrest?”

“What were you doing at Wicker Enterprises?”

Ecks put down the cold pack. It was tepid by then anyway. He looked past the Frenchman’s eyes into the question. He had an answer but it was possibly the wrong one.

“Listen, Andre,” Ecks said. “I’d really like to tell you, but I can’t right now.”

“Why not?”

“Let me talk to Cylla.”

“There were the bones of nine bodies in Sedra Landcombe’s cellar,” the cop said. “Six of them were infants. Wicker Enterprises is suspected of trafficking in child pornography.”

“My lawyer.”

“What can you tell me?”

“Let me talk to Cylla and I’ll get back to you.”

Two blocks from the downtown precinct Cylla Pride, a broad and blunt-faced white woman, sat across a coffee shop booth from Ecks. Her features were at odds with the cut of her elegant, dark maroon pantsuit.

“Why’d they let me go?”

“No one pressed charges. They really had no reason to bring you in.”

“But they took my fingerprints.”

“Charlie Mothers.”

It took a moment for this utterance to make sense. Charlie Mothers the self-styled and rehabilitated computer supervillain.

“You kiddin’ me.”

“Computers are law enforcement’s greatest strength,” she said. “It stands to reason that they would also be its greatest weakness.”

“He could do all that?”

“He’s probably the most dangerous man in our congregation.”

“Not the most dangerous person?”

“Maybe next to me.”

Cylla had her nose broken somewhere along the way. That wasn’t so surprising. People of the nameless church had lived hard lives. What did amaze Ecks was that she hadn’t had corrective surgery. She had big hands and small feet, flat brown eyes and hair that had not yet decided to be gray. Her skin was white and lusterless. In different clothes she could have been mistaken for a nineteenth-century French laundress.

“So I don’t have to run?” Ecks asked.

“They sent out the request and got no answers. So unless you’ve been moonlighting there’s nothing to worry about.”

Xavier Rule nodded and wondered about questions he couldn’t articulate.

“Do you need a ride back to your car?” Pride asked.

“No. Thank you, though. How did you know I was in there?”

“Brother Soto called Frank,” she said. “Can I do anything else for you?”

“Charlie told me that your firm is representing Lester Lehman.”

“Yes, we are. It’s not my case. I wouldn’t represent a mad dog like that.”

“Who’s paying for it?”

“A man named Edwards. He’s done everything by mail, so no one knows him. In the letter he said something about justice being done. Do you need to know more?”

“No. Probably not. But you could tell me something.”

“What’s that?”

“Do we belong to a cult?”

Xavier’s question caught the lawyer by surprise.

“Why do you ask that?”

“I’m not sure,” he said. “But I seem to be acting on pure faith. I mean, I really don’t know what I’m doing, or why.”

Cylla dropped her professional attitude and sat back in the red metal chair. She draped her right arm over the backrest like a cross-country trucker who’d just hit her stride on the highway.

She smiled in a parental way.

“I got ten years on you, Ecks,” she said. “I did pretty good on my own. Got an Ivy League degree and ran a string of girls up and down the East Coast. I thought I had seen it all and figured it out by the time I was forty. Then one day I woke up thinking about all the things I’d done. People and crimes crowded in around me and I knew all of a sudden that I was just a tool, like a shotgun or a butcher’s knife.

“All that was before I met Frank. When I came to the church I was already drifting. They just took me in.”

“So you’re saying, ‘Yes, it is a cult,’ ” Xavier said.

“I’m saying that you won’t find a more like-minded congregation on the face of this earth.”

Xavier realized that he was nodding, not exactly in agreement but with understanding. He liked Cylla and knew that she spoke her own truth.

Ecks stayed after Cylla had gone. When he went to the toilet he saw the battered face in the mirror. The image reminded him of Panther Rule when he was in the police station for beating a man over a word.

Thirty-seven minutes later Winter showed up at the coffee shop.

“Ecks.”

“Have a seat, Win. You hungry?”

“I’m always hungry.”

“You are?”

“Yeah, that’s because I drive up to sixteen hours a day but don’t ever eat in the car. That’s my rule.”

“Why’s that?”

“I knew this dude once would eat them fancy bagged cookies in his ride. He et ’em day and night—and then one day he got roaches.”

“In his car?”

“Oh, yeah. Client was sittin’ in the back seat lookin’ over some business papers and one’a them light brown ones skittered right across the page.”

“Damn. What happened?”

“They fired the driver. But you know that’s not why I don’t eat in the car. Naw, man. I just don’t even wanna think that something I do attracts vermin.”

A single piano note sounded.

Ecks remembered the bugs that he’d seen on dead men and women all over the city of New York. This thought reminded him of Cylla’s words. Maybe she was right. Maybe he belonged in a primal tribe of ex-cannibals that had learned to control their appetites.

“… as it is I have my car fumigated every six months,” Winter was saying.

Ecks was surprised that he’d drifted off. He’d need a good night’s sleep before the swelling inside his head went down.

“What you need, brother?” Winter asked.

“A ride to my car.”

On the drive over Winter and Ecks talked about ice hockey. Winter loved the game.

“There’s not two black players to rub together on any ice hockey team,” Ecks said when Winter made his claim.

The single piano note chimed for the fifth time.

“Don’t matter to me, man. I’m not no racist. I just love the ice.”

A mile from the office building that housed Wicker Enterprises, driving his beloved Edsel, Ecks finally called the automated answering service on his phone.

“You’re looking for Lenny O,” Fannie, the broad-shouldered receptionist from Wicker Enterprises, said on the answering service. “He works for Zebra Film-Arts. They do business in a warehouse in Burbank.”

“Thank you,” Ecks said to the lifeless recording.

Then he drove home to sleep for fourteen hours.

He woke up in the early afternoon to the barely audible thrum of traffic coming in through the windowpane, walls, ceiling, and floor. This monotonous hum cocooned the battered gangster. Under this protective shield of sound Ecks felt safe enough to ponder. He was thinking that he’d accomplished the task given him by the patriarch of the church.

The Old Ecks was finished but the new man came to awareness on the path the old him had been traveling.

He made French-press coffee and beat two eggs together with two tablespoons of whole-wheat flour and some milk. He cooked the fat crepe in a griddle on his hot plate, thinking all the while about Benol and Dodo Milne, about dead children who had certainly attracted insects as they decomposed.

The swelling on his face had gone down except for a slight protuberance on the left temple where Lon had stomped the knot made by Doris Milne and her bat. The cut would leave a barely noticeable scar.

New Ecks decided that there was nothing to do but wait. So he called Bud White to see how his paper delivery service was going.

“It’s really good,” the ex-wrestler told his colleague. “That Damien, Carlo, and Angelique could run the whole thing by themselves. It’s like I’m just along for the ride.”

There was an essay he had to write for his American history course. He decided to compose a thousand words on the accommodation democracies had to make for the practice of slavery.

Democracy, he wrote, is not a static system. It is indefinable except at the present moment where it exists to one degree or another. The Athenians had democracy and slavery.…

That was when the cell phone played its little riff.

“Hello?”

“Mr. Noland?”

“Doris, Doris,” he sang. “Where are you, Doris?”

“That sounds like the beginning of a nursery rhyme.”

“But instead it’s X-rated. George said that you drugged his drink and put him to bed.”

“That’s about the only way I could get him to bed,” she said lightly.

“You nearly killed me doing the same thing.”

“I’m sorry about that. I really am. Aunt Sedra made me do it.”

“What do you need, Doris?”

“Can you come get me? I have this, um, uh, problem.”

“Why me?”

“You’re the only person I know.”

The address was a block east of the promenade of Venice Beach. It was a surf shop, and there was a Closed sign in the window. Upon seeing this placard both Eckses, old and new, girded themselves for bad news.

He knocked on the glass door and someone peeked out through the blinds. A moment later the door opened onto a large, shadowy room.

Hand on his pistol, Ecks went in as Doris closed the door behind him and then turned on a light. She was wearing a frilly pink dress with red trim around the high collar. The New Yorker was surprised by his burgeoning erection. There was no other symptom of physical attraction, but neither was there any question about his erotic state of mind.

Doris stared into Ecks’s eyes a moment, long enough for the rest of his systems to begin to respond. Her solemn gaze and soft skin slipped past his defenses. If he were a day younger he might have thought he was falling in love.

“I didn’t mean to hurt Mr. Ben,” she said. “I only needed to get him to fall asleep. I had to get away.”

“Why? What did you need to do?”

She looked down and to the side.

“Doris,” Ecks said. “Answer me.”

“He’s in there.”

She pointed down a long aisle of brightly colored surfboards standing like dominoes waiting to be knocked down. These fiberglass fins, held in place by rough wooden slots, led to a small doorway covered by a dark blue blanket in place of a door.

When Ecks put his hand on the bare flesh of her upper arm Doris flinched. She moved toward him but he was already pushing her away, toward the back of the shop.

She allowed herself to be guided until they reached the blanket—there she dug her heels in.

“What’s wrong?” Ecks asked, his voice thick with both ephemeral trepidation and deep-seated lust.

“I’m afraid.”

“Of what?”

Doris pushed aside the makeshift curtain that had been rudely nailed to the unpainted plywood above the entryway. This led to a workshop where injured surfboards went to be patched, smoothed, and waxed. There was a high workbench surrounded by several boards in need of work held by padded vises, leaning against the walls, or just lying on the granite floor.

The young blond man with the bullet through his right eye lay on his back over a sky-blue-and-cranberry board. His mouth was open slightly, as if he had been saying something just before being shot.

The sight of the body only increased Ecks’s sexual distress. His hand closed around the young woman’s biceps.

“Hank Marcus,” Ecks said.

This jerked Doris’s head around. “You know him?”

“I know that he was one of those three boys Sedra sold back in ’eighty-eight.”

“I got here yesterday,” Doris said. “I called Henry from George’s phone and he gave me directions.”

“And you killed him?”

“No … no. He was already dead when I got here.”

“I don’t understand,” Ecks said. “How did you two know each other?”

“Aunt Sedra would go out in the afternoon ever since I was little. She’d go shopping or maybe to a movie. Sometimes I went with her, but more often she wanted to go alone. When I was younger I wasn’t supposed to go out or even answer the door when she was gone. But I got so lonely that sometimes if someone rang the bell I’d go answer. I mean, I would just send whoever it was away, but at least I got to talk to them for a minute or two. Aunt Sedra would have been mad but I didn’t see any reason why I couldn’t just tell somebody that she wasn’t in.”

“You were telling me about Hank,” Ecks reminded her.

“Oh. Yes. One day this fifteen-year-old boy came to the door. Henry. Hank.”

“Out of the blue?”

“Huh?” Doris, said crinkling her nose in confusion.

“How did he know to come to your door?”

“His mother had a diary, and after she died Hank found it. It said that he was adopted and that Sedra was the one who they got him from. The entry was very specific. It had our address and everything.

“I knew right away it was him because of the little freckle on his ear. I remembered that from when I took care of them. I used to kiss that freckle and make him laugh.”

Xavier was trying to control his breathing by taking air in slowly, through his nose.

“He started asking questions,” Doris continued. “I knew what it was like to want to know who your parents were. I told him that I thought he was stolen and that Sedra had sold him to his parents. He wanted to go to the police but I said that all of us—his adopted parents, me, and Sedra—would go to jail. He still wanted to go but I begged him to wait for a week and then come back. I told him that I’d try to find out who his real parents were.”

“Did you?”

“No. Aunt Sedra would never tell me anything like that.”

“Then why didn’t he go to the cops?”

Doris moved to the stool and climbed up on it. Xavier tried not to think of what they could do with her in that position.

“I seduced him,” she said, almost as if in sympathy with the gangster’s thoughts. “He was a virgin and I taught him the things I knew. For three years he thought he was in love with me. Maybe he really was.”

“And Sedra never knew?”

Doris shook her head. “I had this big blue candle that I’d put in the upstairs hall window if she was home or coming back soon. If I put the candle up he’d try again the next day—if he could.”

Their eyes locked again. Doris sat up straighter, and Ecks’s erection grew taut.

He felt a muscle twitching in his right shoulder. This shudder traveled through his body, transforming into emotion. New Ecks was suddenly there in his head. It was like an overlay, a template that altered him and his desire. His breathing slowed of its own accord and the sexual tension ebbed.

“Why didn’t you come straight here from Sedra’s?” he asked.

“I didn’t know where he was and … and … We broke up a while ago. He found a girl his own age and wanted to get away from me. We hadn’t talked in a long time.”

Ecks glanced at the body. It was as if he were seeing it for the first time.

“You know how this looks, right?”

“What?”

“You tried to kill me, you killed Sedra, drugged George Ben, and now this boy Hank is dead and you’re the only one here.”

Doris’s brows furrowed but her eyes opened wider.

“But … but … but …”

“Look,” Ecks said. “I’m not the cops and I don’t work for them. All I’m sayin’ is everywhere there’s a body or there might be a body, there you are too.”

“I killed Aunt Sedra but that was because she was going to kill me.”

“Where’s your purse?”

“Why?”

“Just where is it?”

“I’ll go get it.” She hopped off the stool and moved toward the doorway.

“I’ll go with you.”

At the front of the store, beneath the cash register, was the big blue bag she’d carried into the coffee shop at their first rendezvous.

“Here it is,” she said, reaching for the purse.

But Xavier was faster. He stooped down quickly and picked up the blue sack.

“What are you doing?” Doris asked. “That’s supposed to be private.”

Ignoring her, he pulled out a dingy orange wallet and a chrome-plated pistol. He also noted that there was a lot of change tinkling around the bottom of the bag—that and a stack of hundred-dollar bills held together by a slender rubber band.

He sniffed the barrel of the pistol, checked the clip, and pocketed it. Then he flipped through the stack of money. Ten thousand dollars, more or less.

“This money come out of the register?” he asked. “That and the change?”

“He would have wanted me to have it.”

“A lot of money to be lying around a low-rent shop like this.”

“I found the hundred-dollar bills in a drawer in the back. The small bills and change came out of the register.”

“This little pistol hasn’t been fired,” he said. “You got another gun?”

“No. I took that one from George’s dresser drawer.”

“Why?”

“Because maybe I’ll have to kill myself.”

Ecks stopped to ponder these words. They seemed plain and straightforward, the kind of statement that only a young woman kept from society for an entire lifetime could make.

“Who killed Henry?” Ecks asked.

“I don’t know. Can I have my gun back?”

“No. It belongs to George.”

“I have to be able to protect myself.”

“I thought you needed the gun for suicide.”

“Hank was in trouble,” she said. “He … A man came to him asking about his parents. He seemed to know that Hank was adopted. At least, he suspected it.”

“And when did you find all this out?”

“When I called him. He asked me if I ever heard of Mr. Jocelyn.”

“Did you?”

“Not that name, but a man who looked a lot like Hank described him had come around Aunt Sedra’s a few weeks ago. They talked privately but he definitely wanted information.”

“What was that man’s name?”

“Ansel Edwards. He said he was a lawyer.”

Xavier was a crook but not the kind who made complex plans or took on difficult heists. Now and then a mastermind would hire him as muscle on a big job where four or more men executed a military-like operation. It was usually good money but he never bothered himself with the finer details. A soldier does what he’s told and puts his trust in the commander.

He never planned a big job, but he did know what it was like to be in the middle of one.

“Was Sedra an independent agent?” Ecks asked Dodo.

“What do you mean?”

“Did somebody pull her strings?”

“Like a puppet?”

“Somebody who would give her orders, who when they called she always did what they said.”

“Mr. Martindale,” Doris said in a kind of reverie. “He only came by the house twice. Once when I was eight. I think that someone wanted to buy me. Aunt Sedra said that she needed me to help her. She was really serious, but I got the feeling that if he said I had to go, Sedra would have sent me.”

“What was the second time?”

Doris, for the first time, blushed.

“Hank back there was your friend, right?” Ecks said.

She nodded.

“Don’t you want the one who killed him to pay for it?”

She looked up with a confused expression on her face. It was as if she had never considered the concept of revenge.

Life for her, Ecks realized then, was a simple matter of survival.

“The second time was just after my fourteenth birthday. He brought a man to the house who didn’t speak English and smelled like onions. The man took me downstairs next to the vault and tied me up. He beat me for a long time with a strap and then he cut my clothes off with a knife and fucked my butt while I was still tied up. He didn’t use a condom or anything.

“After that I hated Mr. Martindale but he never came back again. Aunt Sedra put cream on the welts and that weekend she took me to Disneyland. I’d never seen anything like it. It was wonderful.”

“What was this Martindale like?”

It took a moment for Doris to abandon the spectacle of the theme park, but finally she said, “He was tall and handsome. His face was very nice except for his eyes looked like an animal’s eyes, you know—wild.”

“White guy?” Ecks asked.

Doris nodded.

“But he wasn’t the one who talked to Sedra and Henry?” Ecks added.

“No. I told you. His name was Ansel Edwards and maybe Mr. Jocelyn. He was tall and white too, but not so good-looking. His eyes were a funny color.”

“Did Sedra call Martindale after the lawyer was there?”

“I don’t know. She had the phone locked up in her room.”

Xavier hopped up on the counter to sit and think. The quick gesture startled Doris, but after a moment she settled down again.

“What are you going to do?” she asked.

“The real question is, what am I going to do with you?”

“I don’t understand.”

“You, young lady, are the perfect definition of what they call a loose cannon. At any minute you might explode or crash through some wall. Everywhere you go somebody dies or almost dies. I need you in one place just to be sure.”

“I don’t want to be locked away in somebody’s house again,” she said with sudden conviction.

“No, you don’t. But, baby, if the cops get you you’ll be locked away in a cell for the rest of your life. You murdered Sedra. There’s no other way to look at that. Your fingerprints are all over that house. Probably on the murder weapon. And it might be, if I don’t find different, that I will be the one to turn you over. But right now I’m tryin’ to help. I could take you back to the church. You don’t have to stay inside. You can pitch a tent and sleep in the courtyard for all I care. I just need to know how to get to you.”

“For how long?”

“Things are happening pretty quickly. Couple’a weeks should tell me what I need.”

“What about that Father Frank?” Doris asked.

“What about him?”

“He scares me.”

“Wow. I never heard anybody say that they were scared of Frank. Nobody. But you don’t have to worry, girl. Sister Hope will take care of you. You like her, right?”

Doris nodded but Xavier hardly noticed.

Billy Palmerri had been a getaway driver in his previous life. Driving was his passion. As a pimply-faced strawberry-blond kid in Tennessee he competed in back-road races for a living. He was the best until he lost control one day and plowed into a crowd of hillbilly spectators. Seven people died and Billy was sought by both the police and angry, revenge-fueled relatives of the victims.

He made his way to Reno and joined a crew that executed heists all over the United States. Robbery, mayhem, and murder were facts of life for Billy. He had three wives in as many states and somewhere around eighteen children—counting those born out of wedlock.

He was a midlevel bad man—completely unrepentant. He didn’t think one way or the other about his acts.

Billy’s mother, Barbara Palmerri, had moved to Selma to live with Charlene, the sister of her third husband, Israel Lundberg. Barbara had developed congestive heart disease and was soon to die.

Billy had a job to do and so was a week late coming to see his mother. She was pale and weak in a chiffon pink bed. Her entire life she’d been a plump woman, but that day she was waiflike, child-size upon the huge mattress.

“Baby, I never did right by you,” Barbara whispered. Through a force of will she rose up and kissed her son’s temple. “I never taught you to be a good man, but I want you to promise me that you will learn how to do that on your own after I’m gone.”

“How do I do that, Mama?” the son asked.

“Just get in that old jalopy of yours and drive until you find the right spot.”

Billy’s mother died without uttering another word. He sat by her side until the sun had gone down, as he had developed the habit of waiting for dark to make a move.

When he walked out of Charlene Lundberg’s front door gunfire erupted from at least three sources. Billy was hit in the arm, leg, and chest. Though sorely wounded, he was still able to move. He went through the house, across the backyard, and over a fence into an alley. There he had secreted a second car, the perfect wheelman’s backup.

He made it out of Alabama into Mississippi, where he happened upon a good-hearted store owner who knew a colored nurse who looked after men of her own race whom white doctors would not see. Out of charity, and the promise of two thousand dollars from Billy, the nurse took him in.

It was the fever that changed the wheelman. In his hallucinatory state he remembered every crime he’d committed. Through it all his mother was at his side shaking her head, blaming herself for her son’s selfish deeds.

The colored nurse, whose name was Samantha Smith, brought a white man to Billy’s side. That was Father Frank, fifteen years before he’d relocated to the California coast.

“You been going the wrong way on the autobahn, William,” Frank had said. “What you need to do is make a U-turn and head for the hills.”

That was thirty-two years before Billy pulled up to the closed surf shop at around eight that evening. He still had a full head of strawberry-blond hair and the frame of a twenty-year-old racer. But Billy had traveled a million miles from that day on what he thought was his deathbed with Frank holding his hand.

“I need me a map,” he had said in Expressions, “ ’cause I got no sense of direction. But once you tell me my destination I’ll get there through hell or high water.”

“This is Doris, Billy,” Xavier said to the fifty-seven-year-old driver. “Frank wants her to take up residence at the church for a week or two.”

“Pleased to meet ya, ma’am,” Billy said.

“Hi,” she replied nervously.

“Billy will get you there safe and sound. You can try every trick in the book, but the only thing he will do is deliver you to Sister Hope. Ain’t that right, Billy?”

“Frank as my witness,” the racer vowed.

The Regency Arms was a smallish hotel with a café that had seven round tables across the way from the registration desk. Ecks picked a seat that was partially hidden by a decorative pillar and ordered country pâté garnished with gherkins and pickled pearl onions, and a cappuccino with an extra shot of espresso. He took out his book and started reading about the decline of Rome.

No one bothered him. As long as he was quiet and ordered something every forty-five minutes or so they were happy to have his patronage.

“Hey, mister,” a young voice said.

Ecks looked up to see a slender young white girl, no older than nineteen, wearing a fake white fur, bright blue hair, and little else except stiltlike high heels. Her youth made her pretty, but Ecks could see by the lines in her face that aging would change that fact.

“Yeah?” Ecks said. He was tired of reading.

“You want a date?”

“No. You want a cup of coffee?”

“I’m on the job, mister.”

