He was midsized and very thin, but flabby, with stringy arms and knobby, varicosed legs, narrow, sagging, grandmother’s breasts, and a protuberant belly. His skin had been sun-baked the color of bourbon and had an oily sheen. The hair on his head was skimpy white fuzz, as if he’d coated his bare pate with glue, then dipped it in cotton wool. He had a weak chin, big beak nose, and narrow-set eyes that squinted so tightly they appeared sealed shut. A shaggy white Fu Manchu mustache ran down the sides of his mouth, continuing past the jawline and dangling an inch.

He looked us over, frowned, spat on the ground.

Gandhi with gastritis.

“Afternoon, Ellston,” said Milo. “Nice to see you’re in your usual good cheer.” The sound of his voice set the dogs howling.

“Quiet. You’re upsetting them- way you always do.” The old man came up to me and stared, running his tongue along the inner wall of one cheek, scratching his head. He gave off a strange blend of odors: children’s zoo, French cologne, mentholated unguent.

“Not bad,” he said finally, “but Rick was cuter.”

He touched my shoulder. I stiffened involuntarily. His stare hardened and he spat again.

Milo stepped closer to me. “This is Dr. Alex Delaware. He’s a friend.”

“Another doctor?” The old man shook his head and turned to me. “Tell me one thing, Curly: What the hell you upscale medico studs see in an ugly, uncouth lump like him?”

“Friend,” said Milo. “As in friend. He’s straight, Ellston.”

The old man raised a limp wrist, adopted a mincing pose.

“Sure he is, darling.” The old man looped his arm in mine. “What kind of doctor are you, Dr. Alex?”

“Psychologist.”

“Ooh,” he drew away quickly, stuck out his tongue and made a raspberry. “I don’t like your type, always analyzing, always judging.”

“Ellston,” said Milo, “you gave me enough shit over the phone, I have no appetite for any more. If you want to help, fine. If not, that’s fine, too, and we’ll leave you to play Farmer John.”

“Such a rude lump,” said the old man. To me: “He’s a frigging rude lump. Full of anger. Because he still hasn’t accepted what he is, thinks he can deal with all of it by playing po-lice-man.”

Milo’s eyes flashed.

The old man’s opened wide in response. The left iris was blue; the right, milky gray with cataract.

“Tsk, tsk, our poor gendarme is upset. Hit a nerve, Lump? Good. The only time you look half-human is when you’re pissed off. When you get frigging real.”

“ ‘I don’t like your type,’ ” mimicked Milo. “ ‘Always analyzing, always judging.’ ” To me: “Enough of this crap. Let’s split.”

“Suit yourself,” said the old man, but there was worry in his voice. A headstrong kid who’d pushed his parents too far.

We headed back to the car. Every step we took made the dogs bark louder.

The old man cried out, “Stupid lump! No patience! Never had any.”

Milo ignored him.

“Just so happens, Lump, that the subject of your inquiry is one with whom I’m well versed. I actually met the rat bastard.”

“Right,” said Milo over his shoulder. “And you fucked Jean Harlow.”

“Well, maybe I did that too.” An instant later: “What’s in it for me, anyway?” The old man was raising his voice to be heard over the animals.

Milo stopped, shrugged, turned. “Good will?”

“Ha!”

“Plus a hundred for your time. But forget it.”

“Least you could have frigging done,” shouted the old man, “was to be civil!”

“I tried, Ellston. I always try.”

The old man was standing with his hands on his hips. His boxer shorts flapped and his hair flew out like strands of cotton candy.

“Well, you didn’t try hard enough! Where was the introduction? A proper, civil introduction?” He shook one fist and his loose flesh danced.

Milo growled and turned. “An introduction will make you happy?”

“Don’t be an ass, Sturgis. I haven’t aimed for happy in a long, long time. But it might frigging placate me.”

Milo swore under his breath. “C’mon,” he told me. “One more try.”

We retraced our steps. The old man looked away from us, worked his jaws and tried hard to maintain dignity. The boxer shorts interfered.

“Ellston,” said Milo, “this is Dr. Alex Delaware. Alex, meet Mr. Ellston Crotty.”

“Incomplete,” huffed the old man.

“Detective Ellston Crotty.”

The old man held out his hand. “Detective First Grade Ellston J. Crotty, Junior. Los Angeles Police Department, Central Division, retired.” We shook. He thumped his chest. “You’re looking at the Ace of Central Vice, Dr. Curly. A pleasure to make your frigging acquaintance.”

The animals followed us as if heading for the Ark. A homemade pathway of railroad ties and cement squares bordered by unkempt hedges and sick-looking dwarf citrus trees took us to a small, asphalt-shingled house with a wide front porch littered with boxes and old machine parts. Next to the house an ancient Dodge coupe sat on blocks. The structure looked out on a flat half-acre of dirt yard fenced with chicken wire. More goats and poultry paced the yard. To the rear of the property was a ram-shackle henhouse.

The barnyard smell had grown intense. I looked around. No neighbors, only sky and trees. We were atop a hill. To the north were smog-glazed hints of mountaintop. I could still hear the freeway, providing a bass line to the treble clucks of the chickens.

Leaning against one of the fence posts was a bag of feed corn. Crotty stuck his hand in, tossed a handful of grain into the yard, and watched the birds scramble.

“Frigging greedy bastards,” he said, then gave them some more.

Old MacDonald’s farm on the edge of the urban jungle.

We climbed onto the porch.

“This is all frigging illegal,” Crotty said with pride. “Breaks every frigging zoning law in the books. But my compadres down the hill are all illegals living in noncode shacks. Love my fresh eggs and hate the authorities- hell if they’re going to rat. I pay their little kids to clean up the coop, two bucks an hour- more greenback than they’re ever gonna see otherwise. They think I’m some kind of frigging great white father.”

“Great white shark,” muttered Milo.

“What’s that?”

“Some of those little kids are pretty sharp.”

“Well, I wouldn’t know about that, but they do know how to work their little tushies off, so I pay ’em. All of them think I’m the greatest frigging thing since sliced bread. Their mamacitas are so grateful, they bring me food all wrapped in aluminum foil- they love aluminum foil. Good stuff, too, no fast-food shit- menudo and sweet tamales like you used to be able to get over on Alvarado before the corporate frigs took over.”

He pushed open a screen door, walked into the house, and let it slam shut. Milo caught it. We entered.

The house was small and unlit, crammed so full of junk there was barely room to walk. We inched our way past stacks of old newspapers, towers of cardboard boxes and raw-wood fruit crates, jumbles of clothing, an upright piano painted with gray primer, three ironing boards bearing a collection of clock radios in various stages of disassembly. The furniture that managed to coexist with the clutter was cheap, dark wood and overstuffed chairs sleeved with antimacassars and doilies. Thrift shop fare.

The floor was pine, trodden gray, splintered in several places by dry rot. A mantel above the bricked-in fireplace bore porcelain figurines, most of them chipped or missing limbs. The clock on the mantel wall said Coca-Cola. It was frozen at seven-fifteen.

“Sit,” said Crotty. He brushed newspapers off an easy chair and sank down. A cloud of dust rose and settled like dew.

Milo and I cleared a sofa with broken springs, created our own dust storm.