Breathing hard again.

Milo said, “Why’d you single out Issa Qumdis?”

“He’s a Nazi, and he’s here.”

“Any other reason?”

“That’s not reason enough for you?” said Simons. Muttering, “Goyische kopf.”

“Yeah, I’m a stupid goy,” said Milo. “Meanwhile, it’s you with blood all over your clothes and your hands in cuffs and all you accomplished back there was to solidify that guy’s support.”

“Bullshit,” said Simons. “They came in as Jew-haters, they’ll go out as Jew-haters, but at least they know we’re not going to stand by while they try to herd us into the ovens.”

He peered at Milo. “You’re not Jewish, are you?”

“ ‘Fraid not.”

“What, German?”

“Irish.”

“Irish,” said Simons, as if he found that baffling. To me: “You Jewish?”

I shook my head.

Back to Milo: “So, what, cops are reading The Jewish Beacon?”

“I pick up stuff, here and there.”

Simons smiled knowingly. “Okay, so you are on a serious surveillance. About time.”

“The guy who introduced Issa Qumdis,” said Milo. “What about him?”

“What about him?”

“What should I know about him?”

“Fucking Swede,” said Simons. “Another fucking professor- my kids had professors at college, I could tell you stories-”

“Let’s keep it to Professor Larsen, specifically,” said Milo. “What should I know about him?”

“He’s with that Nazi, so he’s probably a Nazi- did you know that the Swedes claimed to be neutral during the war, but meanwhile they were doing business with the Nazis? SS soldiers were fucking the Swedish women right and left, having orgies, getting the Swedish women pregnant? Probably half of the supposed Swedes are German. Maybe he’s one of them. Larsen. Did you hear what he said in there? I should’ve shot him, too.”

“Stop,” said Milo. “You keep talking like that, I’ve got to take you in.”

Simons stared at him. “You’re not going to?”

A car drove up the alley, slowed to pass us, continued to Sixth, and turned left.

Milo remained silent.

“What?” said Simons. “What’s the deal here?”

“You drive here in your own car?”

“This is L.A., what do you think?”

“Where are you parked?”

“Around the corner.”

“Which corner?”

“Sixth,” said Simons. “What, you’re going to impound me?”

“What kind of car?” said Milo.

“Toyota,” said Simons. “I’m a nurse, not a goddamn doctor.”

Keeping the cuffs on, we walked him to his car. Two vehicles in front of my Seville. Milo’s unmarked was across the street.

“Here’s the deal,” said Milo. “You drive straight home, don’t pass Go, don’t come back here. Ever. Stay away, and we call it a lesson.”

“What’s the lesson?” said Simons.

“That it’s smart to listen to me.”

“What’s special about you?”

“I’m a dumb goy who knows the score.” Milo took hold of Simons’s collar, bunched it up around the man’s thick neck. Simons’s eyes bugged.

He said, “You’re-”

“I’m doing you a favor, idiot. A big one. Don’t test my good nature.”

Simons stared back at him. “You’re choking me.”

Milo released a millimeter of fabric. “Big favor,” he repeated. “Of course, if you prefer, I can arrest you, get you plenty of publicity. Some people will consider you a hero, but I don’t think the doctors at Cedars are going to keep asking for you when they find out about your lack of judgment.”

“They’ll ask,” said Simons. “I’m the-”

“You’re stupid,” said Milo. “You got your clothes full of pig’s blood and accomplished zero.”

“Those people-”

“Hate your guts and always will, but they’re a fringe minority. You want to accomplish something, volunteer at the Holocaust Center, take high school kids on tour. Don’t waste your time on those idiots.” He shrugged. “That’s only my opinion. You disagree, I’ll feed your martyrdom fantasies and stick you in a nice little jail cell with some other guy who it’s a sure bet didn’t get an A in ethnic sensitivity.”

Simons chewed his lip. “Life is short. I want to stand for something.”

“That’s the point,” said Milo. “Survival’s the best damn revenge.”

“Who said so?”

“I did.”

Simons finally calmed down, and Milo uncuffed him. He looked down at his bloody pea coat, as if noticing the stain for the first time, plucked at a clean bit of lapel. “This thing’s finished, I can’t bring it home to my wife.”

“Good point,” said Milo. “Get the hell outta here.” He returned Simons’s wallet and keys and put him in his Toyota. Simons drove off quickly, sped up to Broadway, turned right without a signal.

“That,” said Milo, “was fun.” He checked out his own clothing.

“Clean,” I said. “I already looked.”

He walked me to the Seville. Just as we got there, a voice from behind, mellow, cultured, just loud enough to be audible, said, “Gentlemen? Police gentlemen?”

The tall black man in the gray suit stood on the sidewalk, maybe ten feet away. Hands laced in front. Smiling warmly. Working hard at nonthreatening.

“What?” said Milo, hand trailing down toward his gun.

“Might I talk to you gentlemen, please? About one of the people in there?”

“Who?”

“Albin Larsen,” said the man.

“What about him?”

The man talked through his smile. “May we talk somewhere in private?”

“Why?” said Milo.

“The things I have to say, sir. They are not… nice. This is not a nice man.”

CHAPTER 34

Milo said, “Come forward very slowly, keeping your hands clear. Good, now show me some identification.”

The man complied, drew out a shiny black billfold, removed a business card, and held it out. Milo read it, showed it to me.

Heavy stock, white paper, engraved beautifully.

Protais Bumaya

Special Envoy,

Republic of Rwanda

West Coast Consulate

125 Montgomery Street, Suite 840

San Francisco, CA 94104

“Acceptable, sir?” said Bumaya.

“For the time being.”

“Thank you, sir. Might I have your name?”

“Sturgis.”

Perhaps Bumaya was expecting a warmer introduction, because his smile finally faded. “There’s a place- a tavern up the block. Might we convene there?”

“Yeah,” said Milo. “Let’s convene.”

The “tavern” was on the opposite side of Broadway, between Fourth and Fifth, a windowless dive named the Seabreeze, with wishfully Tudor trim and a rough, salt-ravaged door that had once passed for English oak. Remnant of the Santa Monica that had existed between the two population waves that built the beachside city: stodgy Midwestern burghers streaming westward for warmth at the turn of the twentieth century, and, seventy years later, left-leaning social activists taking advantage of the best rent control in California.

In between there’d been the kind of corruption you get when you mix tourists, hustlers, balmy weather, the ocean, but Santa Monica remained a place molded by self-righteousness.

Milo eyed the Seabreeze’s unfriendly facade. “You been here before?”

Bumaya shook his head. “The proximity seemed advantageous.”

Milo shoved at the door, and we entered. Long, low, dim room, three crude booths to the left, a wooden bar refinished in glossy acrylic to the right. Eight serious drinkers, gray-haired and gray-faced, bellied up against the vinyl cushion, facing a bartender who looked as if he sampled the wares at regular intervals. Yeast and hops and body odor filled air humid enough for growing ferns. Nine stares as we entered. Frankie Valli on the jukebox let us know we were too good to be true.