“Even a working stiff takes a coffee break now and then. Tell you what—I’ll buy you a drink and give you twenty to sit here and tell me what’s what up on Hollywood.”

“My feet are tired,” she said.

“My feet would break in shoes like that.”

The girl sniggered and lowered into the chair across from the Parishioner.

A waiter Ecks hadn’t seen before hurried over to the table.

“Excuse me,” he began. It was obvious that he was going to object to the girl putting her bottom on his chair.

“Bella here wants a caffe latte and a ham sandwich with the fixings on the side.”

The strength behind Ecks’s words contained a warning that the host heard clearly.

“Yes, sir,” he said.

“My name’s not Bella,” she said when the waiter had gone.

“Bella means ‘very pretty’ in Italian, I’m told,” Ecks said. “And so even if that’s not your name I could call you that anyway.”

“You a pimp?” she asked easily, probing professionally, looking, as all prostitutes do, for an exit sign.

“Used to be. A long time ago and many miles from here.”

“You quit?”

“Yeah.”

“How come?” Her eyes were almost saffron in color.

“I realized that I like women too much.”

“You let ’em lead you around by the nose?”

“No, baby,” Ecks said with emphasis in lieu of a longer explanation.

“You look like you could take care’a yourself and a whole string of women too.”

“Oh, yeah. But you don’t have to do everything you can. Matter of fact, I’ve found that it’s best to hone yourself down to the one or two things you like most.”

The waiter returned with the coffee in a glass mug and a sandwich on an oval platter.

“We’re going to need this table soon,” he said to Xavier.

“Listen here, brother,” the black man said to the white one. “I’m gonna sit here and eat and drink and talk to my friend until I’m finished. And you can call the cops or maybe some bouncer you got in the back room somewhere. But if you do you’ll regret it; I can promise you that.”

Before the waiter could back away the young woman was eating her sandwich. She ate hungrily, tearing at the bread and meat with her small sharp teeth.

“You’re hungry,” he said.

She nodded and he noticed Benol Richards walking in with a tall white man in a black overcoat. She was wearing a golden dress that was a little too short and had an odd contrast with her caramel-colored skin. They were intent on their conversation and so did not notice Ecks and his date at the table behind the pillar. They walked to the elevator and she pushed the button.

“They never feed me,” the young woman said.

“Who doesn’t?” Ecks asked, still watching his quarry.

“My dates,” she said. “They always want me to drink with them. Sometimes they want me to take drugs. But you know I’d rather have a chili burger than drop Ecstasy with some fat pervert.”

The elevator doors opened. Six or seven young people came out. Benol and her middle-aged man-friend stood aside and then entered the lift. They got in and disappeared from sight. The digital counter above the doors said that they went to the sixth floor.

“Hey,” Ecks’s impromptu date said.

“Yeah?”

“Are you listening?”

“I don’t think they have chili burgers here.”

She grinned.

“My name is Pretty,” she said.

“So I was right.”

“What’s your name?”

“My name is Egbert but everybody calls me Ecks.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Ecks,” Pretty said, holding out a hand.

They shook and smiled at each other.

“You want a date now?” she asked.

“No.”

Pretty pouted appealingly, but it was obvious to Xavier that she didn’t mean it.

“You don’t like me?” she asked.

“It’s not that. You see, Bella, I’m a kind of investigator and I’m on the job.”

“You followin’ that woman in the gold dress and Jerry?”

“You know him?”

“This hotel has twelve floors. Nine are for people who rent rooms on business or vacation. The other three are split up between Roger Dees, Terra Hauk, and Jerry—the man you was watchin’. They got girls up there do just about anything. It’s cause’a the women upstairs that us outside girls cruise through the café once a night or so. There’s always guys who want another flavor after they get it on upstairs.”

“What’s Jerry’s last name?”

“What’s it worth?”

“A ham sandwich and twenty bucks.”

The young whore liked Ecks’s sense of humor. She grinned.

“Jocelyn,” she said. “Jerry Jocelyn.”

If somebody tells you that what you’re searching for is like looking for a needle in a haystack, Father Frank was fond of saying, then tell them that you will put on magnetized gloves and set aside an afternoon to move a great pile of hay one handful at a time.

Ecks reached into his pocket and took out a folded hundred-dollar bill—this he handed to his makeshift date.

“There’s something else,” he said as she took the money, looking around nervously for plainclothes vice cops.

“What?”

“You ever heard of Malcolm X?”

“No. He related to you?”

“He once gave a speech saying that there were two kinds of slaves,” Ecks said. “There was the house slave and the ones that worked out in the fields. The field nigger knew that he was a slave, nothing more than a piece of property to be worked to death out under a hot sun. But the house slave thought that he was better, a part of the family. If the white master got sick the house nigger would say, ‘Boss, is we sick?’ ”

Pretty laughed out loud. She had a big laugh, a healthy laugh. For a moment Ecks missed his previous life in New York.

“Malcolm X?” she said.

Ecks nodded.

“And he was black?”

“The best book about him was the one he wrote. The Autobiography of Malcolm X.”

“I should read that.”

“Yes, you should.”

“Because you know the girls upstairs think they’re better’n us, but the minute their clients drop they will be askin’ me for tips on how to keep from gettin’ cut and beat up right out there on Hollywood Boulevard.”

She looked at her hand under the table and then at Ecks. She hesitated, almost said something and then didn’t.

“Um,” she finally uttered.

“What?”

“You give me a hundred-dollar bill, not a twenty.”

“I know.”

“I have to go,” she said.

“I know that too.”

Pretty stood up, pushed her pale little hand into the pocket of the fake fur. She produced a turquoise business card and placed it on the table.

“In case you ever change your mind,” she said.

Pretty turned and walked away.

Ecks studied the card. All that was on it was the prostitute’s first name, certainly an alias, and an e-mail address. He put it in his wallet and imagined the earth moving through space, spinning on its axis, and revolving around the sun.

It’s always impossible, Frank would say after explaining how one searched for the proverbial needle. Everything is. The red ball, the bolt of lightning, that feeling in your heart when someone says your name. Impossibility is our business—our only business.

Half an hour later Jerry Jocelyn walked out of the elevator doors. He strode forward like a man of action and certainty. Ecks wondered as Jerry passed whether he should follow him, maybe even brace him. But he was in a philosophical mood and had no desire to enter another altercation unless that action had a definite purpose. And so he satisfied himself watching the upscale pimp leave the hotel.

“Can I use the house phone?” Ecks asked the dumpy guy standing behind a small podium upon which hung a sign that read, Concierge. He had waited twenty-three minutes to see whether Benol would reemerge from the elevator.

“Guests only,” he said with a trace of disdain on his lips.

“I need to speak to one of your guests.”

“Name?”

“Benol Richards.”

“Ben-what?”

“B-E-N-O-L, Benol.”

The hotel man had small shoulders on top of a big stomach. He obviously wasn’t paid enough to hire a tailor, and so the suit was ill fitting, and even though it was dark blue in color Ecks could still make out various stains. The name tag over his left breast read, Ricardo, but he was pale skinned with light brown hair, maybe forty.

Ricardo sighed. There was a notebook computer bolted to the podium. This he jabbed at with three fingers.

“I can try her room.”

“Please,” Ecks said.

Ricardo picked up the receiver and entered a few digits. He waited while looking Ecks in the eye.

“Hello? Hold a moment. What’s your name?” he asked Ecks.

“Father Frank’s friend, Egbert.”

“Egbert,” the man said into the line. He listened a moment and then hung up.

“She said that she’ll be right down.”

Someone had taken his seat and so Ecks went to a large round sofa that was placed maybe eight feet away from the elevator doors.

As he waited Ecks wondered why he didn’t see many prostitutes and johns in the lobby. He finally decided that there was a special entrance for these patrons either somewhere on that block or maybe on the next street over.

Benol had come through the front door, so she wasn’t working in the hotel.

In the middle of that thought the chrome-and-green doors of the center elevator slid open. Benol, wearing a close-fitting black muslin dress and white pumps, walked out.

She had made herself beautiful.

She strode right up to Ecks and looked down on him.

“It was the driver, right?” she asked.

“How are you, Bennie?”

“So now we’re friends?”

“I found two of the boys you’re looking for.”

The woman’s eyes became like a feline predator’s orbs, dazzled by the bait he dangled. She moved to sit next to him, her round bottom pressed up against his hard thigh.

“Which ones?” she whispered.

Only the suggestion of a scent rose from her—a fragrance applied so lightly that it might not have been there at all. It was as if a perfumed woman had passed this way hours before and all that was left was this hint of an essence unknown.

“I don’t know the real names,” Ecks said. “I mean, I don’t know which is which, but I do know that one of them is Henry Marcus. He owns a surfboard shop down near the boardwalk in Venice. His adopted mother died and the father moved to Hawaii.”

Ecks was looking into Benol’s brown eyes, trying his best to subdue his suspicions.

She was good, but he could see clearly the impatience twitching at the corners of her mouth.

“Um,” she said. “What’s the address of the shop?”

He rattled it off. It wasn’t until he finished that she remembered to take a yellow pencil and a small blue pad from her red clutch purse.

He repeated the address and then waited.

“What’s the other?” she asked.

“Lester Lehman,” he said. “He’s in San Quentin.”

He had to hold back the whisper of a smile that wanted to flit across his lips. The glitter of anticipation in Benol’s eyes dimmed as she tried to maintain the equilibrium of interest.

“Lehman,” she said, reaching for the name. “Wasn’t he the one who murdered his parents?”

“Yeah. Maybe your crime saved his blood family from slaughter.”

“That’s not funny, Mr. Noland. It could have just as well driven him crazy.”

“Glass half-empty,” Ecks opined.

“Is that all?” Benol said when it seemed as if Ecks had finished.

“Two in just a few days,” he replied. “After twenty-three years I’d say that was pretty damn good.”

“Of course it is,” Benol said, looking away as she spoke. “Of course. It’s just that I was hoping to have all three.”

“Why?”

“Excuse me?”

“Why do you have to find these young men? I know I keep on asking you that, but they’re grown now. What good can you do by dredging up the pain you caused? Who knows? The other two boys might have had happy lives.”

“It’s just the right thing to do, that’s all. It’s time for me to make up for what I’ve done.”

“Join the Peace Corps then,” the Parishioner said. “Adopt three young boys and make sure they have every opportunity. Do something positive.”

“This is what I’ve decided to do.” She was still very close to him. “Do you … do you have any clue to where the third boy is?”

Ecks smiled. “I got a P.O. box in the Beverly Hills branch. I sent him a note asking him to meet me tomorrow at four. We’ll see if he shows up.”

“So you have found him?” Benol’s tone was accusatory.

“I found a name. Oscar Phillips. The person I sent the note to might very well not be him.”

“Where are you supposed to meet?”

“Just be patient, Bennie. I’ll tell you if he’s our boy.”

“I’d like to come with you,” she said, laying a hand on his knee.

“It’s best if I go alone. I mean, this is the job Frank asked me to do.”

Benol realized that she was pressing too hard. Removing her hand from his knee, she took a deep breath and considered a moment, or maybe, Ecks thought, she was pretending to consider.

“It seems as if you’re spending more time investigating me than looking for the boys,” she said.

“Not at all. I just found out where the car service let you off. Then I came here to report to you. Nothing sinister in that.”

“I’m not pulling a fast one,” Benol offered. “I’m just trying to help out.”

“I believe you,” Ecks said, trying hard not to be influenced by her proximity. “I mean, why else would Frank put us together?”

Benol had no answer for this. Ecks was not asking for one.

“Where are you meeting this Oscar?”

Xavier wondered about the woman. Did she have a habit of shooting her victims in the eye? Was she merely trying to do what was right? Or was it something in between those two unlikely poles? She was pressing very hard for someone contemplating murder. But maybe her desire to kill outweighed any notion of self-preservation.

“I need to go there alone,” he repeated.

“Fine.”

“But if you agree not to go, why do you need to know where I’m meeting him?”

“This is very important to me,” she said, “extremely so. I feel that finding the boys will make up for so much that I’ve done wrong.”

She sounded sincere. But Ecks had learned at an early age that actions were all that mattered.

“You ever hear of the Nut Hut?” he said.

Benol shook her head, watching him intently.

“It’s in the old Farmers’ Market up on Third and Fairfax. It’s this place that sells every kind of nut in the world almost. Run by this bald-headed dude name of Toy.”

“Troy?”

“No. Like a child’s plaything.”

“That’s strange.”

“If you face the counter of the Nut Hut,” Ecks continued, “there’s three round tables over to the right. Those are Toy’s tables and only his customers are allowed to sit there. I told Oscar to buy some African groundnuts and sit down there at four tomorrow.”

The look on Benol’s face was one of breathless anticipation.

“I don’t want you going there, girl,” Ecks said.

“I won’t.”

“It don’t look like that.”

“You’ll call me when you find out?”

“Oh, yeah. I will most definitely call. But you know, the chances are slim that I’d get three aces in three days.”

“I believe you will.”

On the ride back to Flower Street, Xavier wondered again what he was doing. He didn’t care about pornographers or kidnapped children, murdered ex-addict surfers or a repentant kidnapper. He owed Frank something … of that he was quite certain. The man had taught him that he could see the world differently. Frank had shown Ecks a whole new way of thinking and then he asked this favor.…

“Hello,” Benicia Torres said, answering her phone at ten seventeen that evening.

“I’m sorry to be calling you so late,” Ecks said.

“What time …? Oh, that’s okay. I was studying.”

“I wanted to call earlier but I had these people to meet.”

“About newspapers?”

“What? No. I belong to a church and they do outreach, kind of like local missionary work. I’m helping this woman find some people she lost touch with. That’s why I was asking that waiter those questions at Temple Pie.”

“Church?”

“You sound like you don’t believe me.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Noland, but you don’t seem like you go to church, or deliver newspapers, or even that you’re named Egbert.” There was humor in her tone—but with an edge.

“I can show you my driver’s license, and I even have my deacon’s card. I could take you out on my route if you want.”

“What time do you make deliveries?”

“I pick up my kids at around four in the morning.”

“Hm,” she speculated.

“But before you make that commitment why don’t we have dinner tomorrow. I know this great Chinese place downtown. It’s called Yellow River … on Grand.”

“That sounds nice,” she said with very little, if any, hesitation.

“Eight?”

“Okay.”

“Should I pick you up?”

“I’ll meet you there.”

“Great,” Ecks said, and he meant it.

Ecks went to bed soon after calling Benicia but sleep was nowhere at hand. He lay there in his single bed and listened to the uneven rumble of traffic that ebbed and flowed with no predictability. For the first time in the three years that he’d lived there, these erratic waves of sound distracted him from rest.

His gums ached and an old wound pricked at his ribs. He remembered killing a man from across the hall who had beaten his wife every other week for two years. She cried at his funeral, wailed.

At three twenty-seven he climbed out of bed and took out one of three throwaway cell phones given him by Clyde Pewtersworth. Ecks entered a number he’d written down two years earlier. This number had been placed in a personal ad in a weekly Jewish newspaper from Hoboken, New Jersey.

The ad read, Red Slatkin Needs to See Chaim Berman, and left a phone number with the Utah area code 801.

The phone rang three times before the answer.

“Yeah?”

“Swan?”

“Ecks?”

“How’s it goin’, brother?”

“You still alive, huh, niggah?”

“I’ll be around when there’s only rats and cockroaches left.”

Swan performed his deep laugh. This was punctuated by a rolling, wet cough.

“You sure to outlive me, man.”

“You okay?”

“If lung cancer and two bum legs is okay then I’m in the catbird’s seat.”

“Damn. Can I do anything?”

“You wanna gimme a lung?”

Ecks hesitated and Swan said, “Don’t worry, brother; I got so much metasizing goin’ on that I’d need a whole family of donors to make my shit right. What’s up wit’ you? You stayin’ outta jail?”

“Been goin’ to church lately.”

“Found religion?”

“More like religion found me.”

“That must be some serious shit—Ecks Rule up in God’s house. I bet they ain’t seen nuthin’ like that since Lucifer stormed the walls of heaven.”

“You know the Bible, Swan?”

“Lady takin’ care’a me push my wheelchair to church once a week or so. I listen to them the way we used to hear our lawyers.…” Swan stopped for a long, deeply troubling cough. “You keep thinkin’ that maybe they got some special circumstances or might would cut a deal. But you know, man, I’m glad you called. You my only friend, Ecks. Only one … I got a daughter up in the Bronx name of Susan Karl. That’s Karl with a K. She nineteen and alone in the world now. Wild child like her need to be looked after. I’d really appreciate it if you do what you could for her.”

“Sure I will,” Ecks said quickly and certainly as he had in the old days.

“Yeah.” Swan let the word drag out over many bars. “That’s good, man. You know I could die now, because everybody from Harlem to Brownsville know that Ecks Rule’s word is his bond.”

They talked for a while longer—about the old days and the few people they knew who had turned up in the news. Many were dead, the rest wounded or imprisoned—or both. Neither one asked where the other was living.

Ecks realized somewhere in the middle of the twenty-minute conversation that this was a new—and a last—phase of their friendship: that soon Swan would die and a part of Ecks would pass on with him.

Toward the end of their exchange Swan’s speech slurred and his sentences wandered one into the other, like sleepwalkers making their way down a common corridor. “I better be goin’,” Swan said at last, “before I stop makin’ sense altogether.”

There was an office building that had once been a warehouse on Aire Drive on the eastern fringe of Burbank. Ecks got there at ten o’clock. He was wearing his gangster suit: thin black wool with an ebony silk shirt sporting oblong and yellowing ivory buttons. The hat was a short-brimmed Stetson banded with coal gray silk, sporting no feather. On his right pinkie finger he wore a thick platinum band with a two-carat ruby anchored in it.

The ring was the only thing he inherited from his father, who died when Ecks was fourteen, not from the gunshot wound he deserved but from tuberculosis and other, never defined complications.

Ecks brought along his Afghani pistol, tucked in the belt at the back of his pants, and had slipped a Japanese throwing knife in the sheath on his left ankle.

Entering the large reception area he walked to the desk and asked the young woman to call Lenny O for him.

“Lenny’s working,” the brown-haired, plain-faced young woman said.

“Tell him that I got news about Manly and Loretta,” Ecks replied.

“I’m not supposed to—” she began. Her skin was uneven because of bad acne in her adolescence. Her irises were bifurcated—watery brown and off-yellow. Her lipstick was chalky pink and she was maybe seventeen pounds above sexy.

“Listen,” Ecks said, cutting her off. “If you don’t call him then call your boss and tell him that you got a man out here on a short fuse.”

“A short what?”

“Fuse.”

“What does that even mean?”

“You just say that I said those words and he’ll get the message.”

“Please have a seat.”

“You got three minutes,” Ecks said, and the young woman learned the meaning of the phrase.

It wasn’t until he went to stand next to the benches set out for those waiting to be called that the Parishioner actually looked at the people waiting for interviews at Zebra Film-Arts. The assembly was broken up into roughly two groups: One was young men and women, most of them attractive—some were even beautiful. Mixed in with the bevy of porn-film hopefuls were older, much less attractive agents, shills, and spouses. The atmosphere was heavy with colognes, perfumes, and sweat. Silver jewelry predominated.

Many of the smaller fish in that pond recognized the sudden appearance of a shark. Some moved off; others drifted closer, safety and proximity among this crew being mainly a matter of species.

Ecks looked at his watch. It read ten-oh-nine. He ground his molars together. He wondered why he had chosen that morning to go armed with gun, knife, and gangster garb. His heart rate had been up ever since he’d awakened from his two-hour night’s sleep. His forearms ached and he couldn’t remember where he said he would go to meet Benicia for dinner that night. He couldn’t even remember what Benicia looked like.

And then, in a sudden flash of realization, he knew that this was the way he was grieving for Swan. They had been friends since their teens. Naturally violent but never in direct competition, they were always on the same side, in it until the last bell—win or lose. Ecks would have given his life for Swan, nearly did once or twice. Swan had taken a bullet, meant for Ecks, in his own shoulder.

There was no saving him. There was no going to his side. And so Xavier Rule was dressed to kill.

His watch read ten twelve.

Looking up, Ecks saw two large men coming out of the swinging door behind the reception desk. One man was black and the other white, but they were almost indistinguishable in their dark cotton suits and light-colored dress shirts. The black man, whose skin color was actually raspberry brown, wore a monocolor blue tie.

Ecks walked toward the desk, hopped over the waist-high door with pantherish dexterity, and moved swiftly toward the security team.

“Hey …” the receptionist said.

The white thug stepped ahead and put out a hand. Ecks grabbed the man’s wrist and pulled him to the side while making eye contact with the man in the tie. He could have broken the white man’s wrist but instead he just bruised it. The thug was a big guy and tough-looking, but he squealed when he felt the strength of the shorter man through the pain up his arm.

“Hold up,” the black guard said. “We just workin’ here, man. Keepin’ the peace.”

“The best road to a peaceful resolution is lettin’ me see Lenny O for five minutes,” Ecks said. “I don’t wanna cause no trouble, man.”

It wasn’t true. In his heart Ecks wanted to kill somebody, to make someone pay for the coming death of his friend.

The black guard could read the passion in Ecks’s eyes, and so when his humiliated partner roared and jumped he put out both hands and pushed the man back—hard. The white guard hit the receptionist’s desk and tumbled over it, disappearing off the other side.

He was up immediately, rage and confusion smeared across his face.

The pale receptionist screamed, stood up, and backed away from her post.

The fuck-film hopefuls were all astir, jabbering meaninglessly.

“Hit the showers, Simmons,” the black guard said.

For a moment the minion felt the pulse of rebellion in his veins. Had he been Ecks or Swan the revolution would have started right then and there. But this was a workingman. He swallowed the rage, turned away, and exited through a door that Ecks had not noticed before.

The hubbub of the assembly began to die down.

Ecks took in a deep breath through his nostrils. This had a singular effect on him. He felt as if this were the first breath that he had ever taken, like Adam inhaling the fragrance of the garden, the second breath that ever existed, counting the one his Maker had used to inspire him. This innocent puff of air brought a deep calm and new insight.

“Burt Tyler,” the black guard said, holding out a hand.

It took Ecks a moment to remember how to shake hands but he managed it.

“Egbert Noland, Mr. Tyler.”

