Santostefano cracked up.

Milo said, "Any way you can keep him in for a while?"

"What's a while?"

"Until I call you and let you know his info's good."

"Well," said Santostefano, "I got no personal problem with that but it's a jail issue. Who's on shift there?"

"Officer Bostic."

"Shirronne's okay, I can maybe get her to lose paper for another few hours. Beyond that, I can't promise."

Milo thanked him.

"Hey," said Santostefano. "Who knows, maybe one day I'll need you."

"Not for fashion advice."

The building besmirched a corner lot on the south side of Venice just west of Sepulveda. Two gloomy stories of cracked, gray stucco were rust-striped like a tabby cat. Waist-high chain link boxed in a yard coated with powdery brown dust. Cans and bottles and trash bags had been kicked into a corner. Errant flecks of garbage dotted the dirt near the doorway.

During the quarter hour we watched the premises, two Hispanic males left and three others entered, the third swaggering arm in arm with a chubby, heavily made-up woman wearing a floral micro-dress.

Gilberto Chavez, aspiring housepainter, didn't show up in DMV, AutoTrack, or any other database, making the surveillance guesswork.

Milo watched another man enter. "Could be any one of them." A few more minutes passed, then: "Might as well."

Unit Five was at the rear of the ground floor. A bumper sticker issued by a Spanish A.M. station was glued diagonally across the door.

Milo put one hand near his Glock and knocked three times.

The door opened and the sweet, vegetative aroma of marijuana blew out.

The man who blinked at us in surprise was small--five four, tops, with thick black hair that shrouded his forehead and grazed the top of bushy eyebrows. The eyes below were brown meatballs floating in hot-pink soup. His mouth hung open, showcasing half the teeth he'd grown by six.

He was dressed for stoner comfort in loose, grubby pale blue sweatpant shorts and a T-shirt. The tee was white, three sizes too big, emblazoned with the UC Irvine logo in gold lettering and an anteater of matching hue. The animal was caricatured in profile, extravagantly snouted, hipster-slouching in a way that evoked Robert Crumb.

Milo said, "Gilberto Chavez?"

The man blinked. "Ah... no."

"On the contrary, ah yes."

Chavez tried to close the door. Milo had him spun around, cuffed, patted, and trundling toward the curb before Chavez got out another denial. One of the sweatpant pockets gave up Mexican I.D., a tin of organic rolling papers, and a Baggie of clean-looking marijuana.

"No Gilberto," he insisted.

"That Juarez driver's license sure looks like you."

"No Gilberto."

"Gimme a break," said Milo.

"Okay."

Milo stared down at his diminutive quarry. "Okay, what?"

"I Gilberto."

"So glad we've reached a consensus."

"No my weed."