“Yeah, I see you. You look like you’re ready for Iraq.”

“I’m just a cautious guy.”

“Either you’re a real dumb ass or I’m a real dumb ass.”

“How about if none of us are dumb asses and you let Mr. Lard Ass out.”

“Your hands aren’t up.”

Decker wedged the cell between his cheek and his shoulder. Then he raised both hands in the air. “Okay?”

Rudy didn’t answer.

“Hello?”

“I’m still fucking here…as long as the fucking phone company allows my nighttime minutes.”

The two of them went on for a few more minutes. Decker’s arms began to ache. “I’ve got to put my arms down, Rudy. I’m going to move very slowly. Don’t get any bad ideas.” Bit by bit, he lowered his limbs until they were at his side. His feet were cold and tired, but he soldiered on. “See? I’m still harmless and still talking to you. Open communication. How about letting Lard Ass go?”

“How about not?”

They continued to talk for another hour. Decker’s patience was rewarded when Cecil Dobbins came out huffing and puffing, holding his injured arm. Immediately the paramedics went to work.

Decker said, “That was really smart, Rudy. Really, really smart. Do you mind if I back away?”

“Afraid I might get Itchy Finger?”

“The thought occurred to me.”

“Why do I need you? I’ve got three in here for target practice.” As Decker started to back away, Banks said, “Stay where you are.”

Decker stopped abruptly. His feet were like two blocks of ice. It had been hot in the Valley, but the beach was always ten to twenty degrees cooler in the summer. His shoulders were throbbing, brought on by the extra weight of the vest, the tension in his muscles, and the chilled saline spray carried over by the ocean breezes.

Rudy said, “I like seeing you.”

Decker said, “Fine. I won’t move. I just want to shift positions. My balance is off.”

“Move slowly. If you make a wrong move, you’re dead.”

“I hear you.” Decker rocked on his feet until he evened his weight distribution. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

Decker couldn’t believe the bastard had actually said something nice. Rapport, rapport. “So what’s going on?”

“You fucking tell me.”

“I wish I knew all the facts. You asked to talk to me, I’m here. You tell me to stand in the middle of the lawn, I do it. You’re in control right now.”

“Fucking A right about that. You tell Hollywood Police that I had nothing to do with that bastard’s death. I’m glad that he died, but I didn’t kill him.”

“Not to be dim-witted, but are you talking about Primo Ekerling?”