“Sure you are,” Tyler said. “Follow me, Eggy. I’ll show you where the little rat bastard’s at.”

Through the swinging door Burt Tyler led Ecks across a vast soundstage where, in various corners and jury-rigged rooms, people were having sex under bright lights, being scrutinized by film crews and high definition digital cameras.

There were men on women and the other way around, women together and men too; there was a foursome of men and women on a raised dais where they were all being penetrated at the same time, one way or another.

The smells and sweaty humidity brought to mind the whorehouse he and Swan ran in the Bronx in the old days before drugs superseded their business. This reminded Ecks of Swan again, but now the memory of his old friend conjured up that first breath of calmness.

“You plan to put the hurt to Lenny?” Burt Tyler asked.

“No.”

“You could say yes,” the burly security man said. “Nobody likes him. If you had waited a week we’d’a probably fired his ass. Way I hear it the boss is getting ready to cut him loose.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

“Lenny is a rat, a cockroach, a maggot, and a pile’a shit all rolled up into one.”

They arrived at a professional-looking door heralded by a blinking red electric sign that said, Quiet—Filming in Progress. Despite the message Burt pressed a yellow button on the side of the extra-wide door. A moment later a man with earphones around his neck came out.

“Yeah, Burt?”

“Tell Lenny I got a man here looking for him. We’ll come in when this scene is over.”

The tan-skinned crew member nodded and ducked back into the room.

“Follow me,” Burt said to Ecks.

“I thought we were going to wait to see Lenny.”

“We’re going to see him, all right.”

Burt moved at a brisk pace around the big, closed soundstage until coming to a small exit door. From the distance could be heard the moans and shouts of half-real sexual encounters—scenes, Ecks thought, that would last as digitally coded memories for centuries, maybe millennia.

The exit door swung open and a skinny young man in a violet shirt and copper felt pants ran out. He made it one and a half steps before Burt grabbed him by the arm.

The young man kept on moving, like a lizard expecting to separate from the ensnared limb. When this didn’t work he turned—the look on his face was wide-eyed, desperate, and contradictorily cunning.

“Burt,” he said, and pulled against the grip.

“Burt,” he said a bit louder, tugging twice as hard.

“Burt!” he yelled, yanking with both arms to free himself from the powerful hand.

Burt slapped the boy pretty hard.

“There’s no need for that, Mr. Tyler,” Ecks said. His voice carried authority.

“You don’t understand, Eggy. Lenny here needs a good slap now and then. He gets carried away—afraid of authority figures, my boss said.”

“Who are you?” Lenny cried. The words made sense but he pronounced them as if taking them from disparate sentences. The emphasis was all off. He spoke like a foreigner who had mastered the English language under the template of a different diction. This was the effect of lifelong abject fear. But what caught Ecks’s attention were the two dimples so incongruously cute on the desperate young man’s cheeks.

“I’m a friend, Lenny,” Ecks said. “I only need to talk to you for a few minutes.”

It was then that Ecks saw, maybe forty feet away, the white thug, Simmons, with three other muscular men in similar suits.

“Your man over there is making a mistake, Mr. Tyler.”

Tyler looked up and saw what Ecks saw.

“I’ll go talk to them.”

“That’s a good idea,” Ecks said. “ ’Cause you know if this was the Wild West they’d already be dead.”

The guard with the blue tie nodded. He walked toward the irate security staff holding out his arms like a shepherd warding his flock away from a snake-infested hollow.

Ecks wasn’t afraid. One way or the other he knew that he had come to the end of his search. A few angry men couldn’t deter him.

He turned to get a better look at Lenny O.

He was an inch taller than Ecks and twenty pounds lighter. Head shaved, he was festooned with clashing tattoos placed by impulse, not design. The most prominent tat was in the form of a choker necklace around his throat. This was a series of erect penises linked together by fraying rope made from what was meant to be black hair. Wherever the ropes pierced the dicks there was a red spot where the blood was let.

“That’s a crazy tattoo, man.”

Lenny O smiled for the first time. He actually grinned.

“How long you have that?” Ecks asked.

“Ten, twelve years.”

“Since you were a kid?”

The smile faded.

“Let’s go sit someplace and have coffee or something,” Ecks offered. “It could be where everybody else is. I don’t mean you any harm.”

Lenny started breathing hard. For a moment Ecks feared that the kid might hyperventilate.

But then the young man said, “Okay. Okay. Okay. It’s over here. On the other side of the barricade.”

The ceiling of the warehouse was at least sixty feet above their heads, and so the hallway they walked down was more like a supermarket aisle. Lenny led them to a big freestanding wall that seemed to be made from papier-mâché. At the center of the wall was an orange door. Lenny opened the door and went through.

This led to an enclosed courtyard where men and women in various states of undress were sitting at tables eating or standing in line at a food counter where their meals were being prepared and served.

Ecks and Lenny got in line behind a deeply tanned, muscular man who was naked and maintaining an upstanding erection that was at least a foot long.

“Hey, Lenny,” the muscular white man said. “How’s it hangin’?”

“Not like you, Lark.”

“Got me doin’ double today. Had to take an extra dose.”

“Doc Henry’s shit?” Lenny was watching the erection with both fear and awe in his gaze.

“Yeah. Why?”

“That shit’ll fuck you up. That’s what Momo says.”

“You think I give a shit about that faggot bastard?” Lark roared, moving toward Lenny.

Ecks stood between the big man and the slender one. He figured he was fourteen inches from Lark.

“Pardon any insult,” Ecks said pleasantly. “My friend misspoke.”

If asked, Ecks felt, Lark would have called himself a lover and not a fighter. He turned his big dick around and pulled a tray from a shelf in the counter.

When he found out that Ecks was paying, Lenny ordered fried chicken, meat loaf, corn on the cob, snap peas, corn bread, apple pie, and peach pie too.

Ecks ordered a pastrami sandwich and followed Lenny to an empty round table.

Lenny started eating ravenously. As he ate he spoke.

“Thanks for standin’ up for me, brother. Thanks. You know, I try to talk to people; I try to talk to them but I always say the wrong thing, the wrong thing. I mean, I don’t mean nuthin’ but when I get talkin’ it’s like my brain stops workin’. You know what I mean? I mean, especially when somebody’s big and strong like that. And you know I couldn’t take my eyes off that big dick. I mean, girls like a dick like that. Shit. It was harder than mine ever gets even when I take Doc Henry’s—”

“I’m here to ask you about Loretta and Manly,” Ecks said, cutting off the stream-of-consciousness babbling.

Lenny’s face froze with his mouth open and filled with meat loaf. His head jerked to the side.

“If you try I’ll just run you down,” Ecks said.

Lenny looked back, his eyes quivering in his head like a child’s toy doll.

“What?” he said.

“I’m pretty sure that they aren’t your real parents.”

Lenny sniggered and wiped his nose with a violet sleeve. He gave Ecks a glancing look in the eye and put his plastic fork down.

“Prob’ly not,” he said after going through this obsessive routine. “Prob’ly not.”

“Definitely not,” Ecks said.

Lenny looked up again and then away. He shook his head as if he were a third person feeling sorry for the young man scarred with a necklace of bloody erections.

“You were kidnapped before your second birthday and sold to an underground child pornography film organization. They farmed you out to Manly and his wife.”

Lenny winced and slapped his hand down on the table.

“They made you do things for the camera, didn’t they?” Ecks asked.

Lenny made a yowling sound that he had inherited from a distant ancestor of humanity. People from other tables stared at the first true cry of passion heard in the sex warehouse that day.

Tears sprouted from Lenny’s eyes. His shoulders and arms began shaking. Ecks put a hand on the young man’s shoulder, not to calm him but to keep him from running off.

Lenny let his head loll to the right, gripping the killer’s hand between his cheek and shoulder.

“I met the people who stole you,” Ecks said. “It was a young woman and a man. The woman who did it wanted me find you. Maybe get you back in touch with your real parents.”

“And the man?” Lenny asked through the heaves of a sob-racked chest.

“He’s dead.”

This fact made Lenny cry harder. With both hands he grabbed Xavier’s forearm. He was stronger than he looked.

Ecks wanted to pull his arm away from the kid. Tyler’s description of him was accurate. He had been made into a sewer rat.

But Ecks allowed the tears to run their course. He had to—for Frank.

After a time the sobbing waned and Lenny let go of Ecks.

“I never went to school,” he said, and Ecks was forced to think about Dodo and her journey through Sedra’s business. The Parishioner thought, once again, that he might have sought revenge against the octogenarian slave trader had she survived her own karma.

“They did all kindsa shit to me,” Lenny continued with hate in his voice. “Loretta held the camera while Manly fucked my ass. He tore me apart on the inside. They had a special doctor to sew me up when he was through.

“They’d lock me in a closet and leave a milk bottle for me to piss in. I’d have to shit—”

“I’m not interested in the story, Len,” Ecks said when he realized that pity was part of the young victim’s game. “That was before and this is now. I was asked to find three lost boys and you’re the last one.”

Lenny sat up and cocked his head back.

“Why?” he asked.

“The woman responsible was a teenager when she stole you. She wants to make amends.”

“Make what?”

“She wants to make up for what she did wrong.”

“Money?”

“I don’t think so, no,” Ecks said, but the word resonated in his mind.

“Then what good is it? What good is it? You know they kicked me outta the room I was in. I sleep in a steel box outside the kitchen next to the garbage cans.”

“I don’t care about any of that, Lenny. You know, where I come from there’s so much suffering that it doesn’t bother me anymore. Even with people like you—I just don’t care. What I was supposed to do is find you. Now that I have I need to ask you some questions and you need to answer me.”

Lenny O said that he didn’t know how to make normal conversation, and Ecks saw this to be true. The boy knew how to run and lie, how to be miserable and evoke pity, but he didn’t have the slightest notion of human communication.

Ecks had known men and women like this all through his pimping and drug-dealing days. Many of the players had been the same. His immediate reaction was one of cold distance. If you worried about your clientele and employees you were bound for disaster.

Lenny’s lower lip began to quiver again.

“Start crying and I will slap your face just like Burt did,” Ecks said.

“What do you want?” Lenny said petulantly.

“I could take you home to your real parents,” Ecks offered.

This proposition transformed the fuck-film gofer. He was amazed. Ecks could tell that there was a time that he’d wished for home and love, mother and father. He went to sleep praying for deliverance. Then he was thrown under a bright light and raped for even daring to hope. After many long years of wanting and being punished he’d given up on his dream; then, after a time, he had forgotten his desires entirely.

But right then, at that sky blue concrete table, his memory had been ignited and true sorrow welled up in his eyes.

“What?” he pleaded.

“You heard me.”

“Look at me, man,” Lenny said, almost making himself an equal. “Look at me. How’s a piece’a shit like me gonna go back to a nice couple in a nice home on a quiet street? How can I go out on the lawn of their house and walk the dog?”

“I see you’ve given it a lot of thought.”

This observation stopped Lenny. He wondered whether maybe it was true. Maybe he still wished for deliverance.

“I don’t even know how to think about a real mother and father,” Lenny argued, maybe with himself. “I told you … I don’t even know how to talk to people. That’s why I get high. That’s why I do the things I do.”

“What things?” Ecks asked.

Lenny looked up with abject fear dawning in his visage.

“Nothing,” he said. “Nothing.”

“Nuthin’ don’t sound like that,” Ecks said, quoting the long-ago words and even the tone of his dying friend, Swan.

“I can’t help it, man. I don’t even know what I’m doin’ half the time.”

Completely objectively, with no moral weight at all, Xavier considered killing the tattooed youngster. He might have done it if it hadn’t been for Frank’s sermons and the one hundred and fifty-nine Expressions meetings he’d attended.

“We’re all reprobate,” Ecks said, “from the presidents and popes and prime ministers on down. And if you’re going along the wrong path, that just means you have to turn it around.”

“Wha … what?”

“It’s my job to find you, Len,” Ecks said. “It’s your job to figure out what you want to do.”

The kidnap victim sat up straight and took in a deep breath. He coughed slightly and then cleared his throat.

“It’s too late,” he said.

Ecks took seriously the young man’s declaration. It was too late for Swan. It was too late for the copper-skinned man he shot dead in Sedra’s home. Time wasn’t a promise even if it was forever.

Not everyone can be saved, Father Frank said at least once a month. Some dogs are rabid. Some men are no better than rabid dogs—worse. But even then vengeance is not the reason for punishment, imprisonment, or execution. If there is vengeance in your heart you have no right to seek balance.

“It might be,” Ecks agreed. “It might be that you can’t be saved. But that’s not up to you. You don’t know what your parents might think. And even if they hated you, that doesn’t mean that you did wrong.”

“Are you some kind of preacher?” Lenny asked.

“Parishioner,” Ecks corrected.

“What’s that?”

“Like you, Len, I’m part of a greater whole. A family, a history, and a future that is never set.”

Awe mixed with fear crept into Lenny’s face.

“What are you gonna do to me, man?”

“I’m going to take you out of here,” Ecks said. “I’m going to take you to a place where you will be judged.”

“Jail?”

“No.”

“Court? I got … I got a record.…”

“You will be your own judge, son. There is no power above you.”

Ecks had heard these words many times but had not uttered them himself. The nameless church was a safe harbor where a sinner was free to brand himself. Rich men and even royalty resided inside Father Frank’s walls. But there, on the hillside of Seabreeze City, all congregants were equal under the sun and moon. They didn’t mention God because just the word was a weapon in the mouths of men.

“You want me to go with you?” Lenny asked.

“I do.”

“But what if you find out that I can’t be saved?”

“That’s not my call, boy. Not at all.”

“Can I have a bed to sleep in?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?” Lenny asked.

“The woman who stole you says that she wants to make up for what she’s done. I don’t know if that’s true … I have my doubts. But there is no doubt that you are here and you were ripped from a family and a life. It’s my job, my mission to …” Ecks paused, gauging his words. “To try and help you recover from what happened to you twenty-three years ago.”

“I don’t understand half the words you’re sayin’,” Lenny whined. “And the ones I do understand don’t make any sense.”

Ecks smiled. “I will give you a bed to sleep in and food to eat. I will not judge you and I will help you to think about what you might want.”

“Do I have to fuck you?”

“No. There will be no sex involved.”

“What if I want to do it?”

“No.”

“How long do I have to make up my mind?”

“When you finish your lunches we’ll be leaving this place.”

“What about my final paycheck?”

“That life is done.”

Simmons and two of his friends were waiting for Ecks and Lenny in the parking lot. This was a possibility that Ecks hadn’t considered. It didn’t matter that they were there.

“Gentlemen,” the Parishioner said while still walking toward them.

“I’m gon—” Simmons managed to utter before Ecks hit him with a straight left. The sound was like a thick branch cracking under the weight of an ice storm. The big man lurched backward into one of his friends and slumped down. The friend, a blue-eyed redhead, didn’t know whether to hold up his fallen comrade, drop him and attack—or run.

Ecks put up his hands in a gesture of false surrender.

“I don’t want any trouble with you men,” he said. “Your friend has a broken jaw and a concussion. It could have been worse. It will be worse if you push this shit.”

The third thug looked to be a foreigner, East European, maybe even Russian. His small, dark eyes surveyed the situation with logic that had a whole different alphabet, like Sedra’s log.

“Let’s go,” the Russian said to the redhead.

Before they could move Ecks put a hand on Lenny’s elbow, urging the quaking youth toward his car.

“What if they tell somebody about what you did to Simmons?” Lenny asked as they drove past the guard post of the parking lot.

“What’re they gonna say?” Ecks asked. He was feeling good about the resolution of the face-off. All things considered, he got what he wanted with the least damage done.

“The security staff at Zebra is some crazy motherfuckers,” Lenny said. “They will put a niggah down.”

Ecks smiled at the young white man’s choice of words—and identity. They understood each other in a world that made no sense.

“They don’t know who I am,” Ecks assured his passenger.

“They … they got cameras that take pictures of every license plate come in there. They got a dude at motor vehicles too. He prob’ly already give ’em your address.”

“Not from those plates they won’t,” Ecks promised.

“They know who I am. They know my friends.”

“Those aren’t your friends anymore, Len. Everything you knew is over … over. Those men might as well be looking for a brown-tailed jackrabbit named Lenny up in the Hollywood Hills.”

The man with the penises on his throat giggled, showing yellowed teeth and red gums.

“But there’s people out there after me, man,” he said, losing his tentative hold on mirth. “When they find out I’m gone they gonna be lookin’ hard.”

“Elmer Fudd,” Ecks said.

“What?”

“Huntin’ wabbits.”

Lenny’s hands and legs were in motion, almost as if he were moving through a dense forest rather than sitting in a classic Ford.

“You got the shakes?”

“I could use a drink or something,” Lenny said. “I keep thinking that somethin’s gonna happen. There’s this one dude named Locke that’s mad at me ’cause his sister died. Ellie and me, that’s Locke’s sister, were together for a while and Locke didn’t believe me when I said I didn’t give her the H she OD’d on. That’s the reason I been sleepin’ next to the kitchen. Old Joey let me stay because Locke blames me, but they won’t let him on the premises. Only I’m tired’a sleepin’ next to the garbage and roaches.”

Ecks was ready for this development. He had prepared various methods to quiet down a disturbed mind. He’d brought along a bottle of specially prepared water, and then there was the glove compartment.

“You smoke reefer?” Ecks asked.

“I certainly do. Yes, indeed.”

“Look in the glove box. There’s a blue joint in there.”

The bald youth pulled open the box and came out with a bright blue hand-rolled cigarette. There was a box of matches too. He licked the spliff and then put it between his chapped lips.

“It’s sweet,” he said.

“Flavored paper.”

Lenny lit up and took a deep hit off the joint. Then he held it over toward Ecks.

“I can’t drive when I’m high,” the gangster said. “Just don’t finish it all.”

“This some good shit, brother,” Lenny said.

“Half flowers and the rest gold,” Ecks opined, remembering days that were over and almost gone.

Lenny took another deep hit and said, “Wow, I feel it right over my eyes. Like there was a cloud up in there and now it’s just bright sun.”

The young man laughed, sat back, and put his foot up on the dashboard.

At least he’d taken off his suede shoes.

At another time Ecks would have complained, but right then he was too deep into the details of his mission.

“How come they didn’t fire you from Zebra?” he asked.

“Tommy Jester,” Lenny said easily. He sank back further into the vinyl.

“Who’s that?”

“VP at Zebra.”

“Why he care about you?”

“Does the sky look pink to you?” Lenny asked.

It didn’t but Ecks said, “A little bit. I think sometimes the air pollution puts colors up there.”

“Yeah. Wow. It’s beautiful.”

“Why does a big man like Tommy care about you?”

Lenny was staring out the window, the joint turning to blue-gray ash between his fingers. Ecks rolled down his window and sniffed the fresh air.

“This shit is strong,” Lenny said. “It’s like I’m lookin’ out at the hills but I’m seein’ across time; it feels like there should be dinosaurs stompin’ around out there.”

“What about Tommy?” Ecks asked again.

“He used to come over to Manly and Loretta’s and fuck me in the garage,” the dreamer murmured. “But he wasn’t like everybody else. He brought me little trinkets and sweets. He always kissed me on the forehead when he’d go. And then, even when I was too old, he’d call now and then to see how I was doin’. When I was eighteen he made Manly let me go. Tommy’s all right. I …”

At that moment Lenny O drifted off into unconsciousness. The marijuana in the cigarette wasn’t really that strong, but the concentrated synthetic opiate the paper was doused in had an especially powerful kick.

Ecks pulled to the curb, plucked the dead roach from between Lenny’s fingers, and let the boy’s seat all the way back. Then he headed for the Farmers’ Market on the other side of the hill.

Before he’d made it over the canyon his phone sounded. He didn’t expect to answer but when he saw who it was he changed his mind.

“Yeah, Bennie?” he said.

“Don’t meet that guy at the Farmers’ Market,” she said, almost shouting. “Call him and tell him to meet you someplace else.”

“I don’t have his number.”

“Then send somebody else from Frank’s to help you. Send ten people.”

“Why?”

“Just do it.”

“No.”

“You have to.”

“Again, Bennie—why?”

“I went to Henry Marcus’s surf shop.”

“And?”

“The police were there. He’s dead.”

“Dead how?”

“Killed. Murdered.”

“And does that have something to do with you, Benol?”

“I honestly don’t know. I mean, I didn’t tell him about where Henry was until after the murder. But maybe he did it anyway.”

“Who?”

“I can’t tell you that, Mr. Noland.”

“We need to meet, girl.”

“You need to make sure that the boy is safe.”

“Tomorrow morning around ten at the Waffle House on La Brea down near Venice. You meet me and I’ll take care of this problem here.”

“Okay. Fine.”

“What are you up to, Bennie?”

“I’ll meet you tomorrow at ten,” she said and then hung up.

Theodore “Toy” Meacham hailed from the Midwest but for most of his life he worked as a clandestine agent in major cities and important towns around the world. It was his job to identify and eliminate threats to the American people. For decades he believed that he was a patriot protecting the shores of the United States from those who detested freedom and liberty.

Technically, he worked for a covert subdivision of an independent mercenary operation, but he was aware that the orders he took came from the highest echelons of the United States armed services, the Pentagon, and even, from time to time, the White House itself.

Toy was well versed in firearms and explosives, poisons, bloodletting, and threats of all kinds. He tried to keep collateral damage down to a minimum but understood that sometimes a few innocent lives might have to be shattered or lost for the well-being of the American body politic and therefore the people.

As a rule Toy worked alone. He’d receive a three-line mission statement from an envelope or the lips of some envoy who knew the right cryptogram; then he’d use money that appeared magically and employ his wiles to obtain the results requested.

Toy was a genius at creating catastrophe. Complex designs appeared in his mind while he stalked his victims. Over breakfast he’d deduce the clearest path to nullifying persons, installations, networks, even whole institutions.

He once identified the local director of a clandestine government operation in Mumbai that posed a threat to certain business interests that were essential to American security in Pakistan. He then murdered the daughter of a regional crime family boss, throwing the blame on the targeted director.

Staying in a small French hotel, reading in the daily papers how his plan was developing, Toy unconsciously began to use his genius to decipher what he was doing and what he’d done.

Ahmed al-Bira, one article read, father of three, was gunned down at the New Town Marketplace while holding a melon and asking the price.

