No additional diners materialized during the thirty-seven minutes Milo sat there. When one of the untipped valets looked at her watch, stepped out to the sidewalk, and lit up a cigarette, he got out of the Taurus and loped across the street.

The girl was a gorgeous, little red-haired thing with blue-blue eyes so vivid the color made its way through the night. Maybe twenty. She noticed Milo approaching, kept smoking. The cigarette was wrapped in black paper and had a gold tip. Shermans? Did they still make those?

She looked up when he was three feet away and smiled through the cloud of nicotine that swirled in the warm night air.

Smiling because Milo had his latest bribe visible. Two twenties folded between his index and tall fingers, backed by a freelance journalist cover story. Forty bucks was double what he’d paid the Pakistani POB clerk but the valet—her tag said Val—was a helluva lot cuter than the clerk. And as it turned out, a lot easier to deal with.

Ten minutes later he was back in the Taurus, cruising past the Town Car. Mt. Chauffeur was snoozing with his mouth open. A shaved-head Latino guy. The redhead had supplied Mini-Spec’s ID.

“Oh, that’s Brad. He works with Mr. Cossack and his brother.”

“Mister Cossack?”

“Mr. Garvey Cossack. And his brother.” Blue-eyed glance back at the restaurant. “He co-owns this place, along with . . .” A string of celebrity names followed. Milo pretended to be impressed.

“Must be a jumping place.”

“It was when it opened.”

“No more, huh?”

“You know,” she said, rolling her eyes.

“How’s the food?”

The parking cutie smiled and smoked and shook her head. “How would I know? It’s like a hundred bucks a plate. Maybe when I get my first big part.”

Her laugh was derisive. She added: “Maybe when pigs fly.” So young, so cynical.

“Hollywood,” said Milo.

“Yeah.” Val looked back again. All the other girls were loafing, and a few were smoking. Probably keeping their weight down, thought Milo. Any of them could’ve modeled.

Val lowered her voice to a whisper: “Tell the truth, I hear the food sucks.”

“The name can’t help. Lion’s Blood.”

“Ick. Isn’t that gross?”

“What kind of cuisine is it?”

“Ethiopian, I think. Or something African. Maybe also Latino, I dunno—Cuban, maybe? Sometimes they’ve got a band and from out here it sounds kind of Cuban.” Her hips pistoned, and she snapped her fingers. “I hear it’s on its way out.”

“Cuban music?”

“No, silly. This place.”

“Time for a new job?” said Milo.

“No prob, there’s always bar mitzvahs.” Stubbing out her cigarette, she said, “You don’t happen to ever work for Variety, do you? Or The Hollywood Reporter?”

“Mostly I do wire service stuff.”

“Someone’s interested in the restaurant?”

Milo shrugged. “I drive around. You’ve got to dig if you wanna find oil.”