The house had a cement lawn and no fence. A couple of scraggly palms brushing the front façade were the only concessions to green. The driveway was twenty feet of cracked slab, barely long enough for a single vehicle, and it ended at the house’s left side. No backyard. The bungalow sat on a fractional lot—a sliver that had escaped tear-down and development—and behind the tiny house, on the rear-neighboring property, loomed a four-story apartment complex.

The glamour of Hollywood.

Milo returned to the Dodge and drove twenty feet past the bungalow. Plenty of parked cars, here, but he managed to find a spot between a van and a pickup that afforded him a clean, diagonal view. Bosc’s gym-bar-shopping excursion had taken up most of the afternoon, and the sun was beginning to drop. Milo sat there, his 9mm resting on his hip, the weapon substantial and cool and comforting, and he felt better than he had in a long time.

Maybe Bosc was in for the evening, because by 5 P.M. he hadn’t shown himself, and lights had gone on in the white bungalow’s front rooms. Lacy curtains obscured the details, but the fabric was sheer enough for Milo to make out flashes of movement.

Bosc shifting from room to room. Then, at nine, a window on the right side of the house went cathode-blue. TV.

Quiet night for Master Thespian.

Milo climbed out of the Polaris, stretched the stiffness from his joints, made his way across the street.

He rang the bell, and Bosc didn’t even bother to shout out a “Who’s there?” just opened it wide.

The actor had changed into khaki shorts and a tight black T-shirt that hugged his actorly physique. One hand gripped a bottle of Coors Light. The other held a cigarette.

Casual, loose, eyes bloodshot and droopy. Until Milo’s face registered and Bosc’s well-formed mouth dropped open.

The actor didn’t react to the roust like an actor would—like any kind of civilian would. His legs spread slightly and he planted his feet, the beer bottle jabbed at Milo’s chin and the cigarette’s glowing tip headed for Milo’s eyes.

Split-second reaction. Tight, little martial arts ballet.

Milo was mildly surprised, but he’d come ready for anything and retracted his head. The vicious kick he aimed at Bosc’s groin landed true, as did the chop to the back of Bosc’s neck, and the guy went down, putting an end to any debate.