Same for the sheriffs' bureaus. What now? Had Flores bolted back to the old country? Where was that? Mexico? El Salvador? Then she remembered something Ramsey had told her. Greg Balch had hired the new maid, so maybe he'd found Flores, too.

Another reason to chat with ol' Greg.

But first she owed a call to Ron Banks, to let him know the Ramsey DV had gone down out of L.A. County.

He was at his desk, said, “Oh, hi! Haven't gotten back to you because I haven't found any complaints yet.”

“You won't,” she said. “I just found out Ramsey has a second home in Montecito, Ron. The beating happened there.” Something else she hadn't done yet, follow up on that…

“Oh, okay,” said Banks. “That's Carpinteria Sheriff's.” He cleared his throat. “Listen, about last time. Asking you out. I didn't mean to put you on the spot. The last thing you need is distraction-”

“It's okay, Ron.”

“That's nice of you to say, but-”

“It's fine, Ron. Really.”

“It was unprofessional. My excuse is I've only been divorced a year, not really good at this kind of thing, and-”

“Let's get together,” she said, scarcely believing it.

Silence. “You're sure- I mean… great, I appreciate it- you name it.”

“How about tonight- where do you live?”

“Granada Hills, but I'll be coming from downtown, so it doesn't matter.”

“Do you like deli food?”

“I like anything.”

“How about Katz's on Fairfax? Say eight.”

“Fantastic.” He almost sang the word.

She could do that to someone!

34

A sky full of stars. The ocean roars louder than the zoo animals.

I'm at the beach, under the pier, smelling tar and salt, cold, even wrapped in the black plastic sheet.

Wet sand all around, but I found a dry patch near these big thick poles that hold up the pier. I can't sleep, watching and listening to the waves come in and out, but I don't feel tired. The ocean is black as the sheet, little dots of moonlight drawing a slanted line across the water. It's cold, much colder than in the park. If I stay here I'll need to get a real blanket.

A while ago some bent-over guy walked by on the sand, near the edge of the water. Just one guy on the empty beach, and the way he walked, clapping his hands together, jumping up and down every few seconds, I knew he was crazy.

When the sun comes out I'll have to leave.

Two nights ago I saw PLYR kill that woman and now I'm here. Weird. And I didn't even try; it just happened.

I was weaving between Sunset and side streets, passing so many restaurants my nose was stuffed with food smells, guys in red jackets parking cars, people laughing. My stomach was still full, but my mouth started watering.

I had no idea where I was going to end up, just knew I couldn't stand still. I came to a part of Sunset that looked fancier- shinier people, huge billboards advertising movies and clothes and liquor. Then more clubs, more big fat guys standing in front of the door, arms folded over their chests.

The club where it happened was called A-Void, on a dark corner next to a liquor store, painted black with all these black rocks glued to the front. The fat guy there smoked and looked bored. No one was trying to get in. A plastic sign over the door advertised the bands who were playing: Meat Members, Elvis Orgasm, the Stick Figures.

The liquor store was open and a guy in a turban was sitting behind the register. I thought about buying some gum, taking other stuff, but he looked suspicious at me when I stepped through the door so I left. Just then, this tall skinny guy with really long fuzzy black hair and pimples came out of A-Void carrying some drums, ran over to a black van parked around the corner, opened the back door, and put the drums in. The van was full of dents and scrapes, stickers all over the side. He didn't lock it.

He made two more trips and then he went back inside and stayed there.

He never locked it.

The fat guy had gone inside, too.

I slid around the corner, looked in the van's passenger window. It had only front seats; the rest was storage.

I opened the door. No alarm rang.

All I found on the seat was junk- candy wrappers, empty cans and bottles, pieces of paper. Maybe the radio, if I could sell it- how do you take one out?

Then I heard voices and saw the skinny guy standing on the corner, his back to the van. Talking to a short girl with yellow hair with a pink streak through the middle of it. She might've seen the van if she looked at it, but she was paying attention to him. It looked like they were arguing. He turned.

Too late to jump out.

I jumped in, closed the door, threw myself in back, and hid behind the drums. They were half covered by this thick sheet of black plastic and I got under it, knocking my bones against metal. It really hurt; I had to bite my lip not to cry out.

The plastic was cold and smelled like bleach.

The back door opened again and the van shook as something landed near me.

Slam. Another slam.

I heard the girl's voice from up front: “You guys were hot.”

“Bullshit.”

“No really, I mean it, Wim.”

“We sucked and everyone knows we sucked, so don't bullshit me- did you bring my jacket?”

“Uh… sorry, I'll go back and get it.”

“Shit! Get in there fast!”

Another open and slam.

Cough. “Fucking witch…” The motor went on and the metal floor beneath me started to vibrate and I tried to hold on to something so I wouldn't roll, but the drums were round and I didn't want to make noise so I pressed against the floor like a spider.

The radio went on. He tried a bunch of different channels, said “Fuck this shit!,” turned it off.

A rubbing sound, then a click, and I smelled something familiar.

Weed. Back in the trailer I went to sleep with my nose full of it, wondering if it would give me brain damage.

Slam. “Here you go, honey.”

“Do you know what that is? Lambskin from fucking Mongolia or Tibet or some place. And those nailheads are, like, hammered by hand and put in by blind peasants who say special prayers or something- I gave my fucking blood for that, and you leave it in there! Shit!”

“I'm sorry, Wim!”

They both smoked. No one talked. The motor was running, and I was just pressing my fingers to the floor, trying not to move or breathe, wondering where this was going to take me. No way out, because the drums blocked the back door.

At least it was warm.

She said, “Gimme another taste- ah, that's good shit.”

“Hey, don't give it a blow job- give it back.”

“Where you wanna go, Wim?”

“Where? Europe- where the fuck do you think? Home, I need to crash.”

“You don't wanna go over to the Whiskey?”

“Fuck no, why would I wanna do that?”

“You said- remember?”

“Huh?”

“Before we left we were talking, you know, maybe like afterwards we'd check out the Whiskey, someone you know might be there, maybe you'd jam-”

“That was then, this is now… someone I know. Right. Knowing is fucking bullshit. Doing is the name of the game and tonight we did fucking nothing-man, I can't believe how bad we sucked. Skootch was, like, brain-dead and that guy in the second row I'm pretty sure was maybe from Geffen and he left early- fuck, I'm gonna die without being famous!”

“You will be fam-”

“Shut the fuck up!”

The van started moving, going awhile- south- then turning right, which meant west again. Wim drove angry, speeding, making sharp turns, fast stops.

It took a while for the girl to talk again. “Hey, Wim?”

Grunt.

“Wim? What you said before?”

“Whuh?”

“About not giving head to the joint? But there are other joints, right?” Giggle.

“Yeah, right, I had a triumphant night and now I'm ready to be romantic- just shut up and let me get us home- I can't believe how bad we sucked!”