At 9:15 he left his room again, crossed the street to the twenty-four-hour gas station, and shut himself into a public phone booth with a bifold door. He put a couple of coins in the slot and dialed Jon Corso’s number. On the street a car slowed, turned in, and stopped in front of the pumps. Walker lowered his head, obscuring his face. He was behaving like a fugitive.

After four rings Jon picked up, sounding brusque. He was probably working on a new book, irritated at the interruption. “Hello?”

“We need to talk.”

There was a pause of four seconds. “About what?”

“I’d rather not say on the phone.”

“And why is that?”

“Shit, Jon. You’re the one who’s paranoid. I’m taking my cue from you.”

“Where are you?”

“At the gas station across the street from the bank. I’m using a pay phone.”

“I’ll pick you up in half an hour,” Jon said, and hung up.

Walker checked his watch, unsure what to do with himself until Jon arrived. He went into the minimart adjacent to the service bays, which were dark now. The place was empty except for a clerk who sat at the register reading a comic book. Walker ambled up and down the aisles, looking at the gaudy array of potato chips, Fritos, Cheetos, tortilla chips, sun-baked chips, and pretzels, along with nasty-looking jars of salsa and a cheese product as viscous as glue. Crackers, cookies, candy bars, Twinkies, packaged cupcakes covered in coconut. The refrigerated coolers were stocked with cheap beer, canned and bottled sodas, and a row of jug wines. He came to an ordered row of sandwiches and read the labels. Tuna salad, ham and cheese, a bologna with mayonnaise on wheat bread. He selected a bologna sandwich, which he hadn’t eaten in years. At the counter he added four candy bars and paid for the lot. The clerk put everything in a bag for him, which he tucked under his arm. He went outside again and crossed to the half-wall at the far end of the paved area. He sat down, wishing he’d bought a soft drink, but too lazy to go back.

He opened the sandwich and took a bite. He chewed slowly, savoring the mild flavor of bologna, the sweet tang of mayonnaise. Montebello Bank and Trust was just across the street. He could see a light on, a low-tech burglar deterrent. Traffic was scanty, though he was certain that farther up the block, where bars and restaurants were clustered, the valet car parkers would be hustling back and forth.

Jon’s black Jaguar finally tooled into sight at a leisurely speed. Walker was guessing he’d bypassed the freeway, opting to drive along the beach. It would be like him to take his time, leaving Walker to loiter on the corner like a bum. Jon pulled over and Walker opened the door on the passenger side, sliding into the seat.