Private Eyes

31

Melissa came back to the five-sided room looking a long way from grown up. Her shoulders were stooped, her gait had slowed, and she dabbed at her mouth with a piece of toilet paper. I gave her the lawyer’s number and she thanked me in a very soft voice.

“Want me to call for you?”

“No, thanks. I’ll do it. Tomorrow.”

I sat her down behind the desk. She gazed out blankly in Milo’s direction and gave a weak smile.

Milo smiled back and looked at his soda can. I wasn’t sure for whom I felt sorrier.

Melissa sighed and put her hand under her jaw.

I said, “How’re you doing, hon?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “This is all so- I feel like I’m just being- Like I’ve got no… I don’t know.”

I touched her shoulder.

She said, “Who am I fooling- fighting them? I’m a nothing. Who’s going to listen to me?”

I said, “It’ll be your lawyer’s job to fight. Right now you should be concentrating on taking care of yourself.”

After a long time she said, “I guess.”

Another stretch of silence, then: “I’m really alone.”

“Lots of people around here care for you, Melissa.”

Milo was looking at the floor.

“I’m really alone,” she said again, with an eerie wonderment. As if she’d run a maze in record time, only to find it led to an abyss.

“I’m tired,” she said. “I think I’ll sleep.”

“Would you like me to stay with you?”

“I want to sleep with someone. I don’t want to be alone.”

Milo put the can down on the table and left the room.

I remained with Melissa, saying comforting things that didn’t seem to have much of an effect.

Milo returned with Madeleine. The big woman was breathing hard and looked agitated, but by the time she reached Melissa’s side, her expression had turned tender. She hovered over Melissa and stroked her hair. Melissa swooned a bit, as if she’d been embraced. Madeleine leaned lower and hugged her to her bosom.

“I sleep with you, chÉrie. Come, we go now.”

In the car, driving away from the house, Milo said, “Okay, I’m a child-abusing asshole.”

“So you don’t think her falling apart was an act?”

He braked hard at the foot of the drive and whipped his head toward me. “What the hell was that, Alex? Twisting the goddam knife?”

His teeth were bared. The spotlight above the pine gates yellowed them.

“No,” I said, feeling fear of him for the first time in all the years I’d known him. Feeling like a suspect. “No, I’m serious. Couldn’t she have been faking it?”

“Yeah, right. You’re telling me you think she’s a psychopath?” Shouting now, one big hand pounding the steering wheel.

“I don’t know what to think!” I said, matching his volume. “You keep throwing theories at me out of left field!”

“Thought that was the idea!”

“The idea was to help!”

He shoved his face forward, as if it were a weapon. Glared, then sagged against the seat and ran his hands through his hair. “Shit, this is a pretty scene.”

“Must be sleep deprivation,” I said, feeling shaky.

“Must be… Change your mind about sacking out?”

“Hell, no.”

He laughed. “Me, neither… Sorry for getting on you.”

“Sorry, too. How about we just forget it.”

He put his hands back on the wheel and resumed driving. Slowly, with exquisite caution. Dropping speed at every intersection, even when there was no stop sign. Looking from side to side and in all the mirrors, though the streets were empty.

At Cathcart he said, “Alex, I’m not cut out for this private stuff. Too unstructured- too many blurred boundaries. I’ve been telling myself that I’m different, but it’s bullshit. I’m straight-ahead paramilitary, like everyone else in the department. Need an us-versus-them world.”

“Who’s us?”

“The blue meanies. I like being mean.”

I thought of the world he’d contended with for so many years. The one he’d be contending with again, in just a few months: being relegated to them by other policemen, no matter how many thems he put away.

I said, “You didn’t do anything out of line. I was reacting from my gut- as her protector. It would have been negligent for you not to consider her as a suspect. It would be negligent not to continue considering her if that’s where the facts lead.”

“The facts,” he said. “We don’t got us too many of those…”

He seemed about to say more, but the freeway on-ramp appeared and he clamped his mouth shut and gave the Porsche gas. Traffic toward downtown was light, but it created enough of a roar to substitute for conversation.

We reached the Eternal Hope Mission shortly after ten and parked halfway down the block. The air smelled of ripening garbage and sweet wine and fresh asphalt, with a curious overlay of flowers that seemed to travel on a westerly breeze- as if the better parts of town had air-mailed a whiff of better homes and gardens.