Something about that sentence tipped over an intricately curving concatenation of dominoes that, it seemed, Toy had been setting up for more than forty years.

The price of a melon, Toy remembered whispering. The whisper echoed until it was like a scream.

Instantly, miraculously Toy understood that he’d become a mad bomber, an anarchist bent only on destruction—or maybe a smart bomb that had drifted off course while his distracted masters profited and laughed.

Meacham knew about Father Frank. He’d come across the name while following Lester Stein, a professor who, as he researched Russian literature, had begun to pass along data that could have been seen as a danger to national security.

Lester had been a member of a nameless congregation on the coast a hundred miles north of LA.

Unexpectedly, to everyone but Toy, the professor died of a heart attack. The clandestine agent hadn’t reported the existence of Frank or his church mainly because there was no system set up for him to report anything. He was a tool, not intelligence. He existed to serve—or rather, mete out.

Toy showed up at the nameless white stone church at three o’clock on a Friday afternoon. He was met at the door by Sister Hope, who greeted him by name. She ushered the assassin into Frank’s rectory.

“How did she know my name?” Theodore Meacham asked Father Frank.

“We’ve known about you for a long time, Toy,” Frank said. “There have been three members of the congregation who were complicit in your crimes.”

“I was following orders given by elected and appointed officials.” Meacham said the words even if he no longer believed in them.

“We recognize no government above common law,” Frank replied.

Theodore never knew whether it was the equation of the notion of common law placed next to the idea of government that swayed him or if it was just the tone of Frank’s voice. But after a three-hour conference with Frank, Toy knew that he had to retire. He quit the mercenary corporation, collected his back pay from diplomatic services, and bought the Nut Hut from Myra Salud, a widow who wanted to go live with her daughter in Minneapolis.

Theodore was taller than he seemed and stronger than his slight frame might have indicated. His skin was sallow—allowing him to pretend to be from any continent, racial group, or religion. His brow was heavy with the number of souls he’d terminated without the slightest heat or satisfaction.

He was the butcher and they the various cuts of meat.

“Hello,” Xavier Rule said to Ted Meacham.

The taupe eyes registered the gangster. The pallid bald head barely nodded.

“Hey.” Toy looked around to see what else had drifted into his environment.

Ecks knew how clear and yet vacant that vision was.

“I’m gonna drop by here at around three thirty,” Ecks said. “Somebody, maybe more than one, will be looking after me. They might even come up and talk to you to ask about me.”

“And what did you say?”

“You still run the safe house in Coldwater Canyon?”

“You got clearance from Frank?”

“Call him.”

“I will.”

“Send whoever it is asking about me up there. Tell ’em that I’m an old friend and that you play poker up there sometimes.”

“If I get the high sign do you need backup?”

“Probably not. Let ’em know that you already told a young man to meet me up there tomorrow at four, that I was asking if you passed on the message. Maybe you could mistake them for the guy I left the message for.”

“Should I turn a profit?”

“That would be best.”

“Want some nuts?”

“Got some,” Ecks said, and Toy smiled.

“Goddamn, that was some strong shit,” Lenny O said at a few minutes past three.

They were in the Farmers’ Market parking lot.

“You must’a been tired,” Ecks said. “That shit never knock me out like that.”

Lenny sat up and pressed his palms against his eyes.

“Damn,” he said. “Where are we?”

“Parking lot.”

“Why?”

“You fell asleep. I couldn’t carry you, so I thought we’d wait awhile … until you got up.”

“How long?”

“Three, four hours. You thirsty?”

Ecks handed over a sealed bottle of water. He had dipped the top into the same drug that had already rendered the film crewman unconscious. The liquid narcotic would have seeped in.

Lenny studied the cap, broke the serrated seal, and took a swig.

“You ready to go?” Ecks asked.

“Where to?”

“That house I promised … with the bed.”

Lenny nodded and Ecks turned over the engine. He drove off the lot onto Third. By the time he’d made it around the block Lenny was out again.

“Hello?”

“You still feel all excited?” Ecks asked Winter.

“Yes, sir.”

“I want you to get a car not registered to you and pull it up to Beverly and Fairfax, southwest corner at ten minutes to four exactly.”

“You got it.”

“Wear a hat that hides your face a little. Put on some sunglasses too.”

“Why?”

“Come on, Win, don’t start askin’ questions when you already know the answers.”

Ecks walked up to Toy Meacham at the Nut Hut at three thirty.

“African groundnuts, please,” he requested from the state-certified anarchist.

“Frank said that I should help you if you need it.”

“If I needed it I shouldn’t be doin’ what I’m doin’.”

“A guy came up at three-oh-six and asked for some sugared cashews. He scoped out the place and now he’s sitting at the Mexican food court with another guy looking right at you.”

“That’s good to know.”

Toy offered over a quarter-pound bag of toasted macadamias and Ecks gave him a twenty-dollar bill.

“My cell phone number is written across the top,” Ecks told Toy. “Call me if I need to know anything.”

The elder killer nodded, handing Ecks his change.

Twelve minutes later, on Fairfax walking north, Ecks felt the cell phone throb in his pocket. He touched his ear as if scratching, turning on the micro-Bluetooth as he did so.

“Yeah?” he muttered.

“Soon as you left,” Toy said, “one of the guys got up and followed. You won’t be able to miss him. He’s wearing this green suit. The other one came up and got all tough. I acted like I was scared and he felt real good about himself. For three hundred dollars I told him what you said. I acted like I thought he wanted into a poker game. You want me to send you the cash?”

“Put it on my tab. That way I can have nuts all year.”

Toy disconnected the call and Ecks stopped to look in a real estate office window, pretending to check out apartments. The broad-shouldered man following him was garbed in a hideous green suit with Brazil nut–brown shoes and a black T-shirt. He wasn’t afraid of being noticed, even seemed a bit bothered at having to wait while Ecks studied the little three-by-five cards taped to an easel in the showcase.

Ecks looked down at his watch, saw that Win was supposed to be at the rendezvous in two minutes, and started making his way north once more.

He reached the southwest corner of Fairfax and Beverly at ten to four exactly. A black Lincoln sedan swooped down at the corner, the door swung open, and Ecks stepped in. As he closed the door Winter pulled away and the man in the green suit started to run. But it was too late. Ecks studied his frustrated pursuer in the side mirror and smiled to himself.

“You’d make a good wheelman,” Ecks said to Winter Johnson.

“Ain’t they the first ones to get iced in all the heist movies?”

“I guess so. You know I don’t own a TV and I haven’t been to a movie in years.”

“What do you do when you up in the crib alone?” Win asked.

“Read my books,” Ecks said. “Think.”

“That sounds kinda boring.”

“I guess. My ride’s down at the parking garage across Third from the Farmers’ Market.”

It was a short drive to the loading dock behind George Ben’s hardware store in West Hollywood. Ecks called ahead and was met by the reformed killer at the big double doors.

“Anybody around?” Ecks asked Ben.

“Just us brothers,” Ben said. He was wearing a pink apron over a violet jumpsuit.

“I got a kid in the backseat,” the Parishioner said, “all sedated. I’d like you to look after him for a few days or so.”

“And if he wants to leave?”

“Try to talk him out of it. Tell him that I brought him here, that I’ll be back soon as I can.”

“Okay,” George said. “I’ll do what I can. What if he asks me what’s going on?”

“Tell him that I’m talking to the woman who hired me and I’m trying to get him some cash.”

“Uh-huh. Is this one like Charlotte?”

“Sorry about that, George. And yeah … this one’s just as bad.”

Ecks reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a pistol—the one he took from Doris Milne.

“This yours?” the Parishioner asked.

“That little bitch.”

“Thanks for the help, man.”

Ben smiled and, after taking the handgun, said, “I love you too, Ecks.”

Yellow River was a simple restaurant: no silk hangings or fancy woodwork, just a big blue linoleum floor with seven beat-up black lacquered tables, each set with four chairs that had skinny legs. The waiter wore broad-legged black trousers and a short white jacket that buttoned up to the throat.

When Ecks walked in at seven thirty, three of the seven tables had people sitting at them. Two had been pushed together to accommodate a party of six.

Everyone else in the room was Chinese, all of them speaking at once—shouting without anger.

“Mister Ecks,” the ageless olive-skinned waiter said. He guided Xavier to a table toward the back of the room.

“Thank you, Wu,” Ecks said.

“Whiskey?”

“No.”

“You eat now?”

“I have a guest coming.”

Surprise showed only in the man’s brows. He nodded and backed away.

Putting his elbows on the rickety, dented table, Ecks laced his fingers and pressed his lips against his right thumb. He wondered, while the room resonated with loud conversations of the displaced Asian population. He was thinking about the room not as a stopping place but more like a passageway. And he was not a human being but a chameleon changing his spots to fit the world around him.

He’d been changing with the days since Benol had walked into the nameless house of worship. He shouldn’t have been meeting the Brazilian student/waitress. He shouldn’t have been doing Frank’s bidding without more information and explanation.

Thinking these things, Ecks smiled. He’d never done one thing in his life that he should have done. Why start now? he thought with a smile.

It was seven forty-three on the round numbered clock hanging from the wall when Ecks grinned and Benicia Torres walked into the blue room.

She took the smile for her and returned it.

Ecks’s expression intensified. He liked her white dress and the leopard skin–patterned scarf that mostly covered her blond-and-blue hair. The cream hem came down to the middle of her copper knees.

He stood up and pulled out a chair.

Two Chinese men in business suits turned their heads to get a better look.

Ecks couldn’t remember the last time he stood up for a woman or pulled out her chair.

“You’re early,” he said.

“You’re earlier.” She took the seat, giving him a slight nod of approval.

Ecks felt like laughing. He was almost giddy.

“It’s not a fancy place, but the food is really good,” he said. “Anything you don’t eat?”

“I don’t really like squash,” she said.

“Okay, they don’t have menus except for tourists. Wu—that’s the waiter—he just asks if you’re ready to eat and if you want something to drink.”

“That’s odd.”

“It’s family-style. I see a lot of the same people coming in and out of here.”

The Brazilian’s Mardi Gras eyes glittered. When she smiled Ecks could see that her teeth were a little crooked. This flaw made his heart skip, and once again he wondered about the man he had been and was no longer.

“You want a drink?” Wu asked, appearing at Benicia’s elbow.

“Red wine?”

He smiled and nodded. “Whiskey?” he said to Ecks.

“Not tonight.”

The waiter went away. A family of five came in and he waved them toward the two empty tables.

“I like this place,” Benicia said.

“Me too.”

“So?” she asked.

If you find yourself laughin’ a lot an’ thinkin’ that you havin’ a good time, Panther Rule had told his preadolescent son more than once, then there’s prob’ly somebody sneakin’ up behind you with a baseball bat.

“What?” Benicia said.

“Huh?”

“You just frowned like something hurt you.”

“Red wine for the lady,” Wu said, placing a juice glass three-quarters filled with dark burgundy. “You eat now?”

“What’s for dinner?” Ecks asked.

“Some soup,” the waiter recited, “duck, pork, green bean, and shrimp bun.”

“Squash in any of that?”

“Not season.”

Ecks looked to his date. She shrugged.

“Bring it on, Wu.”

Benicia waited for the nearly expressionless waiter to walk away before asking, “And are you having a good time again, Mr. Noland?”

The baseball bat his father had warned of made Ecks think about Doris.

“I like this place because it doesn’t judge me,” he said.

“What does that mean?”

“A lot of places, when you walk in, they size you up. Got money, got a knife, big tipper, or just a cheapskate. No matter what, they know you before you got the chance to be whatever you are—or to change.”

“My father always says that people never change,” Benicia said in a tone implying that she hadn’t made up her mind yet.

“My whole life people been sizin’ me up. On the street, in the schoolyard—anywhere I go. But the first night I came here Wu just asked me how many. I told him that it was just me and he asked what I wanted to drink. I told him whiskey and he never forgot it.”

“I don’t understand,” Benicia said.

“When I came into your restaurant I said some words that you liked and you wrote down your number. When we got together you talked to me like I was just somebody sitting across from you. If I said something you found hard to believe you said so.”

“All that sounds pretty normal,” she said, smiling.

“I have never been normal—hardly ever saw it before. Where I come from normal packed its bags and moved without leaving a forwarding address.”

“Are you maybe romanticizing your life?”

“No,” Ecks said in a tone that caught the young woman up short.

She frowned long enough for Wu to bring a platter of some delicacies from the yellow kitchen on the other side of two blue swinging doors.

“Not so fast,” she said, and then, “Oh … oh, yes, yes. That’s right. Just … just like that.”

“Oh, shit,” Ecks said, and then he came. “Damn.”

He was hovering over her, his stomach muscles contracted so as to make his abdomen concave and taut.

“You haven’t been with a woman for a while,” she said, smiling up at him, her ankles caressing his neck.

“The man I am might not have ever been with one.” Ecks slumped down on his side, trying to stifle his hard breathing.

“I don’t understand,” she said, turning on her side to face him.

When he didn’t respond she put her palm against his cheek.

“This is kinda … kinda new for me,” he admitted.

“Being with a woman?” Surprise showed on her face.

“No. No, not that. I been with women, hundreds of ’em. But all that was different. There was this one girl once, but …” Ecks was remembering Dorothy and his son. He had loved her, but there was cocaine in the mix, at least at the beginning. By the time his son was born he felt like his father at the police station: a panther in chains.

“What?” she asked, pulling away.

With shocking speed Ecks grabbed her wrist, keeping her hand in place.

“I never been gentle,” he said. “Never. It makes me feel too much, you know?”

Benicia was stunned by the quick movement but then she smiled.

“So you’re telling me that you’re the man version of a virgin?” she said.

For a moment Xavier’s vision blurred and his neck muscles went taut. Then that breath, that inhalation like the first cigarette after a few days in lockdown.

“Yeah,” he said, feeling an unaccustomed grin spread across his mouth.

“Then let’s practice sleeping next to each other,” she said.

“Wake up,” Ecks said.

“Huh?”

“You said you wanted to go on my paper route, right?”

“Really?” Benicia sat straight up. “You weren’t kidding?”

“I already called the guy been covering for me. I can go and you sleep if you want.” He wasn’t worried about anything incriminating. All that stuff was in a flat, watertight safe that he kept under the bed.

“No,” Benicia said, standing up naked and unashamed.

Her breasts were slightly lighter than the rest of her skin, as was her pubis. The pubic hair had been trimmed to a razor line to accommodate the bikinis she obviously wore often.

“I wouldn’t miss this.”

She threw on the white dress that she’d folded earlier and laid across the back of a kitchen chair.

They trundled down to the alley and climbed through the driver’s side into the cab of the ancient, wood-paneled truck.

“Aren’t you scared coming down this alley by yourself in the dark?” Benicia asked when he turned the key in the ignition.

“Scared?” he said. “No, baby. Scared is scared of me.”

Benicia frowned and Ecks wondered whether he had said too much. He worked the gas pedal to keep the engine turning over as she looked out of the passenger’s window at the plaster wall that had blocked the passenger door from opening.

When they took off she pressed her right palm against the glass.

“You need the heat?” he asked.

“Maybe a little.”

Ecks fooled around with the knobs.

“Music?” he said.

“No, thanks.”

“I’m sorry about last night.”

“Sorry about what?” She swiveled her shoulders to face him.

“I’m not no Romeo.”

“I always thought that Juliet made bad choices.”

“That and the condom breakin’ like that.”

“Do you have any diseases?”

“Church gave me a clean bill of health.”

“The church?”

“They look after their members.”

Carlo was a Panamanian who lived with his sister and grandmother on Hauser near Wilshire. At fifteen he was short and dusky, with odd light brown eyes that seemed to have a language of their own. He ran out from the doorway of the dark apartment building at five minutes to four.

“Hey, Mr. Noland.” Carlo waved before climbing into the canvas-covered back of the truck.

Damien lived off Fairfax and Wilshire. He was blond and Jewish, lanky, with a good throwing arm. He climbed in next to Benicia, pushing her closer to Xavier.

“Good to see you, Mr. Noland,” the dark-eyed sandy-haired kid said.

Seeing Damien reminded Ecks of Lenny O lying unconscious somewhere in the back rooms of the West Hollywood hardware store.

“This is Miss Torres,” Ecks said.

“Pleased to meet you,” Damien said with a smile.

“Me too,” Carlo added, sticking his head in through the window connecting the cab to the back of the truck.

Angelique was waiting on the sidewalk in blue jeans and a blue hoodie. Those work clothes could not hide her tall, elegant form. Her black skin and white eyes were in stark, beautiful relief.

She climbed into the back with Carlo and the truck drove to the distribution hut on Sepulveda.

At the big aluminum shelter, Benicia followed as Ecks and the kids grabbed hundred-issue bundles from the floor. After they’d loaded a dozen bundles into the truck, Carlo and Angelique climbed into the back and started folding papers to quarter size and wrapped them with blue rubber bands from a big plastic bag.

In the meanwhile Ecks and Damien moved thirty-five more bundles, throwing them into the back of the truck. Carlo and Angelique were hidden by stacks of bound newspapers.

“Ain’t seen you in a while, Ecks,” a big red-faced man said just as the Parishioner was about to climb into the driver’s seat.

“Been busy with church business, Elmo.”

“Oh,” the rotund newspaper distributor said, unconvinced. “I thought you sold out to Bud.”

“No.”

“Oh.”

Ecks slammed the door and drove off toward the thin band of orange light the sun made as the earth turned.

They worked delivering newspapers from four forty-six until seven forty-eight. On long stretches where there were lots of customers, all three kids jumped out and ran down the street after the truck, throwing their little missiles onto porches and lawns. At large apartment buildings they scrambled up stairs—moving fast.

“How do they remember them all?” Benicia asked when Ecks had parked at the end of a long block of apartment buildings.

“They got a program in their smartphones that gives ’em a checklist. They mark ’em off as they go.”

“You pay for their phones?”

“Just the data plan and limited text so we stay in touch. They pay for calls and anything extra.”

On blocks where there were only one or two drops, Damien, with his unerring eye, threw papers from the window. He never missed.

“Dad says that I’m like Sandy Koufax,” he said when Benicia complimented his throw.

“Who’s that?” she asked.

Ecks dropped the kids off at Fairfax High at seven fifty-eight. Then he drove back downtown to Benicia’s car. When they stopped at the curb in front of the parking garage, it was she who leaned over to kiss him.

“I had a really great time,” she said.

“Yeah,” Ecks said, feeling unaccustomed nervousness. “Me too.”

“I could have said no,” she said again.

“Why didn’t you? I would have listened.”

“It was the right time,” she said with a smile.

Ecks kissed her and then walked her into the garage, waited while she started the engine of her Saab, and watched as she drove off.

He got to the Waffle House by nine thirty-five and asked for a booth away from the broad window that looked out on La Brea. There he had time to drink a cup of black coffee and take inventory of his situation.

Benol had started the ball rolling. It was she who hired the detective, and then went to Frank asking for help locating Brayton and the children she kidnapped.

Brayton was dead.

One of the boys was dead.

Doris killed her kidnapper and only confidante, her pimp and sometimes aunt—Sedra. Doris also tried to kill Ecks, drugged George, and was at the scene of Hank’s murder—toting a gun.

Swan was dying. Father Frank’s church had secret baptisms. And Ecks felt like a chrysalis about to vomit forth a new man into the world.

The world? Ecks pressed both thumbs on the bone just above where his eyes met.

Not the world, this world. This world where people were getting murdered and children were not taught to read; where a woman could set up shop on the corner in a peaceful neighborhood dealing in slavery and murder.

“Hello, Mr. Noland.”

Looking up, Ecks saw Benol standing next to the booth.

It was as if he had conjured her with his mind. This feeling was so strong that he felt no compunction to greet her.

“Can I sit down?” she asked.

“Sure.”

“Did you go to the Farmers’ Market?” she asked.

Xavier Rule maintained his silence. His eyes tightened as he scrutinized his client.

“Are you going to speak?” she demanded.

“Tell me how you came to know Jerry Jocelyn.”

She flinched in response to the verbal slap.

“How did you?” she said, and then, “The hotel, of course. You were waiting for me to come in. You saw him with me.”

“That’s the answer to your question. Now how about mine?”

Benol was wearing a gray dress with a cobalt collar. Ecks wore black cotton pants and a dark blue T-shirt, his work uniform.

“He called me,” she said, looking down at the red tabletop.

At that moment a waitress, whose name tag read Yolanda, came up to the table.

“What can I get you children?” the big woman asked.

She was both older and darker than the Parishioner. Yolanda called everybody child. Her fat cheeks and crafty eyes made for pleasant banter on days when a bad mood hit Ecks.

“Chicken and waffles,” the Parishioner said. “And more coffee for me.”

“I’ll take coffee, black,” Benol uttered, and Yolanda went away.

“How did he get your number?” Ecks asked, sounding like a jealous boyfriend needing to know all the steps taken to infidelity.

“I asked him but he didn’t say. I figured that he spoke to the detective or someone the detective had spoken to. He knew what I was looking for. He said that he was trying to find the boys too. He promised me a payday of fifteen thousand dollars if, when I found the boys, I turned the names over to him first.”

“And here you were already looking for them.”

“Yes, I know.”

“That really doesn’t make too much sense.”

“Jerry said that he knew certain parties that were interested in finding out what happened to the boys. They were willing to pay good money for the information. I figured it must have been some relative. I didn’t see anything wrong with helping out the boys’ families.”

“If he was willing to pay you fifteen thousand then there must have been a lot more somewhere.”

“Yes. I don’t know the sum exactly, but Jerry, I bet, is getting ten times what I am.”

“More’n a hundred thousand dollars,” Xavier Rule said. “That really doesn’t make any sense at all.”

“Maybe it does,” Benol said with questionable certainty. “Jerry said that it has something to do with an inheritance, that the family can only collect if their son survives. And he also indicated that they had a certain amount of concern for the other lost boys.”

“That why Hank is dead?”

“He was a drug addict. Maybe his death didn’t have anything to do with the kidnapping?”

“You believe that?”

“I told Jerry about Henry after he was killed.”

“But you didn’t tell Frank about Jerry.”

“He came to me after I went to Frank.”

“But you were still using the church,” Ecks countered.

