“Detective, I have no intention of-”

“Then we’ll have no problem,” said Milo.

Bumaya frowned.

Milo said, “Want another drink? It’s on me.”

“No,” said Bumaya. “No, thank you.” The snapshot of the murdered boys remained on the table. He picked it up, placed it back in his snakeskin billfold.

“You pretty good with firearms, Mr. Bumaya? Being a former cop and all that.”

“I know how to shoot. However, I am not traveling armed.”

“So if I look around your friends’ apartment, no guns are going to show up?”

“Not one,” said Bumaya. His mouth moved around, covering a swath of emotional territory, until it finally settled on a small, flat smile. “Perhaps I have not made myself clear, Detective Sturgis. My sole purpose is to gather facts and to report back to my superiors.”

“All this trouble for Albin Larsen.”

“He and others.”

“Others here in L.A.?”

“Here, other cities. Other countries.” Bumaya’s eyes shut and fluttered open. His irises, once clear and inquisitive, had clouded. “I will be doing this for a very long time.”

We watched him leave the bar.

Milo said, “Think I was rough on him?”

“A bit.”

“I sympathize with the cause, but he’s all about his own goals, and I don’t need complications. If I can get Larsen off the street, I’ll be doing Bumaya and his superiors the biggest favor of all.”

“Makes sense,” I said.

“Does it?” He frowned. “Those two boys.” He looked away, summoned Green Shirt for a third shot.

Green Shirt looked down at me. “You, too?”

I placed my hand atop my glass and shook my head. When Milo’s refill arrived, I said, “Bumaya has his own agenda, but what he said firms things up for us. Larsen’s got a history of exactly the kind of scam we theorized about. And he uses violence when it suits him.”

“The quiet ones,” Milo muttered.

“Tonight, when he introduced Issa Qumdis, he had plenty of fire.”

“Ideology and profit,” he said.

“Misery pimp. I like that.”

He drank.

I said, “Just out of curiosity, how do you know so much about Issa Qumdis?”

“What, cops don’t read?”

“Never knew you to be political.”

He shrugged. “Rick leaves books and magazines around. I pick ’ em up. One of them happened to be The Jewish Beacon, with the article that claimed Issa Qumdis invented himself.”

“Never knew Rick to be political, either.”

“He never was. Even gay issues didn’t mobilize him.” He stretched his neck and winced. “His parents are Holocaust survivors.”

After all these years I knew little about Rick. About Milo’s life when he closed the door of his little house in West Hollywood.

He said, “They were always getting after him about it.”

“The Holocaust?”

He nodded. “They wanted him to be more aware of being Jewish. There was always baggage, the gay thing complicated it. When his folks found out, they freaked out, the Holocaust got all mixed up in it. His mother crying like someone had died. His father yelling at him and telling him he was stupid because now the Nazis would have two reasons to gas him.”

He drank more Scotch, swirled it around like mouthwash. “He’s an only child, it hasn’t been easy. What made it better was the passage of time and his parents getting older. Eventually, he and his old man could talk about it.”

Something Milo had never experienced before his own father died.

“Then came September 11, and Rick changed,” he said. “He took it personally. The fact that Arabs were behind it, the revisionist theories blaming the Jews. All the anti-Semitic swill coming out of Saudi Arabia and Egypt. All of a sudden, Rick got more interested in being Jewish, started reading up on Jewish history, Israel. Started giving money to Zionist causes, subscribing to magazines.”

“That you happened to pick up.”

“The Issa Qumdis thing caught my eye because the basic point was that the guy was a scamster but that it hadn’t impeded his academic career. That always fascinates me. How little reality has to do with the way life plays out- he was something, wasn’t he? Tenure Personified, that cultured stance, then coming out and saying people should be killed. Pretty damn hateful for a college professor.”

“Lots of hatred in academia,” I said.

“You’ve seen that, personally?”

“It’s usually more subtle, but you’d be amazed at what goes on at faculty parties when the scholarly set thinks no one’s listening.”

“Wonder if Issa Qumdis spouts off that way at Harvard. Don’t colleges have hate speech regulations?”

“The rules are enforced selectively.”

“Whose ox is being gored… yeah, it’s a sweet world. Enough about that, time to focus on the evil Dr. Larsen. Learn anything about any local scam?”

“Not yet. I asked Olivia to look into it. Gave her the Sentries program as a lead because I came across it surfing.”

“Sentries for Justice… Olivia’s as good as it gets… By the way, Franco Gull finally broke routine and went to a health club. Pumped iron, ignored the ladies, went home. So maybe he knows about the scam and what the stakes are. The guy tends to get emotional. Maybe he can be wedged and cracked open. Make sense?”

“You’d be showing your hand.”

“Yeah, but if I don’t make any other progress soon, what choice do I have?” He rubbed his face. “Okay, I’ll wait till you hear from Olivia, but eventually I’m gonna have to make a decision-” His cell phone beeped, he slapped it against his ear. “Sturgis… when? Really. Okay, give me the number.”

His pad and pen were still out and he scrawled hastily, clicked the phone shut with a strange smile on his face. “Well, well, well.”

“Who was that?”

“Detective Binchy. Obedient lad that he is, he is at his desk wrapping up his paperwork before he sets out for another look-see on Gull. A call just came in for me, and he took it. Sonny Koppel, wanting to talk. He’s dining. Coffee shop on Pico. I’m invited to drop by.”

“That include me?”

“Sure,” he said. “I’m including you.”

CHAPTER 35

The coffee shop was called Gene’s, and it was one of the few bright spots on a dark, quiet block. South side of Pico, just a few yards from the traffic on La Cienega. A short stroll from the eastern border of Milo’s district.

It was ten-forty when we got there, and the place was fully lit. Long, skinny room with grubby vinyl floors, a Formica counter, and seven matching tables bleached by high wattage. A sign in front said OPEN TO MIDNIGHT. Inside, two young guys in oversized eyeglasses whispered conspiratorially over coffee, pie, and the bound screenplay placed equidistant between them. An old woman gummed an egg salad sandwich. Behind her, a muscular man in gray work clothes read old news in the morning paper and worked on a hamburger.

Shrouded in a limp, gray raincoat, Sonny Koppel sat at the counter forking bacon and eggs into his mouth. The counterman ignored Koppel, as he scrubbed a deep fryer. When we approached, he turned briefly then returned to his chore.

Koppel wiped his mouth, got off his stool, and carried his plate, his napkin, and his utensils to a front table. Near the door but away from the other diners. Under his raincoat, he wore mocha brown sweats with white piping. Loosely laced tennis shoes covered smallish, wide feet. He’d shaved recently, had nicked himself several times.

His coffee cup remained behind, and Milo brought it over to the table. The counterman turned, and said, “Anything for you guys?”

“No, thanks.”

Koppel was still on his feet when Milo brought the coffee cup over.

“Thanks,” he said. “One sec.” Returning to the counter, he snagged ketchup and Tabasco sauce. Finally, he pulled out a chair, sat, wiped his lips. Bounced a fork tine against the rim of his plate and smiled at his plate. “Breakfast food. I like it for dinner.”