“Miles Diamond. I work with him a lot, pass stuff his way. He’s watching Maxwell’s. They haven’t been hit yet, but they’re just the kind of place these guys like. High-end stuff, Italian suits, right on the street, big window that goes right down to the sidewalk. Perfect.”

“Miles Diamond,” I said. “Now, there’s a name for a detective.”

“It helps make up for the fact he’s this little bald white dude. He’s good on surveillance, ’cause you can hardly see him behind the steering wheel.”

“You meet him when you were on the force?”

“Miles is too little to ever make it as a cop. He’s always been private. And he’s got this gorgeous wife, she must be five-ten, spectacularly engineered. Saw them out dancing one time, he’s got his head nestled in between them there, looking very contented. Not my kind of thing, but hey, he’s happy.”

“So, if it’s quiet at Maxwell’s, maybe our guys are going to hit here tonight?” I suggested, ever hopeful. This wasn’t going to be much of a feature on the life of a private detective if all we ever did was shoot the breeze in a rusted-out Buick.

“I should’ve got a coffee,” I added. “Tomorrow night, we get coffee.”

“Just makes you piss,” Lawrence said.

I made a few notes in my reporter’s notebook, some color, how the street looked so late at night. Hardly any cars passing by—

“Hold on,” said Lawrence. “Big black pickup ahead.”

I looked up from my notes. It was one of those Dodge Durangos, with that front grill as big as a barn door. But it didn’t slow as it passed Brentwood’s, and there was no one inside but the driver.

“Stand down,” Lawrence said.

We were quiet for a while. When I felt it was time to attempt a bit of conversation, I said, “What do you do for anxiety?”

“Anxiety?”

“Yeah. You’ve got a stressful job, things to worry about, you make a living tracking down not-very-nice people. So how do you deal with that?”

Lawrence thought for a moment. “Jazz,” he said.

“Jazz?”

“I go home, I put some Oscar Peterson, some Nina Simone, maybe some Billie Holiday or Erroll Garner on the stereo. Sit and listen to it.”

“Jazz,” I said. “So you don’t actually take anything. You listen to music.”

“You’re not paying attention. Not just music. Jazz. And no, I don’t take anything. What the fuck would I take?”

I felt on the defensive. “I don’t know. Xanax? Herbal remedies?”

Lawrence smiled. “Yeah, herbal remedies. That’s me.” He glanced at his watch. “Time to check in.”