“No. I always wanted to find those boys. Ask Theodora. So what if I could make a little money on the side? I’d been let go from my temp job. If Jerry wasn’t putting me up in that hotel I’d be homeless. My savings ran out a week ago.”

The waitress came with the food and drinks.

“You children play nice now,” she said before swinging her big hips back toward the kitchen service window.

“So what do you think happened, Bennie?”

“Henry was murdered.”

“And who do you suppose did that?”

Benol just stared at the question and the questioner.

Ecks went to work on the waffle and three pieces of deep-fried chicken. Whenever he was faced with difficult problems his appetite kicked in. The waffles were served with margarine and imitation maple syrup but he wasn’t particular.

“I don’t know,” Benol said at least three minutes after Ecks had asked the last question.

“Did you tell Jerry about the boy’s death?” Ecks asked through a mouthful of waffle.

“I can’t find him. He’s not answering his phone and his receptionist says that he’s on vacation. I don’t know—maybe it’s just a coincidence that Henry is dead.”

“Uh-huh,” Xavier said, putting down his fork. “You shouldn’t go back to that hotel.”

“Why?”

“Because if you’re telling the truth then you just might be expendable.”

Benol closed her eyes and opened them, trying hard to see something that was hidden.

“What did I do?”

“Kidnapping, accomplice to murder, conspiracy,” Ecks said. “There are all kinds of things that the law could throw at you.…”

Ecks trailed off midsentence because he was about to say that maybe all three boys were the target of murder. It was his turn to close his eyes. There were so many suspects and players.

“I was able to keep the guy I communicated with away from the Nut Hut.”

“Was he the third child?”

“No, he wasn’t.”

They sat quietly long enough for Yolanda to come take the dishes and leave a flimsy yellow bill.

“I found Brayton,” Ecks said at last.

“Where?”

“At his house.”

“Did you talk to him?”

“He didn’t know anything that I hadn’t already figured out.”

“I’d … I’d like to talk to him.”

“He was leaving town when we spoke. Sounded like he was planning a long trip.”

“Did he say anything about me?” the child in Benol asked.

“No. Not one word.”

This final rejection seemed to break Benol. She hung her head and exhaled, a solitary foot soldier ordered by a higher power to capitulate.

“Where should I go?” Benol asked. “Jerry was paying the rent at the hotel.”

Ecks reached into the pocket on his left hip and pulled out a roll of twenty twenty-dollar bills. This he handed to his minister’s client.

“Four hundred dollars,” he said. “Take it and get a bed at the downtown YWCA. I’ll call you the minute I know something.”

“What about the fifteen thousand?”

“Did you ever really think that that lawyer was gonna pay you, girl?”

Again Benol temporarily lost the power of speech. Xavier had put into words the question that she was unwilling to ask herself—there was nothing else to say.

“Will you call me tomorrow? Please,” she asked.

“Before the sun goes down.”

Frank was serious about the privacy and protection of his parishioners. There were two houses in Coldwater Canyon that belonged to the church, through unaffiliated individuals. The safe house was on Mill Valley Way. It was a pleasant little flattop bungalow with a deck that looked out over Los Angeles.

If any member of the congregation or other friend of Frank’s got in trouble, they were often brought to the safe house to wait for plane tickets or news.

Xavier was once asked to bring the church’s youngest member, Juan Margoles, there after the fifteen-year-old had killed his father. Even though the boy had shot the elder Margoles in the back of the head, Frank and his cabinet of six judges had deemed the act self-defense and agreed to get the young man to safety.

The Parishioner didn’t question the verdict. He’d never relied on the law for any kind of justice, and so he drove the boy to the house in the dead of night. No one had told him what had happened after that drop-off, and he never asked.

The safe house was on Mill Valley Way, but the guardhouse was where Ecks was headed that noon. The guardhouse was located on Pleasant Circle. The route there was different from Mill Valley Way, but the guardhouse’s small backyard was less than one hundred and fifty yards away from the safe house.

Ecks could see the safe house from the window in the kitchen. There were also sixteen hidden cameras that, when turned on, revealed every corner of the hideout.

Ecks turned on the four-by-four block of video monitors and sat back with a snifter of cognac. He rarely drank brandy, but that had been Swan’s favorite drink. He would toast his friend and see what might happen in the safe house on the hill.

At one thirty-three the thug in the ugly green suit approached the front door of the house on Mill Valley Way. The entrance was hidden from view by a hundred kinds of vegetation, but Ecks saw the man clearly on monitor five. Green Suit pushed the buzzer and Ecks heard it over the audio connection. Then came the knock. Buzzer again. Knock. There was a two-second delay between the action and sounds.

Then the man in green jiggled the doorknob. When he found that it was locked he turned and walked away.

Fourteen minutes passed and the man returned with three friends—one of whom Ecks recognized.

“Hm.”

A short, fancy little man in a well-cut buff-colored suit knelt in front of the door and had it open in under three minutes.

Ecks watched the crew from monitor to monitor as they went through the house. Green and Buff did a very professional search. This didn’t bother Ecks, because the safe house would be clean of any evidence or clues that might lead to the church.

Accompanying the gunsels was a tall, good-looking man in an elegantly cut cream-colored suit, and Jerry Jocelyn in dark blue business attire.

“Nobody here and nuthin’ else either,” said the man in green to the stylish boss.

“That’s right, Mr. Martindale,” the shorter lock-pick man added.

“Okay,” Martindale said. “Let’s just sit. Jesse?”

“Yes, boss?” the man in the buff suit said.

“Is there a window that looks down on the path up here?”

“Yep.”

“Keep a lookout.”

Ecks watched as Jesse moved from monitor seven to thirteen.

“Link,” Martindale said.

“Yes, Mr. Martindale?” Hideous Green answered.

“You find a place to keep a lookout for somebody coming from behind.”

“Why would they do that?” Link asked.

The images on the black-and-white screens were a little blurry, but Ecks could see clearly the hard look Martindale had for the minion Link.

“But I’ll go look,” Link said hastily. Then he walked into monitor eleven, pulled up a straight-backed chair, and gazed out a window that gave a view of the side and back of the house.

If Ecks looked out of his window he would have been able to stare Link in the face.

“Have a seat,” Martindale said to Jocelyn when the other men had gone to their posts.

The lawyer/pimp took a wood-frame chair with a bulging striped cushion.

Martindale approached the yellow couch, inspected it first with his eyes and then with his hands. Finally, when he was satisfied that there was no danger to his clothes, he sat down and sighed.

“So how’s it going, Jer?”

“The surfer’s dead and our guy’s got a day pass downtown on Thursday.”

“So it’s just Noland, this Lenny O kid, and that other business and we’re through.”

“I don’t know why we have to bother with Lenny,” Jocelyn said. “We know it’s not him.”

“If some bright-eyed cop catches wise then it won’t look like we picked and choosed. Keeps ’em off balance.”

“And what about the other thing?”

“No choice there either,” Martindale said. “Too bad.”

“Yeah.” Jerry Jocelyn seemed to have true lament.

“Not that.”

“No? Then what, Chick?”

“I used to really like Los Angeles. But you know, it’s got too crowded over the years. A man can’t make a living like he used to. And even when there’s money comin’ in, there’s no more pleasure. You know, I’ve done it all and now everything tastes like chicken.”

“So where you going after this?”

“If I told you then I’d have to kill you,” Martindale said, and Ecks didn’t think that it was a lie.

“I’m heading out to Maui,” Jocelyn said, unafraid.

“I guess that’s a good enough destination. But it’s a little gaudy for me. I want an old house in a white neighborhood where all the families can trace their roots back to Jefferson and Washington. Just give me that and I’ll live out the rest of my days in peace.”

Sipping his brandy, Ecks felt an odd kinship with the men on his screens. Each one of them had been born in the everyday world that provided the path that led from school to work to marriage to retirement and finally a sleepy death. At one point on this road they took a detour thinking that they’d get ahead of the herd somehow. And now they were outlaws with no way back. They still had family and friends, dreams and aspirations—but the pack that spawned them had moved on.

Ecks poured himself another brandy while the men settled into silence, waiting for victims that would never arrive.

“Jesse,” Chick Martindale called out at four fifty-seven. He was reading a newspaper while Jocelyn thumbed through a small tome he carried in his jacket pocket.

“Yes, boss?”

“You sure he said four o’clock?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Today?”

“I asked him twice. Had to pay five hundred for it.”

Toy had said three hundred. And Toy wouldn’t lie—not to a fellow Parishioner. Working thugs like Link and Jesse were always hungry for a few bucks. It was no surprise that they would lie to their boss. They’d lie to their own mothers if that helped pay the rent.

Ecks was on his fifth drink. He wasn’t worried, because the cameras were recording every word and movement. He had no intention of facing four men who were as untamed as he had been in the old days back east.

Criminal time, Ecks remembered, was often indolent and sluggish: sitting guard at a front door or waiting for a victim who might not ever show. Between the inherent danger and boredom it was not a job for everybody.

But there were moments, times when you were so free that the rest of the world seemed as if it were born and would die in chains.

A few minutes shy of six Chick folded his newspaper and reached over, touching Jerry’s knee. The rogue lawyer looked up and a preagreed-upon high sign was passed between them.

Ecks had been drifting for a while, seeing but not really registering the safe house interlopers. But when Chick alerted Jerry the brandy seemed to evaporate in Ecks’s system.

Something was up. Something serious.

The lawyer and boss both produced weapons. Ancient farmers, they practiced the religion of scorched earth.

Jerry Jocelyn moved quietly into the range of camera thirteen while Chick appeared on monitor eleven.

The henchmen were gazing out of their windows, yawning now and then.

“Jesse!” Chick called out as he swung his pistol up.

Jerry was pointing his gun at Jesse’s slowly turning head. The muted gunshots went off at the same moment.

In that brief span, less than one second by Ecks’s reckoning, two men had perished.

After checking the bodies, Chick and Jerry hastily returned to monitor seven. Ecks was wondering whether the second double cross would happen then. But no. Saying nothing, the killers made sure that they hadn’t left any incriminating evidence. Then they hurried out the front door, past the watch of monitor five, and out to the street.

The inebriation that had dissipated now came back with its full weight on top of Ecks’s skull. It was to him as if he were watching himself and Swan on one of their misadventures. The letting of blood and the taking of life were such simple things for men like him and Chick and Jerry.

At that moment it seemed as if the whole world were rotten through and through. Every man, woman, and child was a part of the corruption. He was evil by virtue of his species and there was no deliverance, no way out.

The sound of Thelonius Monk came as no surprise. He answered the little cell phone automatically.

“Yeah?”

“You okay, Ecks?” George Ben asked.

“Yeah. Why?”

“You sound funny.”

“What you got for me?”

“Lenny is up and kinda nervous. Those tattoos are a fright.”

“Put him on the line.”

The distraction of conversation fended off the darkness, pushing it back three or four inches. Ecks felt that the shadows of his victims were scurrying about the corners of the room, mumbling and muttering curses upon all things living. These curses, he felt, had damned all humanity ever since Cain slew his brother.

“Hey,” Lenny said through the phone.

“How you doin’, Len?”

“Did you drug me, man?”

“I gave you that joint. It was pretty strong, but I didn’t think it was gonna knock you out like that.”

“Why’d you leave me here?”

“You were out and I had business. I told you that I’d put you somewhere with a bed.”

“But you put me with this faggot.”

The shadows receded a bit farther when Ecks considered the fact that Lenny had offered to have sex with him only a day ago. What, the gangster wondered, was this young man’s convoluted understanding of sexual identity? But he didn’t ask.

“I’ve got a bead on your parents, Lenny,” Ecks said.

“You do?”

“Uh-huh. I don’t know where they are exactly, but I’m close to it.”

“I don’t know, man,” Lenny said. “I don’t know if you should be doin’ that.”

“Why not?”

“You seen me. You know what I am. How’s some mother and father gonna call a piece’a shit like me son?”

“They were the ones who lost you when you couldn’t take care of yourself, Len. When they look at you they’ll see their own crime, not your failings.”

“Really? You think so?”

“I know it’s true,” Ecks said.

Maybe Lenny O was a piece of shit, but Ecks and Jerry and Chick were entire waste-disposal plants.

“Gimme two days there with George, Lenny,” Ecks said in a controlled tone. “Stay there and I will help you make a man out of yourself.”

“What if I say no?” the young man challenged.

“I only asked George to put you up, son. If you think that you’re better off on your own, just go.”

“Really?”

“Look, Len, it’s like I told you: I’m working for the woman who took you when you were a baby. She wants to make things right. And you already said that there’s people lookin’ for you. If you think you’re better on your own, though, I won’t stand in the way.”

“So I could leave?”

“Yeah.”

It was at that moment that Ecks lost heart. Whatever Benol or Frank wanted, he wouldn’t bully or lie to Lenny—not anymore. He’d tell the truth and go by where that led. There was no other choice when two dead men lay in the monitors—men who died while he watched and did nothing.

“You there, Mr. Noland?”

“Yeah, Lenny.”

“Okay, I’ll stay for two days. But you know, I could use another one’a those blue joints if you got ’em. I slept pretty good with that one you give me.”

“Hand the phone to George and I’ll make sure you get something.”

Driving down the hill at seven fifteen, Ecks called Frank on the minister’s private line.

“Are they both dead?” the pastor asked after Ecks made his report.

“Both shot in the head by men who were not new to the job. I didn’t go in, because someone might have heard the shots, and I couldn’t be connected to another murder so soon.”

“Don’t worry about them. Are the tapes still in the cameras?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll get somebody to take care of it.”

“And what should I do?”

“Make sure the remaining boy is safe and find out what part Benol has played in these events.”

At seven thirty-one, driving down Sunset Boulevard, Ecks made a second call.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Benicia.”

“Mr. X,” she said playfully. “I wondered if you were the kind of man who’d call a girl the next day.”

“The old me might have forgotten, but he’s not in the driver’s seat no more.”

“How’s the new Egbert doing?”

“Struggling with the past.”

“How can I tell the difference?”

“Kiss me good night and see if I call the next day.”

“Do you want to come over and test that hypothesis?”

“Can’t tonight.”

“Oh? Church business?”

“Somethin’ like that.”

Ecks drove back to his apartment and set himself up at the window to gaze down on the alley and think.

We all carry our own loads, Frank had once preached. No one can help us bear the weight. No one will stop for us if we’re about to fail or stray. You can only take one step at a time with the knowledge that there is no way to pass the burden on. Be at peace with this solemn responsibility; do not hope for a time when you can lay this mortal duty aside, and you will find that the weight is not so heavy and that the time as it passes is filled with wonder and sometimes even brotherhood. Because you know brotherhood is not helping your fellow man—it is loving him.

The hours passed.

Now and then a homeless man or woman staggered down the alley with a rickety grocery store cart or a backpack. They moved between the few lights on the lane, fading into shadows now and then, only to reappear a few yards farther on. Cars drove through taking the shortcut, and a police cruiser had done three passes, looking for anything that might indicate a crime.

At four in the morning, life seemed to come to a halt. He hadn’t been thinking about the lost boys or Benol, Dodo or her aunt, but they roiled in the back of his mind.

Xavier Rule then took out his phone and called Swan’s number.

“Hello?” a woman said sadly, her tone echoing the emptiness inside Ecks.

“Is Swan there?”

“Um, no,” the voice said.

“Could you leave him a message for me then?”

“He died last night,” she murmured softly. “Passed away in his sleep.”

Ecks made the next call at seven in the morning. After a long and detailed discussion he asked, “So is that okay, Ms. Pride?”

“Are you sure you need me there?” Cylla asked. “You know it’s really not my case.”

“This is church business. We can’t have someone outside the circle running the room.”

“I’ll have to call Frank.”

“If he says no, tell him that I’m buying a ticket on a deep-sea fishing boat and a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and that he shouldn’t look for me until at least the end of next week.”

Winter met Ecks in front of the Parishioner’s apartment building at eleven o’clock that morning.

“Hey, brother,” the driver greeted as his fare climbed into the front seat.

“How you sleepin’, son?”

“Like a baby,” he said, “up every hour or so with a whimper and scared of the dark.”

“I’m sorry about that, Win. I should’a sent you away when you asked to tag along.”

“No, man, no. I got this. I got it by the tail. Every night I sleep a little longer and I know a little more about how much I can bear.”

“Today will be no problem, man. I just need you to stay in your car somewhere around the courthouse. I’m lookin’ for somebody but don’t know who they are. When I see ’em I might need to move fast, so I’ll call you and you come and let me have the wheel.”

“You don’t want me to go with you?”

“Not unless you wanna end up like one’a them men in that house we broke into.”

There was a visitor’s pass left for him at the guard post of the state court building. He’d left his pistol and throwing knife in a locked briefcase in Winter’s car and so passed through the metal detector with confidence.

Cylla was waiting for him in conference room four-FB. She was sitting at the far end of a long table designed for many lawyers and plaintiffs in some corporate case. There was a window at that end of the room and sunlight flowed over the legal predator like heavenly grace on a crocodile’s back.

“I hope you’re right about this, Ecks,” she said as he took the seat next to her.

“Hope is all you can ask for in a building like this,” Ecks replied.

Cylla smiled and shook her head, denying and agreeing with the same gesture.

“When’s he get here?” Ecks asked.

“Three minutes.”

“Exactly?”

“They hop for me around here,” she said. “Money knows every language that’s ever been spoken.”

“So how does this work?”

“He’ll come in under heavy guard and we’ll confer. Then I’ll bring him to be released by an officer of the state’s attorney. That’s the charade.”

“And me?”

“You are my personal security, Mr. Noland.”

She handed him a paper ID in a plastic badge. This he attached to the lapel of his copper-colored suit.

“Tell me somethin’, Cylla.”

“What’s that, Ecks?”

“How can a stone-cold mass murderer like Lehman get a day pass from prison?”

“The police were too eager,” she said. “They came into his home without a warrant and made ninety percent of their discovery on that bust. It wouldn’t mean a thing except for a thirty-thousand-dollar retainer my firm got to overturn the verdict. He’ll go back in, but right now the law is on his side.

“The thing I don’t get is why you need to talk to him,” Cylla added. “I mean, he’s just a piece’a shit madman. When the partners offered me the case I turned them down flat. I mean, I’ll still work for them, but I won’t try to free a man like that.”

“I don’t know either, Cyll. I just wanna cover all my bases.”

“It won’t be pleasant.”

At that moment Ecks registered the heavy metal chair against the wall on the other side of the lawyer. There were leather manacles on the arms and front legs of the specially designed prisoner’s seat.

Thirty seconds later there came a knock. Cylla went to the door and opened it wide.

Four uniformed guards came in surrounding a manacled, gray-clad, crew-cut inmate: a young white man with smoldering blue eyes and a grimace that could have come only from painful and pain-giving experience.

His muscles were bulging from weight lifting and fear. His gaze rivaled many corpses that Ecks had seen.

Lester Lehman was silent while the guards maneuvered him into the chair and cinched tight the leather manacles. His scrutiny settled on Ecks. The stare, Rule thought, was like the invisible gaze of a predator bird ready to dive down from the heavens.

The head guard had Cylla sign a form attached to a clipboard and then led his friends outside to wait in the hall.

“Where’s Jonas?” Lester asked when the guards were gone. He was still staring death at Ecks.

“Mr. Nayman had a sudden health problem,” Cylla said. “He wanted me to stand in for him, seeing that you were already down from San Quentin.”

“Who’s the nigger?” Lester asked then.

Ecks smiled.

Cylla did not answer the question.

“What is this shit?” Lester said.

“You got three years in San Quentin,” Ecks uttered. “I got forty-six in the street. Let’s not play, son.”

“I’m no blood to you.”

“You’re not blood to anybody you know. When you were eighteen months old your parents left you at a day-care center, where you were kidnapped with two other boys. Your new parents, the Lehmans, bought you from a slaver. Probably thought they couldn’t have children.…”

All the prison-made hardness fell from the young killer’s face. He sat forward, leaning against his restraints.

“You probably felt like you didn’t belong,” Ecks continued. “And then, when your parents had a child of their own, they began to see the flaws in you. Maybe they even stopped loving you. That’s probably why you killed them. I mean, what else could you do?”

“No,” the child in Lester said.

“Oh, yeah,” Ecks said. “And then a man named Martindale had Jocelyn who’s calling himself Ansel Edwards hire Jonas Nayman to find a loophole and get your sentence temporarily overturned. They needed you outside the halls of justice, where you would be a sitting duck. The only thing I need to know, Les, is where you were meant to meet the man who contacted you.”

“I don’t know. I mean, I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, coon.”

“Come on now, Les,” Ecks said easily. “Name-callin’ is for the playground. We out here in real life now.”

Out of the corner of his eye Ecks could see Cylla watching him.

Lester was shivering ever so slightly. His whole life had been rendered before him like a puppet show.

“I wasn’t adopted,” he said.

“Oh, yes, you were. You talk about me bein’ a nigger, the child of slavery. But you, Les, you yourself were the real slave. You murdered your masters but that shit didn’t get you home.”

Ecks hoped, for Lester’s sake, that those leather restraints were strong and well tied. The youth was pulling against them with all his might and hate and anger.

“Think about it, Lester. You lost your inheritance when you killed the Lehmans. Why would somebody hire Cylla’s expensive law firm to help your sorry Aryan ass outta jail? Nobody does anything for nuthin’; you know that. So there’s got to be a payday somewhere. Got to.”

“You don’t know.”

“Oh, yeah, son. I do. I really do. I know that the state’s got a whole drawer full of evidence that will put you right back in. Somebody paid thirty thousand dollars for a clear shot—plain and simple.”

The Harlem gangster had hit the high notes of Lester’s young life. He hated his family, remembered in his veins the humiliation of his kidnapping, knew for a fact that he was being set up by the lawyers and whoever hired them. But what choice did he have? He was doing life times four for a crime he couldn’t deny. Even a day of freedom and a chance to run was worth whatever waited for him.

Ecks saw all this in the seemingly vacant blue eyes that had made Lester such a prize when he was a toddler.

“Why?” Lester asked after traveling the entire wrong-way path of his life up until that moment.

“Same as always,” Ecks opined. “What’s true for every soldier, cop, workingman, and thug—worth more dead than alive.”

“And so you come in here and wanna save me?”

