“Oh, yes,” said Selma Block. “You’re too young, but we remember the way it used to be.”

“The way it used to be when?”

“The old days. Those House UnAmerican fascists. That louse McCarthy.”

Refusing the invitation to stay for tea and cookies, he extricated himself from Mrs. Block and drove around aimlessly, trying to figure out his next move.

Playa del Sol. Alex was right, it did have that real estate ring, so maybe the Cossacks did have their hand in this—assisted by LAPD.

The fix. Again.

Early on, he’d looked up Cossack Development’s address, found it on Wilshire in Mid-City, but he hadn’t retained the numbers in his head—those days were gone—so he called Information and fixed the placement between Fairfax and La Brea.

The sky was dark and traffic had started to thin and he made it over in less than a quarter hour.

The Cossack brothers had headquartered themselves in a three-story pink granite, ziggurat-dominated complex that occupied a full city block just east of the County Art Museum. Years ago, this had been junk real estate—the fringes of the pathetically misnamed Miracle Mile. Back in the forties, The Mile’s construction had been an historic first: a commercial strip with feeble street appeal but entry through the rear parking lots—yet another symptom of L.A.’s postwar infatuation with The Car. Twenty years later, westward flight had left the central city area a sump of poorly maintained buildings and low-rent businesses, and the only miracle was that any part of The Mile survived.

Now, the current cycle: urban renewal. County Art—not much in the way of a museum, but the courtyard did offer free concerts and L.A. didn’t expect much—had spawned other museums—tributes to dolls, folk art, and most effectively, The Car. Big, glossy office structures had followed. If the Cossacks had gotten in early and owned the land under the pink granite thing, they’d made out well.

He parked on a side street, climbed wide, slick granite steps past a huge, shallow black pool filled with still water and dotted with pennies, and entered the lobby. Guard desk to the right, but no guard. Half the lights were off and the cavernous space echoed. The complex was divided into east and west wings. Most of the tenants were financial and showbiz outfits. Cossack Industries took up the third floor of the east wing.

He rode the elevator, stepped into an unfurnished, white-carpeted, white-walled space. One big abstract lithograph greeted him—yellow and white and amorphous, maybe some genius’s notion of a soft-boiled egg—then, to the left, double, white doors. Locked. No sound from the other side.

The elevator door closed behind him. Turning, he stabbed the button and waited for it to return.