"Plants breathe carbon dioxide," said Milo.

"They do? Well, ants ain't plants." Laughter. "My sister had an ant problem in her basement and I stuck in a piece of D.I. block, taped off everywhere, couple days later millions of dead ants all over, she had to vacuum them, it was gross. So what did the dude do?"

"We're not sure. Do you still have the bills he paid you with?"

"Nope. Armored car came yesterday, collected everything from the register and the safe."

"Can you describe this guy a little more?"

"Mexican, like I said. Like thirty, forty. Little guy."

"Facial hair?"

"Like a beard? Nope, clean."

"What makes you think he was one of the day laborers?"

"He was wearing those white painter's pants." Nodding in appreciation of his own insight. The eyebrow rings jangled.

"Remember his shirt?"

"Um, let's see... T-shirt, like too big for him... um--oh, yeah, white, from a college, UC something... had a weird-looking animal on it, like a big rat with a long tongue."

"Oversized," said Milo. "Like a gangbanger might wear?"

"Dude was no gangbanger. No tats, no attitude, just a confused little dude in painter's pants. I figured he wanted the D.I. for a job. Killing ants or something."

"Wearing a college shirt but not a college guy."

The kid laughed. "Dude's waiting for day labor he probably didn't even get a GED."

As we left, I said, "The UC Irvine mascot is an anteater."

"And here I was thinking skunks were finally getting some respect."

We walked the two blocks to the paint store. Lots of boarded-up businesses punctuated the journey, with others on the brink. Five day laborers idled by the curb, looking bored and defeated. When times are bad, the trickle-down switches to misery.

All five men wore baggy white painter's pants, two had on white tees. One shirt was printed with the Disneyland logo, the other was paint-specked but blank. The first man who spotted us tried to walk away. Milo bellowed: "Stop."

When that didn't work: "Policia, no La Migra."

He talked to each worker, using LAPD Spanish and a relatively soft, detached approach. No one admitted to buying dry ice. Most of the men claimed not to know what it was.

One guy's eyes moved a lot and Milo asked for his I.D. first. Close to fifty, tall, thin, balding, droopy mustache. A California driver's license was handed over with shaking hands. Milo's request for backup paper brought a shrug. Handing the man his business card, he said, "Amigo, you help me, I help you."

Downcast eyes.

"Anything you wanna tell me now about a guy wears a UC Irvine shirt?"

"No, boss."

Milo pointed to the card. "See that? Lieutenant. That means big boss--gran patron. Muy importante."

"Okay."

"Okay what?"

"You gran patron."