He saw me, unlocked the car.

The interior reeked of sweat, tobacco, and pork. Three cartons of short ribs gnawed to the bone shared the backseat with a tub specked with fried rice, a collection of little plastic cups emptied of sweet-and-sour sauce, grease-spotted napkins, used Wash’n Dris, a pair of broken chopsticks. Three Red Bull cans had been crushed to disks. In Milo’s lap was a tartan-patterned thermos.

His face and body fused into a single dark mass. As my eyes adjusted, I saw that he’d changed into black velour sweats, a nylon shoulder holster housing his 9mm, and new-looking Keds.

“Spiffy.”

He removed the earpieces from his iPod, clicked the machine off. “You say something?”

“Just hi.”

“I’d offer you some grub, but.”

“I ate.”

“Another high-tax-bracket salad?”

“We cooked.”

“Man of the people.”

“What were you listening to?”

“Stereotype to the contrary, not Judy or Bette or Liza or Barbra. Guess.”

“Doo-wop.”

“Beethoven. Eroica.”

“What a classy guy,” I said.

“Rick’s iPod. I took it by accident.”

We sat for an hour. Hollywood Patrol called in. No sign of Wilson Good.

By one thirty a.m., the tedium of surveillance started to hit me. I figured I’d give it another hour, return home to crash, get my time zones back in order.

Milo said, “Long as you’re here. Punch me if anything happens.” Pushing the bucket seat as far back as it would go, he lowered his head to the seat back. Twenty minutes later, he awoke with a frighteningly guttural start and wild eyes. “What time is it?”

“Ten to two.”

“Wanna nap yourself?”

“No, thanks.”

“Wanna split?”

“Maybe in a while.”

“Tedious. Told you so,” he said. “Nighty-night.”

“Must be nice to be right once in a while,” I said. “Emphasis on once.”

“My oh my, sleep deprivation brings out the vicious side — ” Something to his left made him turn sharply.

I followed his glance, saw nothing. Then the front door to Tony Mancusi’s building opened. As if Milo had smelled it.

A man stepped out to the street. Slumped, pudgy, shuffling gait.

Tony Mancusi walked south to his Toyota, got in, and drove toward Sunset.

Milo cranked down the driver’s window and watched. Most of my view was obstructed by parked cars but I could see the twin dots of taillights twenty yards up.

Mancusi covered a block and rolled through a stop sign.

“First violation,” said Milo, starting up his engine. “Hopefully, there’ll be others.”

The Toyota headed west on Sunset, passing Western Pediatric Medical Center and continuing through Hospital Row. At that hour, the boulevard was deserted until Vine, where the nightscape was peppered with drifters, addicts, minimum-wage workers waiting for buses.