He meant it. He meant it all the way down deep where it is very important to mean what you say. "I'll do what I can."

The old man kept the steady eyes on me, then mumbled something in Japanese and the other two old men stood up. No one said I'll be seeing you or Nice to have met you or See you again some time. Bradley walked the Tashiros to the door, but I don't think they looked at him. Then they were gone.

When Bradley came back, he said, "I didn't appreciate all the smart talk in front of the Tashiros. They're nervous as hell and breathing down my neck. You'd be a lot farther along without the wit."

"Yeah, but along to where?"

His jaw knotted but he didn't say anything. He strode over to the glass wall and looked out. Holmby Hills was due north. With a good pair of field glasses he could probably see his house. "Now," he said. "My wife is frightened because of this threat she received. Do you think there's any merit to it?"

"I don't know," I said. "It's not professional. You steal something, you're looking at ten years. You kill someone, you're looking at life. Besides that, the cops are already in and these guys know it. If they're hanging around, that means they want something else. What else do you have that they would want?"

"Nothing." Offended.

"Has there been any communication between you and them that I have not heard about?"

"Of course not." Pissed.

"Then I'd treat it seriously until we know more."

Bradley went back to his desk and began to flip through papers as if he couldn't wait to get back to work. Maybe he couldn't. "In that case, we should expand your services. I want you to oversee the security of my family."

"You've got Titan."

Jillian Becker said, "Sheila was not comfortable with Titan. They've been let go."

I spread my hands. "All right. I can put someone in your house."

Bradley Warren nodded. "Good. Just be sure that the Hagakure investigation continues to proceed." First things first.

"Of course."

"And the Man of the Month banquet is tomorrow," he said. "We can't forget that."

"Maybe you shouldn't go."

The frown came back and he shook his head. "Out of the question. The Tashiros will be there." He tamped some papers together and fingered their edges and looked thoughtful. "Mr. Tashiro liked you. That's good. That's very, very good." You could see the business wheels turning.

I said, "Bradley."

The frown.

"If someone is genuinely committed to killing you or your family, there isn't much we can do to stop them."

The skin beneath his left eye began to tic, just like it had in my office.

"You understand that, don't you?"

"Of course."

His phone buzzed and he picked it up. He listened for a few seconds, still staring at me, then broke into a Cheshire cat smile and asked someone on the other end of the line how the Grain Tech takeover had gone. He glanced at Jillian Becker and made a dismissal gesture with his free hand. Jillian stood up and showed me to the door. Bradley laughed very loud at something and put his feet up and said he'd like to get some of those profits into a new hotel he was building on Maui.

When we got to the door, Bradley cupped a hand over the receiver's mouthpiece, leaned out of his chair, and called, "Cole. Keep me posted, will you?"

I said sure.

Bradley Warren uncupped the receiver, laughed like he'd just heard the best joke he'd heard all year, then swiveled back toward the big glass wall.

I left.

With the security of his family now in my trusted hands, apparently it was safe to resume business.

Chapter 8

Twenty minutes after Bradley and Jillian resumed business, I drove down to a flat, gray building on Venice Boulevard in Culver City, and parked beside a red Jeep Cherokee with a finish like polished glass. It's industrial down there, so all the buildings are flat and gray, but most of them don't have the Cherokee or an electronically locked steel door or a sign that says BARTON'S PISTOL RANGE. I had to ring a bell and someone inside had to buzz open the steel door before I could enter.

The lobby is big and bright, with high ceilings and Coke machines and posters of Clint Eastwood as Dirty Harry and Sylvester Stallone as Rambo. Someone had put up a poster of Huey, Dewey, and Louie, with a little sign on it that said WE ARE THE NRA. These gun nuts. There was a long counter filled with targets and gun cleaning supplies and pistols you could rent, and a couple of couches you could sit on while you were waiting for a shooting stall to open up. Three men in business suits and a woman in a jogging suit and another woman in a dress were waiting to shoot, but they weren't waiting on the couches. They were at the head of the counter and they didn't look happy. One of the men was tall and forty pounds too fat and had a red face. He was leaning over the counter at Rick Barton, saying, "I made an appointment, goddamnit. I don't see why I have to stand around and wait."

Rick Barton said, calmly, "I'm terribly sorry for the inconvenience, sir, but we've had to momentarily close the range. It will open again in about fifteen minutes."

"Closed my ass! I hear somebody shooting back there!"

Rick Barton nodded, calmly. "Yes, sir. Another fifteen minutes. Excuse me, please." Rick came down the long counter and nodded at me. He was short and slight and had put in twelve years in the Marine Corps. Eight of those years he had shot on the Marine Corps pistol team. He said, "Thank Christ you walked in. I hadda 'sir' that fat fuck one more time, I'da lubed his gear box for him."

"Ah, Rick. You always did have a gift for the public."

Rick said, "You want to pop some caps?"

I shook my head. "The gun shop said Joe was here."

Rick looked at his watch. "Go on back. Tell him he's got another ten, then I chuck his ass out."

He tossed me a set of ear covers, and I went back toward the range. Behind me, the fat guy said, "Hey, how come he gets to go back there?"

You go through the door, then down a long, dim corridor with a lot of signs that say things like EAR AND EYE PROTECTION MUST BE WORN AT ALL TIMES and NO RAPID FIRING, and then you go through another sound-proofed door and you're on the firing range. There are twelve side-by-side stalls from which people can shoot at targets that they send down-range using little electric pulleys. Usually, the range is bright, and well lighted, but now the lights had been turned off so that only the targets were lit. A tape player had been hooked up, and Bob Seger was screaming I like that old time rock 'n roll… so loud that you could hear him through the ear covers. Anyone else would find his partner on the golf course or the tennis courts.

Joe Pike was shooting at six targets that he had placed as far down-range as possible. He was firing a Colt Python.357 Magnum with a four-inch barrel, moving left-to-right, right-to-left, shooting at the targets in precise time with the music. That kind of music just soothes the soul… He was wearing faded Levi's and blue Nike running shoes and a gray sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off and a big steel Rolex and mirrored pilot's glasses. The gun and the glasses and the Rolex gleamed in the darkness as if they had been polished to a high luster. Pike moved without hesitation or doubt, as precise and controlled as a well-made machine. Bang bang bang. The Python would move, and flash, and a hole would burst near the center of a target. The dark glasses seemed not to adversely affect his vision. Maybe the sunglasses didn't matter because Pike had his eyes closed. Maybe somehow Pike and the target were one, and we could write a book titled Zen and the Art of Small Arms Fire and make a fortune. Wow.