The front facade of the mission was swimming in artificial light. That, and the moonglow, turned the aqua plaster icy-white. Five or six shabby men were congregated near the entrance, listening or pretending to listen to two men in business clothes.

As we got closer I saw that the talkers were in their thirties. One was tall and thin and fair with waxy-looking blond hair cut frat-boy short and an oddly dark mustache that hooked down at right angles to his mouth and resembled a fuzzy croquet wicket. He wore silver-rimmed eyeglasses, a gray summer-weight suit, and mocha-colored zip boots. The arms of the suit were a trifle too short. His wrists were huge. A note pad, identical to the ones Milo used, was in one hand, along with a soft-pack of Winstons.

The second man was short, stocky, and dark, clean-shaven and baby-faced. He had a Ritchie Valens pompadour, narrow eyes with lips to match, wore a blue blazer and gray slacks. He was the one doing most of the talking.

The two men stood in profile, neither of them seeing us.

Milo walked up to the taller one and said, “Brad.”

The man turned and stared. A few of the shabby men followed the stare. The darker man stopped talking, checked out his partner, then Milo. As if unleashed, the homeless men began to drift away. The darker man said, “Hold on, campers,” and the men stopped short, some of them muttering. The detective gave his partner an arched eyebrow.

The man Milo had called Brad sucked in his cheeks and nodded.

The other man said, “This way, campers,” and corralled the shabby men off to one side.

The taller man watched them until they’d passed out of earshot, then turned back to Milo. “Sturgis. How convenient.”

“What is?”

“I hear you’ve been down here already today. Which makes you someone I want to talk to.”

“That so?”

The detective transferred his cigarettes to the other hand. “Two trips in one day- pretty dedicated. Getting paid by the hour?”

Milo said, “What’s up?”

“Why all the interest in McCloskey?”

“Just what I told you when I checked in a couple of days ago.”

“Run it by me again.”

“The lady he burned is still gone. Real gone. Her family would still like to know if there’s a connection.”

“What do you mean, real gone?”

Milo told him about Morris Dam.

The blond man remained impassive, but the hand around the cigarette pack tightened. Realizing it, he frowned and examined the pack, tugging at cellophane, using his fingertips to straighten the corners.

“Too bad,” he said. “Family must be shook up.”

“They’re not throwing any parties.”

The blond man gave a curdled smile. “You already rousted him twice. Why again?”

“First couple of times he didn’t have much to say.”

“And you thought you might convince him.”

“Something like that.”

“Something like that.” The blond man looked over at the dark man, who was still lecturing to the derelicts.

Milo said, “What gives, Brad?”

“What gives,” repeated the blond man, touching the rim of his eyeglasses. “What gives is that maybe life just got complicated.”

He paused, studying Milo. When Milo didn’t say anything, the blond man fished a cigarette out of the pack, put it between his lips, and talked around it. “Looks like we’ve got business together.”

Another pause for reaction.

From half a mile away the freeway rumbled. From half a block away came the sound of shattering glass. Brad’s partner kept talking to the derelicts. I couldn’t make out his words but his tone was patronizing. The shabby men looked nearly asleep.

The blond detective said, “Seems Mr. McCloskey met with an unfortunate situation.” Staring at Milo.

Milo said, “When?”

The detective felt around in his trousers pocket as if the answer were to be found there. He pulled out a disposable lighter, and ignited. The flame cast a two-second hobgoblin glow over his face. His skin was rough-sanded and knobby, with shaving bumps along the jawline. “Couple of hours ago,” he said, “give or take.” He squinted at me through glass and smoke, as if his releasing the information had made me someone to be reckoned with.

“Friend of the family,” said Milo.

The tall man kept scrutinizing me, inhaling and blowing out smoke without removing the cigarette from his mouth. He’d majored in stoicism and graduated with honors.

Milo said, “Dr. Delaware, Detective Bradley Lewis, Central Division Homicide. Detective Lewis, Dr. Alex Delaware.”

Lewis blew smoke rings and said, “A doctor, huh.”

“Family doctor, as a matter of fact.”

“Ah.”

I tried to look doctoral.

Milo said, “How’d it happen, Brad?”

“What?” said Lewis. “This some kind of a bounty thing? Getting paid for bringing the good news back to the family?”

Milo said, “It won’t bring her back, but yeah, I can’t imagine they’ll mourn.” He repeated his question.

