She looked at the Taurus and her next smile was ripe with sympathy. Another L.A. loser. “Well, if you ever do Variety, remember this name: Chataqua Dale.”

Milo repeated it. “Nice. But so is Val.”

A cloud of doubt washed over the blue eyes. “You really think so? ’Cause I was wondering if Chataqua was maybe, you know, over the top.”

“No,” said Milo. “It’s great.”

“Thanks.” She touched his arm, let the cigarette drop to the pavement, ground out the butt, got a dreamy look in her eyes. Audition fever. “Well, gotta go.”

“Thanks for your time,” said Milo, reaching into his pocket and slipping her another twenty.

“You are soooo nice,” she said.

“Not usually.”

“Oh, I bet you are—let me ask you, you meet people, right? Know any decent agents? ’Cause mine is an asshole.”

“Only agents of destruction,” he said.

Puzzlement lent the beautiful young face temporary complexity. Then her actor’s instincts cut in: Still not comprehending, but recognizing a cue, she smiled and touched his arm again. “Right. See you around.”

“Bye,” said Milo. “By the way, what does Brad do?”

“Walks around with them,” she said.

“A walking-around guy.”

“You got it—they all need them.”

“Hollywood types?”

“Rich types with gross bodies.”

“Know Brad’s last name?”

“Larner. Brad Larner. He’s kind of a jerk.”

“How so?”

“He’s just a jerk,” said Val. “Not friendly, never smiles, never tips. A jerk.”

He drove the two blocks to Santa Monica Boulevard, made a right turn, and circled back to Melrose, this time approaching the corner from the east and parking just up from the shuttered Chinese place. The rest of the boulevard was taken up by art galleries, all closed, and the street was dark and quiet. He got out, stepped over the Chinese place’s heavy chain, and walked across a lot starting to sprout weeds through the cracks and dotted with mounds of dry dog shit. Finding himself a nice little vantage point behind one of the dead restaurant’s gateposts, he waited, taking in the Chinese place’s grimness up close—black paint flaking, bamboo shredding.

Another dream rent asunder; he liked that.

Nowhere to sit, so he continued to stand there, well concealed, watching nothing happen at Sangre de Leon for a long time. His knees and back began to hurt, and stretching and squatting seemed to make matters worse. Last Christmas, Rick had bought a treadmill for the spare bedroom, used it religiously every morning at five. Last month, he’d suggested that Milo give regular exercise a try. Milo hadn’t argued, but neither had he complied. He was no good in the morning, usually pretended to be asleep when Rick left for the ER.

He checked his Timex. The Cossacks and Brad “the jerk” Larner had been inside for over an hour, and no other patrons had materialized.