“I don’t give a fuck about you, Les. Not one fart in a bean factory. Only reason I’m even tellin’ you what I know is that it’s the right thing to do. Like puttin’ a bullet in a stray dog’s head after a car accident—to end his sufferin’. I know you not gonna help me, man. But I had to be here and you asked why so I told you. After it’s over, Cylla here will give you the names of the three couples who might be your real parents. Maybe at least you’ll know why you did what you did. You couldn’t help yourself, brother. I mean, you just like some windup toy put on the tabletop and let go to run off the side.”

“Fuck you,” Lester said. It was almost a question.

“Naw, man. You the one got fucked in the ass by life. Messed you up so bad that you ain’t never at no time known where you was or why. I’m here to tell you about it. I’m the first person in your whole damn life told you the truth. Pay attention, young man. This ride will not go around for another pass.”

Lester Lehman sat back in his chair, easing up on the restraints that held him. He looked into his enemy’s eyes and saw the truth there. He wanted to ask a thousand questions that had been in his mind since he could remember. But he knew that the black man sitting in front of him didn’t care. The truth he shared was more like a bomb than a balm; like a hidden knife waiting on the prison yard—it was aimed at his heart.

“We’re going to take you down to the release room now, Mr. Lehman,” Cylla Pride said. “You’ve heard what my colleague had to say. Would you rather I stop this proceeding?”

“No … no. Let’s get on with it.”

The guards were summoned and Lester was released from his chair. His defiant demeanor was now more subdued, though he still glanced daggers at Ecks when he could. The seven of them traveled down a long wide corridor toward an elevator, which they took six floors down.

They got to a control room maintained by three uniformed sentries watching nine monitors and guarding a door that kept you a prisoner or set you free. A small group of business-suited officials had gathered near the metal door.

Ecks turned his head casually, studying the monitors. He just wanted to see who was out in the hall on the other side waiting for Lester. There might not be anyone there. Winter was in his car outside using his own video camera. It was a long shot, but this would be only the first in a series of attempts to find the man assigned to kill the lost children.

At his second pass Ecks saw the man who was responsible for at least two of the murders committed.

“Is the paperwork in order?” a smallish Hispanic man in a tan jacket asked Cylla.

“The papers have all been filed,” the deacon-lawyer replied.

She handed the little man an envelope, which he opened. He took out a folded sheet of paper and read it through—twice.

“This looks to be in order.”

“One moment,” a voice said from the elevator door.

This was a slender man with an exaggerated Adam’s apple. He wore a black suit, a white shirt, and a thin undertaker’s tie.

“There’s a holdback,” the emaciated man said. “Mr. Lehman attacked a man with a deadly weapon on prison grounds three months ago. The inquiry means that he must be held over in county jail until the courts here make a ruling.”

“What the fuck?” Lester said.

“Put him back,” the lean bureaucrat said. “He must be held over.”

Ecks didn’t talk to Cylla again that day. He made his way back up with the guards holding Lester and then quickly to the front of the courthouse. He was looking around for the killer but came up empty.

“Brother Ecks,” Winter called.

He was parked at the curb, waving from the window.

Ecks strolled over to his friend.

“I got the shots you wanted, man,” Winter said. “How’d you do?”

“All in all I can’t complain.”

“That’s good, right?”

“That girl you met,” Ecks said, “that Cindy Simpson.”

“What about her?”

“I met a girl too. Her name’s Benicia.”

“She fine?”

“You want to have a double date at Fisherman’s Grotto up there on the PCH?”

“When?”

“Tonight.”

“Your friend Winter is a delight,” Benicia Torres was saying on the ride back to her apartment on Venice Boulevard.

“What did you think of Cindy?”

“Every time she looked at you her nostrils flared.”

“I didn’t catch that.”

“Winter’s a good friend, isn’t he?” Benicia asked Ecks.

“My best friend died two days ago.”

“I’m sorry. What happened?”

“Cancer. That and hard livin’.”

“Are you going to the funeral?”

“No,” Ecks murmured, “I’m not.”

When Benicia heard the pain in that answer she said, “Do my nostrils flare when I look at you, Mr. Noland?”

“I don’t think so.”

“They should.”

“Your nose don’t even know me, girl.”

“That’s the first thing you’ve ever said that’s completely wrong.”

“Is this it?” Ecks asked as he pulled up next to a complex of little cottages. The brown bungalows were arranged in no particular order, like a child’s building blocks forgotten after a day of play.

“It wasn’t only him getting wounded that made my father decide to leave Rio.”

“No?” Ecks felt a quivering in his chest.

“I was young but I was wild too. I’d never stay in school. I would jump out of my window at bedtime and spend the night in the streets.”

“What your old man do?”

“He beat me with a strap until …”

“Until what?”

Benicia peered with her brilliant eyes at Ecks. “Until one night he beat me and the whole time I looked up at him like I’m looking at you. I didn’t cry or make a sound.”

“Damn, girl.”

“Do I frighten you, Egbert?” She laughed.

“So that’s why he put you in a trunk and brought you here?”

“He really was shot. When I heard about it I ran to the hospital and sat by his side for six days. I held his hand and talked to him. And when he woke up I was sitting there wearing a straw hat that he bought me on a Sunday after church. I asked him to stop being a cop and he said that he would if I went to school and made something of myself.”

Xavier took her hand and said, “Call me Ecks, all right?”

“Do I scare you, Ecks?”

“Like I told you before, scared is scared of me.”

“Do you want to come in?”

“Will I have to use my strap?”

“I promise not to cry.”

Ecks left Benicia sleeping in the morning. He turned on his cell phone on the freeway headed downtown.

“Hey, Brother Ecks,” Winter Johnson had said in the middle of the night. “I had a great time with you and your girl. That Bennie is really beautiful. Cindy just couldn’t stop talkin’ ’bout you. She said that you reminded her of this gangster uncle she used to have from back Baltimore. If I didn’t know better I’d be jealous.”

“Ecks,” said Guillermo Soto on the next message. “I received some pretty damning videos this morning. It shows two men being murdered by men known to the department. This evidence was delivered by a man named Adama. He’s a Syrian businessman who rented out a house in Coldwater Canyon to a film company that was doing some kind of Candid Camera show. The killers and their victims had made some kind of mistake and got themselves on tape. Just thought I’d give you the heads-up.”

Taking the freeway off-ramp at La Brea, Ecks made his way up to Olympic and parked in a nearby lot. He set himself down at a bus stop across the street from D-Right Drugstore and took out a book, a new biography of a man named Simon Weisenthal, known as the Nazi Hunter and feared by those who hoped to get away.

Ecks had read a book review on the life history and felt a kinship to the subject. Ecks was a man who lived at the border of civilized life, an exile who made his camp between two lands, neither of which could ever be his home. Ecks was the victim who bit back, the forgotten corpse that came alive and dug his way out of an unmarked grave.

Ecks was very interested in the daily life and the subterfuge of Weisenthal’s existence, but that day, with the book open in front of him, he didn’t read a word. Instead his eyes were glued to an inconspicuous doorway that had no lettering or even a number attached.

In the hours that passed, the displaced New Yorker thought about his old life and the new one, about Swan the smiling killer and Panther Rule the inescapable patriarch. Whenever his mind drifted by the memory of his father, Frank came up. He wondered what Frank had to do with Panther. They were nothing alike, the white-haired minister and the black tower of rage. And yet …

And yet there was something.

He felt as if he’d been battered and jumbled down a long stretch of whitewater and had just been vomited out onto a placid, extremely large lake. The water below him was smooth and reflective like a mirror, and the silence from the surrounding woodlands spoke of danger.

Xavier smiled and sat back on the fiberglass bench. And at just that moment his lumpy, gray-clad quarry came out of the nondescript door.

The man walked with purpose down Olympic across from where Ecks followed. He went into a fast-food joint called Chili’s Fries and Taquitos.

Ecks went to the crosswalk, waited on the light, and crossed the street leisurely. He leaned up against the wall outside the door, waiting patiently. Panther and Frank, Simon and the placid lake all faded away in the face of the job to be done.

Eight minutes later Lou Baer-Bond came out of the pink-and-yellow door of the restaurant with a bag in one hand and a quart cup of soda in the other. There was a lit cigarette between his lips.

“Lou.”

The private detective turned, opening his eyes wide. Ecks wondered whether the dick would drop his trove of fast food to grab for a gun or run.

“Hey,” Baer-Bond said, his cigarette quivering madly. “Egbert, right? What you doin’ here?”

“We need to talk, Lou.”

“Uh-huh, okay. Let’s go up to my office.”

“No, man. I’ve been comin’ down with this case of office-o-phobia. You know? The fear of a gun under the desk. I was thinkin’ maybe that bus stop bench across the street.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Oh, yes, you do. Just as sure as you were standing out in the receiving hall in the courthouse yesterday. Waiting for Lester.”

“I have nothing to say to you,” Baer-Bond said. He swiveled his shoulders to point in a trajectory beyond Ecks and his accusations.

“Jocelyn and Martindale are on their way to jail, man.”

“What?”

“They jumped the gun and killed two guys name of Jesse and Link.”

“You seem to be very well informed for a second cousin.”

“They would have killed you too, Lou,” Ecks continued. “I guess there’s lots of money on the line.”

“Benol put you into this?”

“I drive my own car.”

“What do you want?”

“Ever since I was a young man I’ve been looking for my platinum parachute. Enough money all at once so that I could retire and take my ass down to where they have never seen even one solitary snowflake.”

“What’s that got to do with me?”

“You know why I didn’t want to go up to your place, Lou?”

“Scared?”

“Right on the first try. I’m scared’a gettin’ shot in the chest and in the eye.”

The private detective’s moods were subtle and deep. The look in his jaundiced eye was response to a mortal threat.

“Let’s go across the street,” he said.

“So what is it you want from me?” Lou Baer-Bond asked.

Ecks pondered the question honestly. Benol had asked, and Frank had asked for her, that Ecks find the three boys who had been kidnapped before they could form coherent sentences. He had accomplished that end. Not one child had gone unscathed, but the Parishioner had done what was asked of him. What was he doing at that bus stop with the killer? What did he care about the reasons why?

“I want the keys to the kingdom,” Ecks said without considering too closely the words he uttered.

“Chick and Jerry really out of this now?”

“They ain’t dead. So they still know what they know. But their knowledge is from the inside lookin’ out.” Ecks knew that the greatest poets were also the greatest criminals. Poetry was hatched in prisons and under the sway of a lifelong desire for revenge.

“Why should I listen to you?” Baer-Bond asked.

“One reason is that I already saved your life. Because you know you just about the only hook left that the cops could hang their hat on. And you the one with the blazin’ gun. You the one Jocelyn and Martindale will blame.”

The detective looked up and around the street, suddenly afraid what might be laying for him. His right eye tightened and he lit up another menthol. His left wrist bumped against the tip of his nose and he wondered, honestly, to himself.

“There’s money to be made,” Ecks said. It was more than just a suggestion. “Money can cross borders and grease the right palms. You got enough money and whatever Jerry and Chick say will be nuthin’ more than some words behind a locked door.”

“Problem is,” Lou said simply, “that they’re the ones that know how to make the connections. How tight is the jam they’re in?”

“Tight as a born-again virgin on her wedding night.”

“What exactly are we talking about, Mr. Noland?”

“Double homicide caught on tape with audio.”

“Legal tap?”

“We ain’t talkin’ about a millionaire’s son, Lou. These are lifetime criminals standin’ in front of a hole in the ground. So if you know somethin’ maybe we can pool our resources and both come out on top’a the shit.”

Again Baer-Bond wondered. He had been expecting to eat chili-cheese fries and fried tortillas swimming in watery guacamole sauce, but now he was facing a man of the wrong color whom he didn’t know and couldn’t trust.

“Why you think I’m in it with these dudes?” he asked.

“Not only are you in it,” Ecks said, “you killed twice as many as either one of them. A bullet through the eye and another in the chest. One at the surf shop down in Venice and the other on Marietta Circle three nights past.”

“You can’t prove that.”

“I don’t have to. Between Chick and Jerry, the cops, and an anonymous phone call, the only thing you’ll need is a lawyer and a whole Sunday full of prayer.”

The quart cup of soda was sweating on the plastic bench while Lou Baer-Bond bit his lip and scowled, looking for a way back to his heart-attack brunch.

“You bein’ straight with me?” he asked, expecting a lie to decipher.

“What do you think, man?”

“How do you know all this shit?”

“I got eyes in my ears, brother. I got a nose in every finger.”

“How much money you think Chick and Jerry were after?”

“I didn’t stay in school too long, but I believe that the number takes up the high range of six places, maybe seven.”

“Damn. Thing is like this, man. I mean, is that Benol girl really your cousin?”

“No. And even if she was, this is money here, real money.”

“So how do you know her?”

“I’ve been known, in a past life, to handle rough trade. She come to a minister and he asked me to help her out. I came to see you. I looked here and there and came up with what I already told you. Either Benol was lyin’ to me or she’s just too stupid to know what she was sittin’ on. Either way she’s out of it now.”

Lou was looking at Ecks as if the Parishioner’s words carried weight and form. He studied each one like a production line manager looking for flaws in his assemblers’ work.

“You got to understand, man,” Lou said, “I don’t know what it’s all about. I got information but not nearly enough to make the right connections. And if what you say about Chick and Jerry is true, then I need to get out. I need to get paid.”

Ecks could see the desperate man’s point.

“How much you lookin’ for, Lou?”

“Two hundred thousand sounds about right. With that I could get out to Australia.”

“I cain’t argue with that,” Ecks said. “If I get up near a million or more you deserve your dram. But the truth is, I’m broke and you got no reason to trust me. How do we work that into this payday of yours?”

Lou had gotten into the habit of looking over toward the door to his office building every thirty seconds or so.

“We should get away from here,” he said. “If the police come it’ll be over for both of us.”

Half an hour later the unlikely pair were seated in a booth at Loud’s Coffee Shop on Wilshire. Lou ordered a mocha coffee with whipped cream while Ecks had a black American blend.

“Just tell me one thing,” Ecks said to the detective.

“What?”

“What did Benol ask you to do—exactly?”

“All she wanted was for me to find that Brayton Starmon, who she said was born Brayton Welch.”

“Nothing else?”

“She said something about three boys that went missing twenty years ago. She said that she heard Starmon had information that would lead her to them.”

The walk up La Brea had been under the hot sun, and even though the heat hadn’t bothered Ecks, Lou was sweating like the soda cup he’d left on the bus stop bench. The detective was visibly relieved by the coolness of the café. Even Ecks found the air-conditioning restorative.

“The way I figure it is that you came across Martindale in your search,” Xavier said. “He’s a high-end operator. If Brayton got something on one of his break-ins that might have had worth, he’d come to Chick and make a deal.”

Up until then Baer-Bond was nervous, motile. His hands and face were in motion. He looked up at any movement in the room. But when Ecks started reenacting the detective’s investigation Lou got still and serious.

Ecks didn’t mind the attention. There was, after all, a burgeoning partnership between the two men. He needed to nurse the relationship along until it brought him to the place he had yet to define.

“This here is tricky, Lou. We both have our little secrets. And you know that I believe that there’s a big payday with nobody to claim the check. If I give you my knowledge you could run away with it. Same is true with you for me. But we got to come up with something.”

“Yeah,” Lou said, “yeah.”

“So maybe we could ask each other some questions and see if the answers open up a possibility.”

“Like what?”

“Do you know what the people who have gotten killed and who might still die have in common?”

Baer-Bond knitted his eyes and shook his head.

Ecks believed this to be an expression of truth.

“The surfer and mass-murdering boy,” Ecks said, “and one other were kidnapped by the man who lived on Marietta Circle.”

The detective’s eyes became elusive.

“Don’t be hidin’ your eyes from me, Lou. If we gonna work together then you got to prove that you can share.”

“How’d you find out about Sprain?”

“Benol told me.”

“How’d she know?”

“Uh-uh, Lou. Your turn.”

“The third man is called Leonard Phillips. He’s a pervert. Works for the porn industry out in the Valley. Got a job at Zebra Films but he never leaves the set. Lives behind a trash can like a roach in the wall.”

“Lenny O,” Ecks said with a nod.

“You know that too?”

“What I don’t know is why Chick and Jerry would think that they could make money from killin’ people ain’t got two sticks between the four of ’em.”

“They sure didn’t tell me.”

“But maybe they did and you don’t know it.”

Ecks’s cell phone vibrated in his pocket just then. The sensation caused him to smile.

“What’s that mean?” Lou asked.

“Maybe they had you lookin’ for something,” Ecks suggested. “Maybe you saw or heard something that stuck in your head.”

The sweat on Baer-Bond’s brow had dried into a sheen of salt. His eyes had found their range on Ecks.

“Look, man,” Lou said. “All this could just be smoke and mirrors—like they had on that TV show, that … that … that Mission Impossible. I got to check some’a this out and think it over.”

Ecks’s phone throbbed again.

“Gimme a number and I will call you later on,” Lou added.

“When?”

“I’m not gonna say when exactly but it’ll be in less than a day. If I don’t call by then I won’t. So unless you plan to shoot me or arrest me I’m gonna walk out of here and do some looking and thinking of my own.”

It wasn’t the ideal resolution of the meeting, but Ecks appreciated the bind Lou was in. He didn’t know whether his employers were really in jail. He didn’t know Ecks at all.

The Parishioner shrugged and wrote down the number of a throwaway cell that he kept in his safe.

“I don’t have no two hundred thousand, Lou. If I did I wouldn’t be sittin’ here talkin’ to you. But I could sell one of my vehicles and raise some cash. If you do decide to call me, and I haven’t found out the answers I need from somewhere else, then I’d be willing to give you enough for a one-way ticket to someplace where you might could be a beach bum.”

“A minister sent you to me? Really?”

“You go and do your soul-searchin’, brother. Do that and call me—or don’t. If you do, and I still need what you got, we can play twenty questions again.”

Lou Baer-Bond considered the words, realized that he had no choice, gulped down the rest of his sweet drink, and rose to walk away.

Ecks wondered what kind of wild card Lou would turn out to be. He was a ruthless, very efficient murderer. He didn’t feel guilt or remorse. For probably not much money he had killed two men. Now he was desperate because the little he had made had gone to chili dogs and whores. He would cheat Ecks out of reflex and kill him if he could.

The old Xavier Rule felt right at home.

“I need to know what’s happening,” Benol said on the message from the first call.

“Brother Ecks,” Father Frank said on the second message. “Ms. Richards has been calling, worried that you might have abandoned her cause for some profit-making scheme. I assured her that such a thing is impossible but also promised that you would call her and make a report.”

“Hello?” she said halfway through the first ring.

“Hey, Bennie.”

“Where are you?”

“The Wilshire District. I’m having a coffee and wondering how a single decision by a teenaged girl can create a whole world of pain.”

“I need to talk to you.”

“Where are you?”

“The reading room of the downtown Y.”

“There’s a restaurant ’bout six blocks from there called Pablo’s Tandoor. Meet me there in one hour.”

“Have you betrayed me, Mr. Noland?”

“That, my dear, would be impossible.”

Forty-five minutes past midday Benol Richards walked into the Mexican-Indian restaurant to find Ecks sitting at a two-person booth against the back wall. The walls and booths, furniture, floors, and ceiling were all decorated with Olmec, Aztec, and Hindi gods and goddesses, sacred animals and indecipherable texts.

Ecks rose up from his seat and actually kissed the young-looking woman on her cheek. She touched the place where his lips had brushed her and frowned.

“What’s going on?” she asked. If she were Jesus she might have added the appellation—Judas.

“You hungry?”

“No.”

“Order something anyway. They like it when people pay to sit at their tables.”

“I don’t care. You order for me.”

The waiter came and Ecks ordered.

“I need to know what’s going on,” the honey-colored possible penitent said when they were alone.

Xavier took a stiff piece of paper out of his inside breast pocket. This he placed before Benol.

She picked up the card, glanced at both sides, and put it back down on the table.

“So?”

“That was my question for you,” Ecks replied.

The two freckles under her eye seemed to be more pronounced. Ecks wondered whether this was some kind of physical show of embarrassment.

Before Benol could reply, the waiter returned with plates of tandoori chicken, chiles rellenos, vindaloo lamb, and basmati rice.

“We used to fuck, okay?” she said after the server left again.

“But why would you think that he would send you money so long after you’d run away? Full-grown man having sex with a child who is his brother’s daughter probably wouldn’t have guilt as a primary emotion.”

“My dad was his stepbrother,” Benol said. “Anyway, he wasn’t even my real father. When he married my mom, she already had me. Clay and I weren’t related by blood and we only met after I was in foster care.”

“You were still a teenager.”

“Yeah. But he kinda fell for me. I could lead him around by the nose.”

“Until Brayton.”

“Yeah. Clay got jealous.”

“And that’s why you sold those kids?”

“I’m sorry about that.”

“One boy’s dead, another’s in prison for life, and those are the two who got off easy.”

Actual tears formed in the woman’s eyes. “What do you want from me?”

“The detective you hired killed the surfer and Brayton too.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“I … I … I …”

“Was your uncle part of the scam?”

“No. No, he wasn’t.”

“Then why would you expect him to send you money?”

“I had letters.”

“What kinda letters?”

“He was in love with me. I used to say I wanted him to do things, sex things, and he’d write me love letters telling me what he’d do. Signed them and everything.”

“He said he loved you?”

“He did love me. He did everything I wanted.”

When he ran women Ecks had heard this story in a hundred variations.

“Then why’d you help Brayton steal those boys?”

The look on her face was that of a lost child. She was searching for the answer in Ecks.

“I didn’t say that I loved the old pervert.”

“But it sounded like you were proud that he loved you.”

“What does any of this have to do with those boys?”

“Did Clay Berber know what you were going to do with Brayton? Did he profit from the money you got from Sedra?”

“Absolutely not. When he realized that I had a real boyfriend he tried to keep us apart. He wouldn’t let me go out; at least, he tried to stop me.”

“Okay, all right. Tell me about Jerry Jocelyn.”

“He called the night after I met you. He said that he heard I was looking for Brayton and three boys that went missing twenty years ago.”

“Why would he care about that?”

“He said that he knew about Brayton but he was wondering what my interest was.”

“And you told Jocelyn about Frank?”