Lewis pondered answering it, finally said, “Back alley a few blocks south and east of here- the industrial area between San Pedro and Alameda. Auto versus pedestrian, auto winning with a first round KO.”

“If it’s hit and run, why are you guys on it?”

“What a sleuth,” said Lewis. “Hey- d’you ever do police work?”

Grinning.

Milo didn’t talk or move.

Lewis smoked and said, “As it happens, the auto didn’t take any chances, according to the techs. Ran over him once, then backed up and did it at least twice more for good luck. We’re talking road pizza with all the toppings.”

He turned to me, pulled the cigarette out of his mouth, and flashed a sudden, wolfish grin. “Family doctor, huh? You look like a civilized gentleman, but appearances can be deceiving sometimes, right?”

I smiled back. His grin widened, as if we’d just shared a terrific joke.

“Doctor,” he said, chain-lighting a second cigarette and grinding out the first on the sidewalk, “you wouldn’t by any remote chance have used your Mercedes or BMW or whatever to put poor Mr. McCloskey out of his misery, would you, sir? Quick confession and we can all go home.”

I kept smiling and said, “Sorry to disappoint you.”

“Darn,” said Lewis. “I hate whodunits.”

“The car was German?” said Milo.

Lewis kicked the cement with one boot heel and blew smoke through his nose. “What is this, Meet the Press?”

“Any reason not to tell me, Brad?”

“You’re a civilian, for one.”

Milo said nothing.

Lewis said, “Maybe even a suspect, for two.”

“Right,” said Milo. “What is this, Brad? Fucking Murder She Wrote?”

Turning his stare on Lewis. They were the same height but Milo outweighed Lewis by fifty pounds. Lewis stared back, smoking, stone-faced, and didn’t answer.

Milo near-whispered a single word that sounded like “Gonzales.”

Lewis’s gaze faltered. The cigarette in his mouth dipped, then arced upward as his jaw tightened.

He said, “Look, Sturgis, I can’t fuck around with this. At the very least there’s a conflict of interest- like if we end up coming out to Pasadena and talking to the family about this.”

“The family, as it stands right now,” said Milo, “is an eighteen-year-old girl who just found out her mother’s dead and doesn’t even have a body to bury ’cause it’s at the bottom of the goddam dam. Sheriff’s just waiting for it to float-”

“All the more reason-”

“That happens, it’ll be loads of fun for her, right, Brad? ID-ing a floater? Meanwhile, she’s been cooped up in the house for the last few days, tons of eyewitnesses, so she sure as hell didn’t run the piece-o-shit over, and she sure as hell didn’t put any contracts out on him. But if you think there’s some advantage to coming around and getting her really freaked out, be my guest. Deal with their lawyer- guy’s uncle was Hammerin’ Harmon Douse. Captain Spain always did appreciate guys taking the initiative.”

Lewis puffed and dragged and stared at his cigarette as if it were a thing of wonder.

“If that’s where it leads, bet your ass I’ll be there,” he said, but his voice lacked conviction.

Milo said, “Be my guest, Brad.”

The dark detective finished talking to the homeless men and gave a dismissing wave. They dispersed, some of them entering the mission, others drifting up the street. He came over, wiping his palms on his blazer.

“This is the famous Milo Sturgis,” said Lewis, between rapid drags on his cigarette.

The shorter man looked perplexed.

Lewis said, “Heavyweight champ from West L.A.- went one round with Frisk?”

Another second of confusion, then insight spread across the shorter man’s baby features. Revulsion followed a moment later. A pair of hard brown eyes shifted to me.

“And this,” said Lewis, “is the family doctor- family that’s been interested in our d.b. Maybe he can look at that knee of yours, Sandy.”

The other detective wasn’t amused. He buttoned his jacket and when he turned to Milo, he might have been regarding a floating body.

Milo said, “Esposito, right? You used to be over at Devonshire.”

Esposito said, “You came around here earlier and talked to the deceased. What about?”

“Nothing. He wouldn’t talk.”

“That’s not what I asked,” said Esposito, clipping his words. “Regarding what specifics was your intention to talk with the deceased?”

Milo paused- weighing his words or unraveling the syntax. “His possible involvement in the death of my client’s mother.”

Esposito didn’t appear to have heard. He managed to back his body away from Milo while pushing his head forward. “What do you got to tell us?”

Milo said, “Ten to one it’ll come down to something stupid. Interview the residents of this resort and find out the last person McCloskey short-portioned on the hash line.”

