"The system is bullshit. People aren't machines. Places like Quentin and Pelican Bay, there's all kinds of trouble. Either you cage them completely or they do whatever the hell they please." He began paging through the phone directory. "Okay, let's find some rental outfits, play cinema sleuth."

Most of the film equipment companies were in Hollywood and Burbank, the rest scattered around the Valley and Culver City.

"Hollywood first," he said. "Where else?"

It was just after three P.M. when I followed Milo's unmarked 135 onto the 405 and over to the 101. We got off at Sunset. Traffic was mean.

The Hollywood outfits were in warehouse buildings and large storefronts on the west end of the district, between Fairfax and Gower. A concentration on Santa Monica Boulevard allowed us to park and cover half a dozen businesses quickly. The mention of Thin Line Productions and Blood Walk evoked baffled stares from the rental clerks, most of whom looked like thrash-metal band castoffs.

On the seventh try, at a place on Wilcox called Flick Stuff, a bony, simian-looking young man with a massive black hair extension and a pierced lip slouched behind a nipple-high counter. Massively unimpressed by Milo's badge. Maybe twenty-one; too young for that level of world-weariness. Behind him were double doors with an EMPLOYEES ONLY sign. In the background, a female vocalist shouted over power chords. Joan Jett or someone trying to be her. Big Hair wore a tight black T-shirt and red jeans. A slogan on the shut: "No Sex Unless It Leads to Dancing" His arms were white and hairless, more vein than muscle. Lumpy fibroid dope scars in the crooks said he'd probably had police experience.

Milo said, "Were you working here twenty months ago, sir?"

"Sir" made the kid smirk. "Off and on." He managed to slouch lower.

Price lists were tacked to the surrounding walls. Day rates for sandbags, Western dollies, sidewalls, Magliners, wardrobe racks, Cardellini lamps, Greenscreens. Surprisingly cheap; a snow machine could be had for fifty-five bucks.

"Remember renting to an outfit called Thin Line Productions?"

I expected a yawn, but Big Hair said, "Maybe."

Milo waited.

"Sounds familiar. Yeah, maybe. Yeah."

"Could you check your files, please?"

"Yeah, hold on." Hair opened the double doors and disappeared, returned waving an index card, looking ready to spit. "Yeah, now I remember them."

"Problems?" said Milo.

"Big problems." Hair wiped his hands on the black T-shirt. The grubby steel ring through his upper lip robbed his expression of some of the injured dignity he was trying to project.

"What'd they do?" said Milo.

"Stiffed us fourteen grand worth."

I said, "That's a lot of equipment."