“C'mon,” he said, loud enough for me to hear.

He headed west rather than back toward Beverly Hills, saying, “Well, that was a big goddamn zero.”

“None of them had anything to say?”

“The consensus, for what it's worth, is that Lyle Gritz hasn't been seen for a week or two and that it's no big deal, he drifts in and out. He did, indeed, mouth off a bit about getting rich before he split, but they've all heard that before.”

“The next Elvis.”

He nodded. “Music fantasies, not fish murder. I pressed for details and one of them claimed to have seen him get into someone's car a week or so ago—across the street, over at the cement yard. But that same person seemed rather addled and had absolutely no clue as to make, model, color, or any other distinguishing details. And I'm not sure he didn't just say it because I was pushing. I'll see if Gritz's name shows up on any recent arrest files. You can ask Jeffers if he was ever a patient at the center. If he was, maybe you can get her to point you in any direction he may have gone. But even if we do find him, I'm not convinced it means a damn thing. Now you up for a little rest-stop? I'm still smelling that hellhole.”

He drove to a cocktail lounge on Wilshire, in the drab part of Santa Monica. Neon highball glass above a quilted door. I'd never been there, but the way he pulled into the parking lot told me he knew it well.

Inside, the place wasn't much brighter than the overpass. We washed our hands in the men's room and took stools at the bar. The decor was red vinyl and nicotine. The resident rummies seemed to be elderly and listless. A few looked dead asleep. The jukebox helped things along with low-volume Vic Damone.

Milo scooped up a handful of bar nuts and fed his face. Ordered a double Chivas and didn't comment when I asked for a Coke.

“Where's the phone?” I said.

He pointed to a corner.

I called Robin. “How's it going?”

“Not bad,” she said. “The other man in my life and I are cuddled up watching a sitcom.”

“Funny?”

“I don't think so, and he's not laughing—just drooling. Any progress?”

“Not really, but we did give away lots of food.”

“Well,” she said, “good deeds don't hurt. Coming home?”

“Milo wanted to stop for a drink. Depending on his mood, I may need to drive him home. Go ahead and eat without us.”

“Okay. . . . I'll leave a light in the window and a bone in your dish.”

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER

16

Though Milo seemed coherent by the time we reached Benedict Canyon, I suggested he sack out in one of the bedrooms, and he agreed without protest. When I awoke Saturday morning at seven, he was gone and the bed he'd slept in was in perfect order.