“Save your advice,” said Esposito, moving back farther. “I’m talking information.”

“As in whodunit?”

“As in.”

Milo said, “Afraid I can’t help you with that.”

Lewis said, “The hash-line theory doesn’t cut it, Sturgis. The residents of this resort don’t tend to have cars.”

“They get day jobs once in a while,” said Milo. “Driving, delivering. Or maybe McCloskey just met up with someone who didn’t like his face. Wasn’t much of a face.”

Lewis smoked and said nothing.

Esposito said, “Brilliant.” To me: “You got something to add?”

I shook my head.

“What can I say?” said Milo. “You bought yourselves a whodunit, for a change.”

Lewis smoked.

Esposito said, “And you got nothing that would take the who out of the dunit?”

“Your guess is as good as mine,” said Milo. Smiling. “Well, maybe not that good, but I’m sure you’ll work at improving it.”

He began walking past the two of them, heading for the front door of the mission. I tried to follow but Lewis stepped in front of me. “Hold on, Sturgis,” he said.

Milo looked back. His forehead was knotted.

Lewis said, “What’s your business in there, now?”

“Thought I’d see the priest,” said Milo. “Time for confession.”

“Right,” said Esposito, smirking. “Priest gonna grow a beard, listening.”

Lewis laughed, but it sounded obligatory. “Maybe it’s not the optimal time,” he said to Milo.

“I don’t see any yellow tape, Brad.”

“Maybe it’s still not optimal.”

Milo put his hands on his hips. “You’re telling me this is a restricted scene because the d.b. once bunked here, but it’s okay for vagrant scumbags to come in and out? Harmon Junior’s gonna love that, Brad. Next time he and the chief meet up on the links they’re gonna share a few yucks over that one.”

Lewis said, “What is it, three months? And you’re already acting like a fucking suit.”

Milo said, “Bullshit. You’re the one with the invisible tape, Brad. You’re the one all of a sudden turned careful.”

Esposito said, “We don’t have to take this shit,” and unbuttoned his coat. Lewis held him back, puffing like a chimney. Then he dropped his cigarette on the sidewalk, watched it smolder, and moved aside.

Esposito said, “Hey.”

Lewis said, “Fuck it,” with enough savagery to shut Esposito’s mouth. To me: “Go ahead. Move it.”

I stepped forward and Milo put his hand on the door.

“Don’t fuck anything up,” said Lewis. “And don’t get in our way- I mean it. I don’t care how many fucking lawyers you’ve got behind you, hear me?”

Milo pushed the door open. Before it closed, I heard Esposito’s voice mutter, “Maricon.”

Then laughter, very forced, very angry.

A TV was on in the big aqua room. Some sort of cop show flashed on the screen, and forty or so pairs of drooping eyes followed the crunch-and-rattle fantasy.

“Thorazine city,” said Milo, his voice cold as Freon. Anger as therapy…

We’d gotten halfway across the room when Father Tim Andrus appeared from around a corner, wheeling a coffee urn on an aluminum cart. Plastic-wrapped stacks of Styrofoam cups filled the cart’s bottom shelf. The priest’s clerical shirt was olive-drab, worn over faded blue jeans, the knees of the pants scraped white. Same white high-top shoes he’d had on the first time; one of the laces had come loose.

He frowned, stopped, made a sharp turn away from us, and pushed the cart between rows of slumping men. The cart’s wheels were loose and kept sticking. Andrus maintained a jerky, weaving progress until he was next to the television. Bending low, he whispered to one of the men- a young, wild-eyed white youth in too-small clothing that gave him the look of an overgrown feral child. Not much older than a child, actually- late teens, maybe twenty, still larded with baby fat and suburban softness under a patchy chin-beard. But any semblance of innocence was destroyed by matted hair and scabbed skin.

The priest talked to him slowly, with exquisite patience. The young man listened, rose slowly, and began unwrapping a cup stack with shaky fingers. Filling a cup from the urn’s spigot, he started to raise it to his lips. Andrus touched his wrist and the youth stopped, bewildered.

Andrus smiled, spoke again, guided the youth’s wrist so that the cup was held out to one of the seated men. The man took hold of it. The chin-bearded youth stared and released it. Andrus said something and gave him another cup that he began filling. Some of the men had left their seats; a loose queue formed in front of the urn.