“Not exactly. I just said that I had somebody else looking for the boys. That’s when he said that two of the parents were willing to pay for knowledge about all the boys. He was on some kind of time limit and wanted me to back off. When I told him that I didn’t know if the new people I’d engaged would agree to stop looking, he said that he’d pay me fifteen thousand dollars if I turned the information I got over to him before taking any other action. I didn’t see the harm. I wanted to find them anyway.”

“Which parents?”

“He didn’t say.”

“Why would any of the natural parents want the boys dead?”

“He said that they wanted them found but not until after their thirtieth birthday. It sounded like they wanted to get to the bottom of the kidnapping … and something else too.”

“So they hired a lawyer?”

“I don’t know.”

The Parishioner realized that he was leaning forward in a predatory fashion. He sat back and took a deep breath.

“How’s the Y treating you?” he asked.

“I’ve been in worse places.”

“What do you plan to do when all this is over?”

“Go back to Florida or maybe turn myself in. Maybe if they take me to court I can feel like I paid for my crime.”

“Did you give Jocelyn my name?”

“Uh …”

“But you weren’t gonna tell me.”

“I didn’t know that he was going to be killing the boys. Why would I think that?”

It was a good question.

“Why would they pay all kinds of money to keep quiet?” was another one.

“Waiting for the birthdays to pass like Jerry said,” Benol suggested weakly.

“Jerry’s in jail along with a man named Chick Martindale.”

“For what?”

“Murder.”

“Hank?”

“No. Two other guys.”

“Oh. I see.”

“I lied to you,” Ecks said. “The last guy I met, that Lenny, he was the third boy.”

“Really?”

“So I’ve completed my mission.”

Benol Richards seemed to age right there in front of Ecks. Her shoulders slumped and her eyes lost focus.

“I don’t know what to say.”

“The last kid is all fucked-up and you lied to me. I’ll give Frank the information and either he’ll tell you or he won’t. That’s up to the church.”

“I am not an evil woman, Mr. Noland.”

“If a chunk of rock fell off a building aimed right at my head it wouldn’t be evil either, but I’d sure the fuck try to get outta the way.”

“This was my last chance,” she whispered.

“No, baby. Your last chance comes in the middle, or maybe just a second before your last breath. This was just a practice run for you. From here on in you have to get more creative.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You will.”

Benol hadn’t touched the food set out in front of her. She stared for a moment and then rose. Ecks watched her, saying nothing. Saying nothing she walked from the restaurant lugging her golden purse as if it were a heavy weight, filled with the bodies of her victims.

“Hey, sailor,” the electric eye greeted.

It was six minutes past three and Lenny was up on a ladder hanging rakes between long wooden dowels jutting out and upward from the wall. The young man was wearing jeans that would have fallen off his skinny hips if not for a tightly cinched leather belt. His T-shirt read, Hardware Man.

Lenny was talking to George Ben, who was standing at the base of the mobile ladder. They were both smiling.

“Hey, Ecks,” George said, his attention still on Lenny.

“Eyes in the back of your head, George?” Ecks asked.

“Mirror on the back wall of the store.”

“I see you put Lenny to work.”

“Idle hands.”

“Can you give your new employee a coffee break?” Ecks asked.

After calling a young African man named Jack from the storeroom, George Ben led Ecks and Lenny O to his office. There he extracted three espressos from an elaborate brass contraption that sat on its own table against the wall.

“I need to talk to Lenny alone,” Ecks told his fellow parishioner.

“No,” George said as politely as the word allowed. “I promised him that I’d make sure he was okay.”

“And you think I mean to hurt him?”

“No offense, Brother Ecks, but all someone has to do is look at you and they can tell that you represent hurt from your fingers to your toes.”

Ecks weighed the options of the possible confrontation. Ben was, among other things, a killer. He was strong and brutal, though rehabilitated. He would always be a threat, even if he was a little too softhearted.

“Okay,” Ecks conceded. “Let’s sit down and powwow.”

“You go sit in my chair behind the desk,” George said to Lenny.

The store owner then gestured for Ecks to take one of the two visitors’ chairs, waited for him to be seated, and then followed suit.

Ecks decided to ignore the dynamic of the meeting and opened his line of inquiry. “Tommy Jester.”

“What about him?” Lenny asked, looking to George.

“How long ago did he tell you about the people after you?”

“One week, no, no, two, two weeks.”

“Did he tell you anything else about it?”

“Just that Ellie’s brother blamed me for what happened to her. He said that he was after me, that I should stay in the steel shed behind the kitchen. He gave me a padlock to use on the inside and told me not to come out unless it was daylight and the daytime security staff was on duty.”

“How long did he expect you to live like that?”

“He told me that he’d try and work it out, but if he couldn’t he’d make sure that I’d get out of town.”

“You trust him?”

“Oh, yeah. Tommy’s always been real nice to me. When he told me about the guy after me he had his doctor look me over and give me a blood test.”

“Why? Were you sick?”

“I think that that’s enough questions,” George said.

“Don’t press me, George,” Ecks said from a place that didn’t bargain.

“Um, it’s okay, Mr. Ben,” Lenny said, suddenly in the role of peacemaker. “No, no, I wasn’t sick. I thought that he was givin’ me the usual STD test. You know, the doc gives them to everybody.”

“Two weeks ago?”

“Uh-huh.”

“How long’s the turnaround on that?”

“Usually it’s three days.”

“So what did he say?”

“He had to send it out to a new place for some reason and it hadn’t come back yet. He said that happens sometimes with a new lab.”

“Hm.”

“What?” Lenny and George both asked.

“Thank you very much, Len,” Ecks replied. “I think everything is gonna be all right for you, but I’d keep my head down for a while—at least until I give you the okay.”

“What is it, Ecks?” George asked.

“It is what it is.”

“Hello?” Benicia said. There were sounds of clinking and voices behind her.

“Just thought I’d call and say hi.”

“For such a tough guy you’re really very considerate … Ecks.”

“I had a nice time with you the other night.”

“You could have spanked me harder. I wouldn’t have cried.”

“I might be pretty busy for the next couple’a days.”

“Dinner? Three nights hence?”

“Hence?”

“I told you, I’m a graduate student. I know all kinds of words.”

“Yeah, I heard a few of them in your bed.”

“You talk in your sleep, you know.”

The cold fingers in Xavier’s chest did not reduce the heat of his ardor.

“Tell me about it when I see you next.”

“I can hardly wait.”

Walking up the stairs of his apartment building Ecks wondered whether there might be assassins waiting for him. Benol had told Jocelyn about him. Lou Baer-Bond might have very well visited the rogue lawyer in prison by then.

You never see it comin’, man, Swan was apt to say. The kill shot, the knife in the back, that one wrong step happens while you’re wonderin’ if your girl got underwear or if she’s too hot for you to put ’em on.

Ecks wondered if this was some prescient warning about “Dodo” Milne on the part of his deceased partner.

There was no one waiting at his door inside or out.

He went to his safe, retrieved the disposable cell phone, and left in four minutes flat.

At the Beach Motel south of Redondo, Ecks sat at a card table in an aqua lacquered chair waiting for enlightenment. He believed that he knew what had happened and what would. But knowledge, like perception, was elusive even when it was clear.

Frank called at nine thirty-one but Ecks didn’t answer. It was the first time that he had not hopped to the minister’s call. This made him uncomfortable, but that was nothing new. He was no longer following the edicts of the nameless church and the self-ordained minister. He was out there in the wilderness—a conqueror without an army, a missionary without his Bible or cross.

At two sixteen the next morning a call came in from an unknown number.

“Hello.”

“Egbert?”

“Hey, Lou. I must say I’m a little surprised to hear from you.”

“We have to meet.”

“Why?”

“To make a deal on that money.”

“I don’t know, Lou.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know? You’re the one came to me.”

“That’s true,” Ecks said. “But you left me hangin’ and I’ve had time to think that the payday might get me killed.”

“Well, if you don’t wanna get rich I can’t make you.”

“No,” Ecks said simply, “you can’t.”

“Well, I guess that’s it then.”

“Good luck to you, Lou.”

“Hold up, Egbert. What’s goin’ on?”

“Look, man. It dawned on me after you left the coffee shop that people were dyin’ over whatever money there was to be made. And you know I bleed too.”

“I went to see Jerry in lockup. He’s acting as his own lawyer and so told them that he was using me for part of his defense.”

“And what did Jerry tell you?”

“He gave me the names of the people payin’ him and Chick.”

“Really?”

“So we need to talk.”

“I don’t get it, Lou. Why we have to talk if you already got the missin’ piece?”

“I can’t pull this off alone, Noland.”

“You got Jerry.”

“He’s already killed two partners. And he could bring me down with what he’s got.”

“So what do you want from me?”

“We get together. We do what he wants me to do—only for ourselves. Take the money and run.”

For a moment Ecks fell into a familiar reverie. In that waking dream he had been born in a Strivers Row brownstone to professional parents who loved him and sent him to the best private schools. He was the star of the soccer team and graduated at the top of his class. He never fought for anything because he was too smart and well loved.

Ecks couldn’t remember when that fantasy became a part of his mind. He was young but already associated with Swan. Maybe it was the first time he tried cocaine that this unattainable ambition for a better life arose.

“How much money we talkin’ about?” Ecks asked.

“It’s more than even you imagined.”

“Where do you want to meet?”

“My office.”

“That place reminds me of a poor man’s tomb.”

“You afraid of me, Eggy?”

“Just careful.”

“Okay, fine. Where do you want to meet?”

“There’s a little restaurant in a hotel down where Pico hits the ocean. We could have coffee and croissants there at nine. Lots of people, public place make it safe for both of us.”

Ecks had only one more call to make before going to sleep. It took a while to get patched through, but by the time the conversation was over he had put together his schemes.

It was an overcast morning. Ecks arrived at nine fifty and had been preparing for the meet since before seven. He already checked to make sure that Benicia had that morning off. He was sitting at the same table where he had met Benicia reading The Stranger by Albert Camus for the tenth or eleventh time. The contemplative quality of the text calmed him while the danger of everyday life seemed to support a worldview that he’d known from birth.

Meursault, the Stranger, moved through life the way Xavier did, step by step, only there was no mistrust, no fear of repercussions. Neither of them felt guilt, and love was just another beautiful day in paradise.

There was some possibility that Lou would take the chance of shooting Ecks right out there in public. He might hire someone to do the job, but no … he’d handle it himself.

But he wasn’t overly afraid of an immediate assassination. There would most likely be an interrogation disguised as a plan—at first.

And Ecks had his own interview to perform.

He was wearing a dark blue suit, black shoes, a cranberry shirt, with a black-and-yellow tie. His socks were bright yellow.

“Hey, Egbert.”

Lou Baer-Bond was approaching from the maître d’s podium wearing cream-colored trousers and a gaudy blue-and-green Hawaiian shirt. Ecks smiled and waved the killer over.

The glass door that led down to the beach was open, letting in the strong smell of the ocean. Ecks was reminded of the car ride with Doris when she opened the window and the breath of the Pacific flooded his senses.

“Lou.”

The detective was looking around for traps or enemies. Ecks noticed that he was wearing leather sandals, making his feet look like pale dead fish pressed at the edge of a fisherman’s net.

He took a step toward the table for two, looked around a bit more, and then took a seat.

“I would have bet that you didn’t have a bright color in your closets or drawers,” Ecks said.

This observation elicited a dingy smile.

“Why don’t we go outside and take a walk down the beach?” Baer-Bond suggested.

“No offense, brother, but I like it that there’s people around and a long way for you to run if you slip up and shoot me instead of discussing.”

Ecks put just enough fear in his words to puff up the bent PI.

“You never can tell who might be listening in.”

Ecks smiled and said, “You been a dick too long, Lou. I’m not a cop and nobody around here is worried about us.”

“We got jobs to do,” Lou said.

“And what are those jobs?”

“Lester’s getting out of jail tomorrow afternoon. We have to kill him.”

“Why?”

“In order to get paid.”

“By whom?”

“Whom?”

“We been through this, man. Yes—I know how to read. Look, here’s a book I been studyin’. Now—who is willing to pay for this boy’s death?”

“Like they say in the movies,” Lou said, draping an arm on the back of the wooden chair, “need to know.”

“Okay. All right. I hear you. You need to keep some secrets so I don’t run away with the prize. But you got to tell me somethin’, Lou. You know this kid might just be some contract you got and you be settin’ me up for it. I don’t know.”

“What do you want to hear?”

“Without namin’ names, tell me what Jerry has to do with this.”

“Why?”

“Because if I believe in the story then I can have faith in the payday.”

Lou was looking at the crack beneath Ecks’s eye, trying see the secret that ancient wound held. The detective bit his lower lip.

“Jerry’s a lawyer but he doesn’t worry about what’s legal and what’s not. He got these clients that lost a son when he was a baby. This boy was named Brian after a grandfather on his mother’s side. The old boy was rich and he put in his will that all of his money would be split between the male heirs who bore his name at birth. If that heir was dead then his family would get the money after his thirtieth birthday had passed.”

“So Lester is the kidnapped baby?”

“It’s between him and the surfer.”

“What about the kid lives next to the garbage?”

“Jerry said we don’t have to worry about him. Something about a blood test.”

“What about Sprain?”

“What about him?”

“Look, Lou. I don’t need you to admit to anything or confess. Just tell me what I’m into here. People are dead over this money and these young men. I need to make sure that I’m on the survivors’ side.”

“Sprain was the guy Brayton that Benol Richards was lookin’ for. I found out that he used to do business with Chick Martindale and so I went to him to tell him about her. He told me to hold off for a little bit and then came back to me with Jerry. At that time all he told me was that he’d give me two thousand dollars to tell her that I couldn’t find out a thing about Brayton/Sprain. About three weeks later they came back with a few other jobs that we won’t discuss. But now that they’re both in jail Jerry needed me to do the work they planned. Only I know better than to get close to them after what they did to their own men.”

“Why did they kill their men?”

“I can’t say for sure, but I think that they knew more about the ins and outs of the situation than was safe, so either they had to get paid off or knocked off.”

“And how much can I ask for before I get a bullet in my eye?”

“You and me split fifty-fifty.”

“That’s mighty white of you, Lou. Why you wanna be so generous?”

“Because I need to work fast. Because I need to take care of this cocksucker and get out of the country.”

“Without me you get a hundred percent.”

“Two million each is enough for me.”

Ecks’s tongue went dry over the number. His breath got shallow and his mind honed down to just the money and its hypothetical proximity.

He wanted that money—all of it. He didn’t need it. He wasn’t thinking about what he could buy or afford with the wealth. But forty-six years up against every barrier imaginable made it so he had to have it—had to.

Lou smiled. He could see the hunger in the man he knew as Egbert Noland.

“So what do you say?”

“So it was all just dumb luck?”

“Chick had Jerry go to the parents of one of the missing boys with some bullshit story about somebody lookin’ for them. At first he was trying to find out what trouble they might be causing. That’s when Brian’s parents got all upset that he might be found before his thirtieth birthday. At first Martindale went to Brayton to see if he knew which boy went where. When he didn’t know they went to that crazy bitch Sedra. But she was sly. She could smell that there was money to be made and wanted her share. There were too many chefs by then and so Brayton had to go.

“Now, how did you get involved in all this?”

“My minister, like I told you.”

“Tell me again.”

“My minister said that he knew a woman down south who had met another woman, Benol, who felt responsible for the kidnapping of three baby boys. She gave me the name of Brayton, who turned out to be Sprain. Benol told me about the woman named Sedra, but she got killed with a baseball bat. She also said that she’d been to see you. I just made up the shit about bein’ her cousin.”

“Jerry talked to a woman. He didn’t tell me her name but that’s where he found out about where two of the boys were. He didn’t know which one was which, but he knew where they went. He said all it took was some good dick and a hundred hundred-dollar bills.”

“Tell me somethin’, Lou.”

“What’s that?”

“Why are these people gonna believe you or Jocelyn or Martindale? I mean you can’t just walk in there and say it’s their kid and expect them to believe it.”

“DNA. They got the doctor for Zebra Film-Arts to process it in exchange for lettin’ that little shit Lenny take the test without consequences.”

“And then you take samples off the other two,” Ecks speculated.

Lou Baer-Bond’s grin was an ugly smear across his graying face.

“Yeah,” the detective said. “I bring the evidence and they check it out, fast. Then Jerry wants them to transfer the money into his account. He expects to use that for bail and to skip the country, leaving Chick to fend for himself. But we tell the kid’s family that if they want to see who the blood belongs to they pay us cash.”

“Jocelyn made bail?”

“He gave the judge serious money to set a cash bail that no one would expect him to make. Happens all the time.”

“And why trust you?”

“He’s desperate,” Lou explained. “I’m all he’s got. Maybe he thinks I’m stupid or somethin’.”

Xavier listened and considered. It was a solid chance with iffy odds. But there was a shot at four million. Idly the Parishioner wondered if one or more of his fellow deacons would come in to even out the likelihood of profit and survival.

“How’d Jerry find out about Zebra?”

“What do you care?”

“The more you know,” Ecks said simply. “The more you know.”

“Martindale was that broad Sedra’s connection to them. He didn’t work with regular sales to parents who wanted kids but he worked with sex slaves—the pervert.”

“I see,” Ecks said. “Okay, Lou, I just need to know one more thing.”

“I’m listening.”

“If we do this thing together how do we protect ourselves from each other?”

“I been thinkin’ about that, Eggy. We don’t know each other and there’s already nearly a half dozen dead. I think we should just write it down.”

“What?” Ecks was really surprised.

“Simple note sayin’ what we plan to do. We both sign each note and then put ’em somewhere where the authorities can find ’em if one of us gets killed.”

“That might work.”

Lou grinned while Ecks nodded.

“If either one of us turns the note in, the other one will be in trouble.” Ecks said this thought aloud.

“And we could tell whoever’s holding the letter to burn it in six months’ time,” Lou added. “By then we will be no threat to each other.”

“You surprise me, Lou. Damn, man, they must’ve put brain vitamins in your chili dogs.”

“I’ll write up the letter and we could sign it this afternoon.”

“In a public place,” Ecks added, “where we can take it away and make sure the right person gets it.”

“Let’s meet at the Beverly Palms Hotel lobby at five. I’ll have the letters and we can sign them in the bar. Jerry’s law partner says that he can get around the assault beef they got against Lehman and have him out the day after tomorrow.”

“See you then.”

Driving away from Santa Monica, Ecks realized that the detective was serious about making the deal. He’d meet Ecks later that afternoon and sign and switch letters.

Two million dollars for killing a man who slaughtered his own family.

What would Swan have to say about that?

He arrived at the church outside of Seabreeze City at five o’clock, the hour that he agreed to meet Lou Baer-Bond.

“Brother Ecks,” Sister Hope said in greeting in the outside court of white stone tables.

“Can you bring her to me, sister?”

“Yes,” Hope answered with a tremor of uncertainty.

“I’ll be right here.”

Ecks sat down on top of one of the tables and laced his hands together as in prayer.

The sun came down on his back. He luxuriated in the warmth and the safety of his church.

“Mr. Noland?”

She was wearing a simple white dress with a green ribbon in her blond hair.

“You look like an angel,” Ecks said, eliciting a smile.

Doris sat beside him on one of the benches while Sister Hope watched from the shadows of a nearby alcove.

“You wanted to talk to me?” she asked.

“I needed to know a few things.”

“Like what?”

“Why’d you lie to me about being able to read?”

“I … I didn’t.”

“Oh, yeah, you did. You can read like a college graduate. You know other languages too. Secret languages that only crazy old ladies speak.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Don’t get me wrong, angel; I don’t think you’re all bad. You went to the surf shop to warn Henry. You maybe didn’t love him but you cared enough to go to him, to try to warn him. But you were too late.”

“I …”

“Those hundred-dollar bills in your bag. They came from a man who said his name was Ansel Edwards. Martindale got Sedra to sell you to Ansel and he paid you those bills for information on the boys.”

The denial in Doris’s eyes didn’t make it to her lips.

“I don’t doubt that Sedra was planning to kill you but you had been planning to kill her for a long time. And you probably thought that you could get away. Maybe Ansel gave you a phone number and promised to take care of you. Maybe you called him and realized that he was playing you.…”

Doris looked up and saw something coming from the doorway to the church.

Ecks knew what she saw. He understood the fear she registered.

Sister Hope came out of her alcove. She moved to block Guillermo Soto and the two uniformed cops behind him, but the wall of law enforcement pushed her aside.

“Gimme a minute, Guilly,” Ecks said.

“What’s happening?” Doris asked.

“The man who killed your young lover is being arrested at this moment in Beverly Hills. He has a confession neatly typed in duplicate in his pocket. He spoke a little too freely around a microphone hidden in a vase on a restaurant table. Guilly here is going to arrest you for the murder of Sedra. He assures me that the DA will make you a deal. You won’t spend more than five years behind bars—maybe not even that.”

“Why?”

“You were right about Ansel. His real name is Jerry Jocelyn. Him and that guy Martindale are in for killing and paying for hits. If you can give the names of the parents who wanted their kidnapped son killed, that will help you a lot.”

Sister Hope was running from the yard.

The uniforms flanked Doris and pulled her up by her arms.

“You didn’t have to do this to me,” she said to Ecks.

“Oh, yeah, baby, I really did.”

As she was being led away toward the front of the church, Guillermo Soto approached Xavier Rule.

“Why’d you give Baer-Bond to Tourneau?”

“That way he could feel that he was part of the case—that you and me weren’t in cahoots.”

“Frank won’t like it.”

“Fuck Frank.”

Three weeks passed.

Over the days the newspapers that Ecks and his kids delivered reported the half-told story of the criminals and their crimes. Foremost in the headlines was the murdered Sedra Landcombe, who had been dealing in stolen children for five decades from a peaceful-looking house in a quiet Culver City neighborhood.

Next to Sedra in villainy were Mortimer and Leslie Tarvo, who had hired gangsters to kill three kidnapped boys so that they would be certain to receive a twenty-million-dollar inheritance.

There was a bad-apple private detective who committed two murders and was planning more, and a young woman who had been so victimized by Sedra that she finally killed her and ran away.

All of those arrested made deals with the district attorney, avoiding trials and cutting down their possible sentences. Doris Milne actually got away with a suspended sentence and was reunited with her parents—Nancy and Roderick Calhoun. Doris walked into a ready-made family of two brothers and three sisters and was planning a memoir of her years of horror.

