"What, I'm supposed to know about some guy just because we got the same goddamn first name?" You see? Always the kind word.

"Try out Yuki Torobuni."

Eddie made a gargling sound, then spit.

"How about a guy named Kira Asano?"

"Asano's the gook artist, right?"

"That's what I like about you, Eddie. Sensitive."

"Shit. You want Asano or you want sensitive?"

"Asano."

"Okay. Made Time back in the sixties. Back then, he was some kinda hot shit artist from Japan, mostly because of a lot of minimalist landscape work showing empty beaches and crap. He stopped painting and came here, saying America was gonna be the new Japan, and he was gonna instill the samurai spirit in American youth. Some shit, huh?"

"The Hagakure," I said.

"Huh?"

"What else?"

Eddie made the gargling sound again, then said, "Jesus. You wouldn't believe what I got coming out of me." That Eddie. "Asano founded something called the Gray Army and got a couple hundred kids to join. That was a long time ago, though. Old news. I ain't heard about him in years."

I said, "Is he dangerous?"

"Hell, I'm dangerous. Asano's just crazy."

I hung up and got back in the Corvette but didn't start it. Sonofagun. Maybe Kira Asano was behind the theft of the Hagakure. Mimi would have gotten involved with his organization because she didn't have anything else in her life, and Asano would've pointed out what a grand fine place the Hagakure would have in the movement. Only now Eddie knew about the Hagakure, and wanted it, and was playing on Mimi to get to it. You and me, babe. My, my.

A fat man in baggy shorts came out of the Stop amp; Go with a brown paper bag. Inside, the Persian clerk stared at a miniature TV. The fat man looked at me, nodded, then got into a black Jaguar and drove away. When the Jaguar was gone, the little parking lot was quiet except for the insectile buzz of the street lamps. Here in the mountains, the Stop amp; Go was an island of light.

I had come to rescue Mimi, and that would be easy enough. I could call the cops, and let them do it, or I could return to Asano's, crash through the gate, and drag Mimi back to the safe tranquility of Holmby Hills and her mother and father. Only she probably wouldn't stay. Something had driven her away. Something had turned her into a kid who burned herself with cigarettes and adopted a different personality for everyone in her life and had made her want to get away from home so badly and hurt her parents so much that she had gone to incredible lengths to do it. Something wasn't right.

I sat and I stared into the warm light of the Stop amp; Go and I thought about all the different Mimis. The Mimi that I'd met and the Mimi that Bradley and Sheila knew and Traci Louise Fishman's Mimi and the Mimi who thought the kids in the gray uniforms had "purpose." I'm with people who love me now. Maybe there would even be a different Mimi tomorrow. Maybe I needed to know which Mimi was the real Mimi before I'd know what to do.

At eighteen minutes after ten I started my car, pulled out onto Mulholland Drive, and went home.

Chapter 24

At nine-forty the next morning I drove back along Mulholland, pulled up at Asano's gate, and pressed a blue metal button on the call box. A female voice said, "May I help you?"

I said, "Yes, you may. My name is Elvis Cole, and I'd like to speak with Mimi Warren."

Nothing happened.

I pressed the call button again and said, "Knock, knock, knock! Chicken Delight!"

The female voice said, "There is no Mimi Warren here."

"How about I come in and talk with Kira Asano."

"Do you have an appointment, sir?"

"Yes. Under the name George Bush."

A male voice came on. "Sir, if you'd like to make an appointment with Mr. Asano, we should be able to fit you in sometime toward the end of next week. If you do not wish an appointment, please clear the driveway."

"Nope."

There was a long pause. "If you don't clear the drive, sir, we'll phone the police."

"Okay."

I turned off the Corvette, got out, crossed my arms, and leaned against the fender. After about fifteen minutes the front door opened and two Asian guys came out and started down along the drive. They wore the same cute little gray jumpsuit some of the kids wore. Gray Army. Only these guys weren't kids and they weren't cute. They were close to my age and had flat faces and eyes that didn't think much was funny. The guy on the left walked with his hands floating out from his legs like he was a gunfighter. The guy on the right bounced a nightstick off his thigh in rhythm with their stride and looked pleased with himself. When they got to the gate I said, "Hey, Kira didn't have to send a welcome wagon. I'm touched."

The guy with the priest said, "You're going to be more than touched if you don't move that shit pile outta here."

I said, "Shit pile?"

The gunfighter said, "You got no business here. You're also trespassing. Beat it."

I took out my license and held it up. "Mimi Warren is being sought by the police and the FBI as the victim of a kidnapping. I know Mimi Warren is in there because I saw her. If I have to leave here without speaking with her, I'll call the cops and the FBI and you can play tough with them."

The guy with the priest said, "Open the gate, Frank. Lemme kick his ass." The license impressed the hell out of'm.

Frank ignored him. "You're mistaken. There's nobody here named Mimi Warren or anything like that." Frank looked as if he didn't like the thought of the Feds coming around. Probably had a couple of outstanding traffic warrants.

I said, "There is, and I'm going to stay here until I see her."

Nightstick gave me you've-done-it-now eyes and slapped his open palm with the priest. "Open the gate, Frank. How 'bout it?" Neither Frank nor I looked at him.

Frank said, "You gotta go."

I said, "You won't be able to move me without the cops."

Nightstick said, "Oh, man." He was smiling.

Frank said, "Maybe not." He was looking at me the way you look at someone when you're remembering things you learned the hard way. He'd probably learned some things the guy with the nightstick would never know. He raised his right arm, and the gate lurched inward.

Nightstick stepped back out of the way, then came around. He was smiling like a loon, gripping the stick tightly with his right hand. "Last time, asshole. Move it or lose it."

I hit him on the side of the head with a reverse spin kick just about the time he said lose it. The priest spun off against the gatepost and clanged against the gate and he was down on the drive. He didn't try to get up. Frank hadn't moved. He said, "What style?"

"Tae kwon do. Know a little kung fu. Know a little wing chun, too."

He nodded. "Yeah. Saw the kung fu there in the leg move."

"Where are we?" I said.

Frank shrugged. "Guess I'll go in and tell'm you're serious about staying. The man says move you anyway, guess I'll come out and give it a try. I'm better than Bobby."

"Yeah. I guess there's that chance."

Frank hefted Bobby over a shoulder in a fireman's carry, then went back up the drive. The gate closed. I went back to leaning against the Corvette. I waited.

Twenty minutes later I was still waiting. Frank hadn't come back, and it didn't look like the cops had been called. Maybe they thought I bored easily and would soon grow tired and lax in my vigil. Maybe they were planning to wait me to death. Maybe they were all out back at the pool, grilling hamburgers and drinking cold beer while I stood around out front trying to look tough.

I left the Corvette blocking the gate, walked back along Mulholland and around Asano's ridge to a fire trail, and followed it away from the road. The fire trail angled down into a little erosion gully, then slowly wrapped around the ridge toward Asano's estate. It flattened out across the ridge crest and came out behind a little concrete retaining wall. I scrambled up the slope and the concrete wall and found myself standing by a pool. The pool decking was stained and cracked and needed repair. The pool itself was a fifty-foot oval with a discolored bottom. A slim young man in black racing goggles and a black Speedo suit was swimming laps. He wouldn't notice the Circus Vargus troupe rumbling past.