Andrus motioned at a scrawny man the color of photo film, slumped in the front row. The man got up and limped over. He and the youth stood side by side, not looking at each other. The priest smiled and instructed, setting up a two-man assembly line. Guiding and praising until a rhythm of filling and distribution had been established and the queue began to shuffle forward. Then he came over to us.

“Please leave,” he said. “There’s nothing I can do for you.”

“Just a few questions, please, Father,” said Milo.

“I’m sorry, Mr.- I don’t remember what your name is, but there’s absolutely nothing I can do for you and I’d really appreciate it if you left.”

“The name is Sturgis, Father, and you didn’t forget. I never gave it to you.”

“No,” said the priest, “you didn’t. But the police did. Just a while ago. They also informed me you weren’t the police.”

“Never said I was, Father.”

Andrus’s ears colored. He plucked at his wispy mustache. “No, I suppose you didn’t, but you did imply it. I deal with deception all day, Mr. Sturgis- part of the job. But that doesn’t mean I like it.”

“Sorry,” said Milo. “I was-”

“An apology isn’t necessary, Mr. Sturgis. You can demonstrate your remorse by leaving and letting me attend to my people.”

“Would it have made a difference, Father? If I’d have told you I was a cop on temporary leave?”

Surprise on the priest’s lean face.

“What’d they tell you, Father?” said Milo. “That I’d been kicked off the force? That I was some kind of heavy-duty sinner?”

Andrus’s pale face took on an angry blush. “I- There’s really no sense getting into… extraneous things, Mr. Sturgis. The main thing is there’s nothing I can do for you. Joel’s dead.”

“I know that, Father.”

“Along with any interest you might therefore have in the mission.”

“Any idea who’s responsible for his death?”

“Do you care, Mr. Sturgis?”

“Not one bit. But if it helps me understand why Mrs. Ramp died-”

“Why she- Oh…” Andrus shut his eyes and opened them rapidly. “Oh, my.” Sighing and putting a hand to his forehead. “I didn’t know. I’m sorry.”

Milo told him about Morris Dam. A longer but softer version than the one he’d given Lewis.

Andrus shook his head and crossed himself.

“Father,” said Milo, “when Joel was alive did he say anything to you that would indicate he’d resumed contact with Mrs. Ramp or any member of her family?”

“No, not at all. I’m sorry, I can’t take this any further, Mr. Sturgis.” The priest looked over at the coffee line. “Anything Joel may have told me was in confidentiality. It’s a theological issue- the fact that he’s dead doesn’t change that.”

“Of course not, Father. The only reason I came down here to talk to him again is that Mrs. Ramp’s daughter is really struggling to deal with her loss. She’s only a kid, Father. A total orphan now. And she’s coming to grips with being all alone. Nothing you can say or do will change that, I realize, but any light you might be able to shed on what happened to her mom could be helpful to her in terms of getting her life back together. At least that’s what I’ve been told by her therapist.”

“Yes,” said Andrus. “That makes sense… Poor child.” He thought for a moment. “But no, it can’t help her.”

“What can’t, Father?”

“Anything- nothing I know, Mr. Sturgis. What I mean is that I know nothing- Joel never told me anything that would ease the poor girl’s pain. Though even if he had, I couldn’t tell you, so perhaps it’s best that he didn’t. I’m sorry, but that’s the way it is.”

“Uh-huh,” said Milo.

Andrus shook his head and put the knuckles of a fist against his brow. “That wasn’t very clear, was it? It’s been a long day and I lose coherence after long days.” Another glance at the urn. “I could use some of that poison over there- plenty of chicory in it but we haven’t skimped on the caffeine. It helps the men deal with detox. You’re welcome to some, too.”

“No, thanks, Father. Just one more second of your time. Do you have any idea who might have done it?”

“The police seem to think it was just one of those things that happens down on Skid Row.”

“Do you agree with that?”

“There’s no reason not to, I guess. I’ve seen so many things that don’t make sense…”

“Is there something about McCloskey’s death that doesn’t make sense?”

“No, not really.” Another look at the urn.

“Was there any reason for McCloskey to be in the area where he was run down, Father?”

Andrus shook his head. “None that I know of. He wasn’t on an errand for the mission- I told the police that. The men do take walks- surprisingly long distances for their physical condition. It’s as if staying in motion reminds them they’re still alive. The illusion of purpose, even though they have nowhere to go.”

“The first time we were here, I got the impression that Joel rarely left the mission.”

“That’s true.”