Every day during that period Frank called Ecks, but the onetime gangster from New York did not answer the calls.

He was interviewed by Andre Tourneau for fourteen hours one Tuesday.

“Tell me about this Benol Richards?” the cop asked, more than once.

“She had someone ask me to help her.”

“And did you meet this woman?” Tourneau asked at least seventeen times.

“No, sir. My minister asked me to talk to her on the phone.”

“And why didn’t you come to the police?”

“It was a very old case and she never gave me any facts. She wanted me to ask some questions and I did.”

“But Benol Richards was suspected of being the kidnapper.”

“I didn’t know that. Talk to Father Frank if you don’t believe me.”

“I could bring you up on charges, Mr. Noland.”

“I doubt that, Detective.”

On the twenty-second day the story broke that Clay Berber, the man whose house the three young boys were kidnapped from, was found strangled in his backyard with Rose, his demented wife, sitting next to the body—singing happily.

On that day Ecks got into his classic Edsel and drove up to Seabreeze City.

In the rectory he and Frank sat across from each other sipping tea.

“Is something troubling you, Brother Ecks?”

“Is something not?”

“You did a wonderful job with and for Benol.”

“Did she kill her uncle?”

“Brother Soto assures me that she did not.”

“It was the wife?”

“His skin and blood were under Rose Berber’s fingernails.”

“She waited a long time.”

“Justice doesn’t carry a watch.”

“How’s it goin’ with Lenny and George?”

“Lester is the heir to the Tarvo fortune so Lenny is broke. Mr. Ben has him going to school and working for the hardware store. George wants to bring him into the congregation, but we haven’t decided on that yet.”

“Why you been callin’ me, Frank?”

“The elders have decided it’s time for your baptism.”

“What’s that?”

“The final step in making you a part of our union. Once you are baptized you are truly one of us.”

“I thought I already was.”

“No.”

“Well … I got to go.”

“When shall we plan for the ceremony?”

“I don’t think I want to get in any deeper, Frank. I mean, I’m okay with the sermons and Expressions already. I don’t need any more.”

“No one has ever turned down the baptism.”

“Hey … what can I say? I’m an original.”

Ecks stood up and Frank gazed at him, at a rare loss for words.

“But …” the minister said.

“What?”

“You can’t just stop. You have to continue.”

“No, man. I don’t. If you’re tellin’ me that I have to get baptized or leave the church, I’ll accept that. If you wanna turn me in … well, that’s the chance I got to take.”

On the ride back down to Los Angeles, Xavier Rule felt the flush of freedom. He wasn’t afraid of death or prison, taxes or damnation. He was moving forward toward whatever was in his path.

At that moment the cell phone played Monk.

“Hello?”

“Hey, Ecks.”

“Benicia.”

“I think I’m pregnant.”

“Really?”

“How do you feel about that?”

“Like the condemned man who just got his last-minute reprieve.”

An excerpt from Little Green by Walter Mosley

The New Easy Rawlins Mystery

Forthcoming in 2013 from Doubleday

The first nine steps were a real pleasure. I was up on my feet and walking just as if I was a living man in the real world who knew about gravity but didn’t worry about it bringing him down.

That got me to the concrete path at the side of the front apartment building. The concrete used to lay the path had been tinted a blue color that was meant to match with the turquoise plaster of the buildings—instead it clashed. When I noticed the discord of coloration my step began, ever so slightly, to falter.

All that means is that I’m still a little weak, I said to myself.

I was walking just as well as any other man: one step after another, evenly, in a forward motion.

But when I got to the little raised patio that served as a buffer between the two buildings I stopped before taking the step up. I was like a sentient gas engine that suspected that the fuel gauge was past empty. I was going just fine but at any moment the flow might begin to sputter.

I took the step up to the brick courtyard and strode in six paces to the bottom of the stairs. I estimated twenty-one white stonelike steps to the upper landing. Twenty-one.

Those stairs might have been one of the seven trials of Hercules. Between the pain in my ankle, the dizziness, and the unfamiliar strain on the muscles pulling my body weight upward, I felt like a juggler forced to ply his trade just a few seconds after being shaken out of a deep sleep.

I also had the almost hallucinatory impression of leaving an image of myself on each passing stair. Every progressive Easy was a few years older and weaker than the last. When I made it to the small stone landing it felt like I had reached the century mark.

My lungs were working harder than a blacksmith’s bellows against white fire. I was sweating like a long-distance runner on the last leg of a losing race.

The turquoise door was open but the gray screen was closed. I put my hand against the doorjamb and counted out four deep breaths before pressing the ivory colored plastic button next to my hand.

The ensuing bell was the two-tone economy brand, the kind of bell that a builder bought in bulk expecting to be asked to erect another building like the last and the one before that.

When there was no immediate answer my mind began making up things again. I imagined that I was almost a dead man and the bell was my request for eternal sleep. The reason for no answer was that my application had to be reviewed. I was being forced to hold on to the pain and exhaustion of life until the powers that be could make a judgment on the long list of things I’d done wrong.

The notion was ridiculous enough to get me to smile.

“Can I help you?” a woman asked.

She was dark skinned and short, with hair cut closer than a marine recruit’s. Her build, in the simple, short-sleeved olive-colored dress, was slender and yet brawny, like many a sharecropper I’d known in my days in the South. I noted that the dress had one big pocket on the left thigh. I knew she was in her mid-thirties but she could have passed for fifty easily. Her brutal face was softened by the roundness of her features and also by the slightly fearful tone under the anger in her voice.

She wasn’t in any way pretty, but this woman was what the black sons of cotton pickers dreamed about when they had women in mind.

“Miss Noon?”

“Who’s askin’?”

“My name is Easy Rawlins.” Just saying these words dispelled the greater part of my exhaustion and banished pain to the outer regions of awareness. “I’m here because Ray Alexander asked me to come. He told me that your son, Evander, has gone missing and you might need someone to root him out.”

The permanent scowl on Timbale’s face hid any reaction she might have had to these words. But I didn’t care. I was still tickled at the magic quality of speaking my name.

“You a preacher, Mr. Rawlins?”

“No, ma’am, a private detective.”

“I never met a Negro detective before.”

“We’re a rare breed,” I acknowledged. “But you know a black man has to be twice as good if he claims to be equal with a white.”

The hardscrabble woman nodded against her will. When the truth is spoken among women and men like us there had to be an amen, had to be.

“You don’t look like you could root out a radish from sandy soil,” she said, thick Mississippi in her words.

“If you’re saying that I look tired, you’re right,” I said. “I wouldn’t refuse a chair and some lemonade.”

Asking a Southern woman for plain hospitality was like winking at a leprechaun: She had to give up her pot of gold no matter what.

“Come on in then,” she said.

She unlatched the screen door, pulled it open, and, after a stutter of hesitation, moved to the side.

I entered the small and bare foyer. The floor was waxed pine and the wallpaper was light lime paper decorated with tiny cherry branches that were set in slanting lines. Timbale walked through to a slip of a room that ended, after only fifteen feet or so, at a glass door that opened up to a plant-filled terrace. It was a small veranda with room for just two iron chairs, painted white, and a low glass-topped cast-iron table.

We didn’t go outside, however. Timbale had me sit on a backless couch in the den; then she went off to see to my refreshment.

“Excuse me a minute, Mr. Rawlins,” she said as she went.

There were so many plants out on the platform that all I could see above them was the sky. Succulents, ferns, and a couple of potted pines made up most of the greenery. Plants that were simple to pot and grow.

A rattling from a distant place in the apartment caused me, for no identifiable reason, to wonder exactly what I was doing there. This inner question brought me to a memory of when I had been wounded six days after the Battle of the Bulge. A sniper had been aiming somewhere else, missed the mark, and the ricochet grazed my shoulder… .

“Here we go,” Timbale said.

She came back into the room carrying a plastic tumbler in each fist. The liquid contained in the semiopaque containers was reddish in color.

“Don’t have no fresh-squeezed lemonade,” she said. “Kool-Aid will have to do.”

She put the glass down on the TV stand next to me. I let my whole body list forward to pick up the plastic tumbler.

“What you got to do with Ray Alexander?” There was no give in her voice.

“He has retained me to help you find Evander, if that’s what you want to do.”

A spasm of anger went through her thin body. A little red sugar water sloshed out and down her knuckles.

“You really are a detective?” she asked.

I took out my wallet and showed her the license I’d procured after helping the police with a crime that they would have never solved on their own.

She read it, nodding her head angrily, and then passed the little card back.

“I was at work,” she said. It was the beginning of a story that she had gone over again and again, hoping for a different ending. “… at Proxy Nine, where I’m a nighttime security guard—”

“Proxy Nine?” I asked. “The French insurance company?”

“Yeah. Why?”

“Nothing. I mean, I got friend named Jackson Blue that works there.”

“I never heard’a him. He work days?”

“Mostly.”

“Anyway,” Timbale said, “I was at work at a little after nine o’clock and Evander called me. He always calls around then. I could tell that he was outside, because I heard traffic, and so I asked him where he was. He didn’t wanna say, but finally he told me that he had gone up to the Sunset Strip to see what all the hippies looked like and met up with these people that invited him to go to this club.”

“Which club?”

“He didn’t say.”

“Mr. Alexander said that it was a girl that asked him.”

“How he know that?”

I raised my palms and shrugged.

“It was a girl,” Timbale agreed. “He didn’t wanna tell me at first, but after I kept askin’ he said. Her name was Ruby, but she was a white girl. I told him I didn’t want him to go, but he wouldn’t listen. He’s almost twenty years old and got a job workin’ for the Tolucca Mart grocery store on Robertson. At least, he did have that job. They told me that they had to fire him when I called to see if he had been there.”

“Had he been there?”

“No. Nobody done seen him since he called that night.”

Timbale Noon had cried all her tears in an earlier life. At this late stage the best she could do was frown and shake her head over one more blow to her attempt at happiness.

“Can you find him, Mr. Rawlins?” she asked, looking up.

“I can sure look.”

The smile that crossed her lips and faded was like one of those rare flowers that blossom once a year for twenty-four hours and then wither.

Before I could ask another question the screen door flew open, followed by the clatter of feet. Two girls, a teenager and a younger one, burst into the den.

“Hi, Mom!” the younger girl exclaimed. “Did Evy call?”

“No, baby,” Timbale said.

She reached out and pulled the child onto her lap. The girl was a little too old for this, maybe nine. She was lighter in color than her mother but still a strong brown.

The adolescent girl was probably thirteen. She eyed me with some suspicion. She was already starting to have the hard visage of her mother.

Both children were clad in simple one-color dresses, red for the small one and ochre for the older. The hems on both came down below the knee. I thought they might have had different fathers, but the imprint of Timbale was strong on both of them.

“This is Mr. Rawlins, LaTonya,” Timbale said to the girl on her lap. “What do you say?”

“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Rawlins.”

“And this is Beatrix,” Timbale said, introducing me to the older girl.

“Do you have a daughter named Feather?” Beatrix asked.

“Yes, I do.”

“I thought so. She’s gonna go to Louis Pasteur with me in the fall. I saw you with her once at the Christmas choral they had at Burnside Elementary.”

“You two go on now,” Timbale said. “Me and Mr. Rawlins have to finish talking and then I’ll make you a snack.”

LaTonya bounded off. Beatrix moved away more slowly, stopping at the doorway to the foyer, where she looked hard at me again.

“Beautiful children,” I said when they were gone.

“I have made a whole lotta mistakes in my life, Mr. Rawlins, but I’ve had my share of blessings. Evander was my biggest mistake and a godsend too.”

“Does he have any good friends that might have an idea where he’s gone?”

“He’s a real bookish boy. Most’a my friends complain about their kids bein’ on the phone day and night. Beatrix does a lotta that, but Evy ain’t never on the phone.”

“Maybe the girls know about people he knows,” I suggested.

“I already talked to them about it. They said that he talked about the hippies sometimes but he never went up there.”

It would have been better for me to question the girls myself, but I could see that Timbale would not let that happen.

I took a business card from the wallet that was still on my lap and handed it to her.

“Do you have a picture of Evander?”

The working woman put her hand in the solitary pocket and pulled out a three-by-five photograph. After gazing on it for a moment she handed the picture over to me. It was the color photo of a smiling broad-faced boy wearing a graduation cap and gown. There was something familiar about that face but I thought, at the time, it was the look that Timbale had stamped on all her kids.

“Isn’t he handsome?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I took a deep breath and stood up with nary a waver.

“I’ll go up to Sunset tonight and canvass the whole boulevard.”

She winced at my vow. Maybe she worried that a dead man was only good for finding corpses.

At the door I stopped and asked her, “What’s the trouble between you and Mr. Alexander?”

“No trouble. It’s just if I ever see him I will send his narrow high-yellah ass to hell.”

People have often told me that walking downhill is harder than climbing up. That might be true, but it felt a lot easier descending the stairway from Timbale Noon’s second-floor apartment.

Before I got to the bottom I heard LaTonya laughing carelessly. I stopped for a few moments, listening to the squeals of childhood’s abandon. It seemed very far away.

Maybe it was the sugar from the Kool-Aid and not the evocation of my name but walking back to the car was easier than I expected. I jerked the handle to pull the car door open then lowered into the passenger’s seat with great concentration.

“Well?” Mouse asked.

“Why does that woman hate you, Raymond?”

“Lotsa people hate me. You think I know all their stories?”

“I think you know hers.”

“It ain’t nuthin’, Easy, and it sure don’t have to do with Little Gr—I mean Evander goin’ missin’. You gonna close that door?”

“She corroborated everything that your friend Lissa told you.”

“A carburetor?”

“She said that he went missing up on Sunset some days ago. Other than that all I got was a graduation photograph.”

“Lemme see it,” Mouse said, less a demand than a request.

I took the picture from my inside jacket pocket and passed it over.

He held it at a distance from his face great enough to show that his vision was deteriorating.

While he gazed intently at the photograph, his face gave up no inkling of what it was that he felt.

“Mind if I keep this, Easy?”

“I need it.”

“You seen it already,” he argued. “You not gonna forget.”

“When I go around lookin’ for him I’ll need to show that picture to people.”

“All right then,” he said reluctantly. “Here you go. Now shut that door and let’s get outta here.”

“I’m walking,” I said.

“Easy, we already in the car. I know you only a few blocks away but you been hurt, man.”

“If I’m gonna do this for you I have to test my limits,” I said. “Why don’t you go down to Meaty Meatburgers on Fairfax and pick us up some food. I’ll meet you at my place.”

With that, using the full strength in both arms, I lifted myself out of the car. I leaned over to peer inside and said, “I’ll see you in twenty minutes,” then levered myself into an erect stance and slammed the door.

I knew that neighborhood quite well. A block west of the intersection of Pico and Stanley there was a huge metal structure, a hollow, nine-story-high building made from metal plating that had been painted dark yellow, almost the same color as Beatrix’s dress. This was an oil well that plumbed the dark liquid out from under us.

There was no crossing light at the Stanley corner, so I walked past Spaulding down to my street, Genesee, where there was a light.

It was really only three blocks from Timbale’s front door to mine, but the fact that I didn’t know her was no surprise. Neighbors don’t necessarily know each other that well in L.A. We spend most of our time in single homes and one-person cars. In the late sixties we moved as often as fleas leaping from one dog’s head to another one’s butt. There was no walking to or from parks or local bars where neighbors might hang out. If you went somewhere it was either to work or family. And if you partied it was rarely with neighbors.

By the time I made it to the southeast side of Genesee and Pico I was sorely challenged by the exercise. I could feel the exhaustion in the veins across my chest. A bead of sweat came down the side of my head, and I was happy that the traffic light was red. I leaned against the lamppost and sighed.

“Hey, you!” somebody said.

The voice came from behind me, but I didn’t have to turn to know who it was.

I didn’t have to turn, but I did so to greet the two dark blue–clad policemen who were coming at me like twin hyenas on a wounded wildebeest.

“Officers.”

The luxury of fatigue left me. I was a soldier again and this was the enemy. The enemy doesn’t ask you if you’re too tired to stand your ground. The enemy has many wounds of his own and he hates you for every one.

“Let’s see some ID,” the one on the right said.

They were both young and white and male and had been after me as long as all three of us had lived.

I handed over my driver’s license and said, “Name’s Easy Rawlins. I live up here ’bout half a block on Genesee.”

“Have you been drinking, Easy?” the cop on the right asked. I could distinguish him by the mole on his right cheek and the ivory hue to his teeth, which he showed in a false smile.

“I have not.”

“We’re going to have to search you,” the other cop said. “Put your arms straight out to your side.”

“I thought you were asking if I was drunk?”

“You might have an open half-pint in one of your pockets.”

I did as they told me. I didn’t like it, but there was other, more pressing business on my mind.

They went through all my pockets and patted me down to the ankles. One of them, the one without the mole, had very bad halitosis. My walnut-sized stomach throbbed in anguish at the smell.

“Okay,” the mole-festooned cop said when all they found was my wallet, the graduation photograph, seventy-nine cents, and some lint. “Now we’re going to have you walk a straight line for us.”

“Hey,” a new voice proclaimed. “What you botherin’ this man fo’?”

It was a light-colored black man who worked at the auto garage on the corner. He’d been watching, I supposed.

“This is none of your business,” the unblemished cop informed the newcomer.

The mechanic was small, wearing gray overalls. He was the color of an old piece of vellum made from cow’s hide.

“He wasn’t doin’ nuthin’,” my would-be defender said. “He just walked up to the corner and rested against that pole. He ain’t drivin’ no car, so who cares if he had a drink?”

“I won’t be warning you again,” the mole-flecked cop said. He had unsheathed his baton.

“Yeah, nigger,” the partner agreed.

I was getting worried about the well-being of my good-intentioned advocate when yet another voice joined our impromptu chorus.

“What did you say?” This from a tall white man, also in gray overalls, with a big belly. “What did you call my mechanic?”

“Hey, Sammy, what’s goin’ on out there?” yet another voice chimed in.

The garage was a low, whitewashed wood building that encompassed a big open space like a hangar for a small plane. Instead of a front wall the garage had a huge gate that was rolled up when the shop was open. I’d noticed the place when driving on Pico or Genesee but never patronized them. I took my car to my old friend Primo in East L.A.

“This cop just called Bertie a nigger,” the boss man said. “Just like that. Maybe Bertie isn’t as crazy as we said.”

More men came out of the garage. Now there were nine of us standing on the corner.

“This guy was just walkin’,” the man I now knew as Bertie said. “And then this one here up and calls me a niggah.”

There were many fears registering in the white policemen’s eyes: the fear of a complaint lodged against them; the fear of a small roust escalating into a minor riot; the fear of them losing control in a situation that they were not prepared for. But most of all they were afraid of their fellow white man. I didn’t matter. Bertie didn’t matter. But if a white business owner and his white employees stood up against the cops then they were transformed from law enforcement into what they really were—hired help.

“Why’d you call him a nigger?” the boss, Sammy, asked the clear-skinned cop.

“I didn’t,” he replied, gesturing vaguely at me.

“Not him,” Sammy snapped. “Bertie.”

Cars were slowing down on the street. A couple of them had pulled to the curb.

Sammy was angry and so was Bertie. The rest of the mechanics worked for Sammy and so felt that they had to stand behind him.

I suppressed a snicker. It wasn’t so much a nervous laugh as an evil one: a chuckle spawned in the hell of my early life. Even though I couldn’t have thrown a punch, I wanted to cut loose and fight.

Luckily for all of us, the policeman’s radio started making noise. Mole Man went to the car and grabbed the microphone. He said something; something was garbled back.

“Hey, Jacob,” he said. “Emergency on Olympic, an armed robbery. We gotta go.”

And so they both jumped into the car and took off.

They didn’t even leave us with a warning.

I had the definite feeling that while I was dead, the world had changed somewhat.

Walter Mosley

Parishioner

Walter Mosley is the author of more than forty-one books, most notably eleven Easy Rawlins mysteries, the first of which, Devil in a Blue Dress, was made into an acclaimed film starring Denzel Washington. Always Outnumbered was an HBO film starring Laurence Fishburne, adapted from his first Socrates Fortlow novel. A native of Los Angeles and a graduate of Johnson State College, he lives in Brooklyn, New York. He is the winner of numerous awards, including an O. Henry Award, a Grammy, and PEN America’s Lifetime Achievement Award.

Also by Walter Mosley

Leonid McGill Mysteries

All I Did Was Shoot My Man

When the Thrill Is Gone

Known to Evil

The Long Fall

Easy Rawlins Mysteries

Blonde Faith

Cinnamon Kiss

Little Scarlet

Six Easy Pieces

Bad Boy Brawly Brown

Gone Fishin’

A Little Yellow Dog

Black Betty

White Butterfly

A Red Death

Devil in a Blue Dress

Other Fiction

Merge / Disciple: Two Short Novels from Crosstown to Oblivion

The Gift of Fire/On the Head of a Pin

The Last Days of Ptolemy Grey

The Tempest Tales

The Right Mistake

Diablerie Killing Johnny Fry

Fear of the Dark

Fortunate Son

The Wave

47

The Man in My Basement

Fear Itself

Futureland: Nine Stories of an Imminent World

Fearless Jones

Walkin’ the Dog

Blue Light

Always Outnumbered, Always Outgunned

RL’s Dream

Nonfiction

12 Steps Toward Political Revelation

This Year You Write Your Novel

Life Out of Context

What Next: A Memoir Toward World Peace

Workin’ on the Chain Gang

Plays

The Fall of Heaven

ALSO BY

WALTER MOSLEY

The legendary Easy Rawlins returns from the brink of death to investigate the dark side of L.A.’s 1960s hippie haven, the Sunset Strip.

We last saw Easy Rawlins in 2007’s Blonde Faith, fighting for his life after his car plunged over a cliff. The tough WWII veteran survives and, in Walter Mosley’s new mystery thriller Little Green, his murderous sidekick Mouse has him back cruising the mean streets of L.A., in all their groovy 1967 psychedelic glory, to look for a young black man who disappeared during an acid trip. But peace and love soon give way to murder and mayhem, and once again Easy shows us why he’s still king of the City of (Fallen) Angels.