Creighton said, "Don't make me ask you again."

Milo said, "Can I check first to see if I've got rope in my car?"

"Rope? For--"

"So you can tie one of my legs back so I can't walk without falling on my ass, then you can bind both of my arms to my side and oh yeah, maybe I've got some rags in the trunk so you can gag me if God forbid I should talk to a goddamn witness without seeking permission, then you can use some other rags for the blindfold so I walk into fucking walls. After that's done, Stanley, you can tell me how to do the job."

Creighton's neck veins bulged. His fists were the size of cabbage heads.

Rapid pulse in the veins. Audible breathing.

Suddenly he laughed, forced himself into a relaxed posture. "Oh, man, you are really fucking up the job."

"I can only fuck up the job if I've got a job."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"What do you think it means, Stan?"

Creighton snickered. "Right, like you'd quit."

"Like I do, Stan," said Milo, tossing his badge to the ground. "Life's too short, send my regards to the Emperor. If the brain-dead battalion surrounding him grants you access."

Turning heel, he marched away. I followed, catching my breath.

Creighton said, "Yeah, right."

Neither of us spoke until he drove away. Keeping a light touch on the gas. Humming a weird minor-key tune--maybe some old Druid chant buried in his Celtic consciousness.

"Did I mean it? Hell, yes. Or no. Or maybe. Goddammit. Will I regret it? Probably. Okay, let's find Martin Mendoza."

"Off the job but on the job," I said.

"As an independent citizen."

"How're you going to approach him?"

"With my usual tact and sensitivity."

"I meant under what authority?"

"Hmm," he said. "How about power to the people?"

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER
21

L.A. County hosts scores of golf courses but exclusive enclaves for the big-rich number less than a dozen.

Milo began with the Westside, used his suddenly defunct rank to get through to human resource directors. Success on the third try: Emilio Mendoza was a waiter at Mountain Crest Country Club.

I'd been there a few years ago, as the lunch guest of a psychiatric entrepreneur wooing me to direct a nonprofit home for wayward children. Amiable meal, but the devil had messed up the details and I'd declined, despite a great steak. Soon after, the home closed down in a corruption scandal.

The club occupied lovely, rolling bluffs where Pacific Palisades abuts Malibu. By the sixth hole, ocean views distract. Stout fees and extensive vetting limit the membership to people of a certain type. That day at lunch the only dark faces had been those of the staff; I wondered if Emilio Mendoza had been the one to place a platter-sized rib eye before me as if it were a sacrament.