“So he wasn’t one of your big walkers.”

“No, not really.”

“Did he take any other walks you’re aware of?”

“No, not really…” Andrus paused; his ears were flaming.

“What is it, Father?”

“This will sound very ugly, very judgmental, but my first impression upon hearing what had happened was that someone in the family- Mrs. Ramp’s family- decided finally to exact revenge. Lured him away somehow, then ambushed him.”

“Why’s that, Father?”

“They’d certainly have a reason. And using a car impressed me as a… nice middle-class way of doing it. No need to get close. To smell him or touch him.”

The priest stared away again. Upward. Toward the crucifix.

“Ugly thoughts, Mr. Sturgis. I’m not proud of them. I was angry- everything I’d put into him and now… Then I realized I was being thoughtless and cruel and thinking of myself. Suspecting innocent people who’d had their own share of suffering. I had no right to do that. Now that you tell me about Mrs. Ramp, I feel even more…”

Shaking his head.

Milo said, “Did you mention your suspicion to the detectives?”

“It wasn’t suspicion, just a momentary… thought. An uncharitable thought in the heat of… the shock of hearing about it. And no, I didn’t. But they brought it up- asked me if any member of Mrs. Ramp’s family had been by. I said only you had.”

“How’d they react when you told them I’d been here?”

“I didn’t get the impression they took it seriously- took any of it seriously. They just seemed to be throwing things out- scattershot. My impression was that they’re not going to spend a lot of time on this particular case.”

“Why’s that?”

“Their attitude. I’m used to it. Death is a frequent visitor around here but he doesn’t give too many interviews on the six o’clock news.” The priest’s face fell. “Here I go again, judging. And there’s so much work to be done. You must excuse me, Mr. Sturgis.”

“Sure, Father. Thanks for your time. But if you do think of something, anything that would help that little girl, please let me know.”

Somehow a business card had made it into Milo’s palm. He handed it to the priest. Before Andrus slipped it into a pocket of his jeans, I got a look at it. White vellum. Milo’s name, in strong black letters, over the word INVESTIGATIONS. Home number and beeper code in the lower right-hand corner.

Milo thanked Andrus again. Andrus looked pained.

“Please don’t count on me, Mr. Sturgis. I’ve told you all I can.”

Walking back to the car, I said, “ “I’ve told you all I can,’ not “all I know.’ My bet is that McCloskey bared his soul to him- formal confession or some sort of counseling. Either way, you’ll never get it out of him.”

“Yup,” he said. “I used to talk to my priest, too.”

We walked to the car in silence.

Driving back to San Labrador, I said, “Who’s Gonzales?”

“Huh?”

“What you told Lewis? It seemed to make an impression on him.”

“Oh,” he said, frowning. “Ancient history. Gonsalves. Lewis used to work at West L.A. when he was still in uniform. College boy, tendency to think he was smarter than the others. Gonsalves is a case he fucked up. Domestic violence that he didn’t take seriously enough. Wife wanted the husband locked up, but Lewis thought he could handle it with his B.A.- psych B.A., matter of fact. Did some counseling and left feeling good. Hour later, the husband cut up the wife with a straight razor. Lewis was a lot softer then- no attitude. I could have ruined him, chose to go easy on the paperwork, talk him through it. After that he got harder, got more careful, didn’t fuck up again, notably. Made detective a few years later and transferred to Central.”

“Doesn’t seem too grateful.”

“Yeah.” He gripped the wheel. “Well, that’s the way the Oreo deteriorates.”

A mile later: “When I first called him- to scope out McCloskey and the mission- he was frosty but civil. Given the Frisk thing, that’s the best I can hope for. Tonight was amateur theater- putting on an act for that little macho asshole he’s partnered with.”

“Us and them,” I said.

He didn’t answer. I regretted bringing it up. Trying to lighten things, I said, “Nifty business card. When’d you get it?”

“Couple of days ago- insta-print on La Cienega on the way to the freeway. Got a box of five hundred at bulk rate- talk about your wise investment.”

“Let me see.”

“What for?”

“Souvenir- it may turn out to be a collector’s item.”

He grimaced, put his hand in his jacket, and pulled one out.

I took it, snapped the thin, hard paper, and said, “Classy.”

“I like vellum,” he said. “You can always pick your teeth with it.”

“Or use it for a bookmark.”

“Got something even more constructive,” he said. “Build little houses with them. Then blow them down.”