“What rights? You're not being arrested.”

“Leggo of the chair.”

“Sure,” said Milo. Pushing another button, he locked the tires.

“You're in big trouble, pigass,” said the old man. “Lemme see that paper.”

Milo gave him the warrant again and he unfolded it.

“I need my glasses.”

Milo stood there.

“Gimme my glasses!”

“Do I look like Armand?”

Cursing and squinting, the old man held the warrant at arm's length with palsying hands. The arms lost their strength and the paper slipped and fell to the floor.

I picked it up and tried to give it to him.

He shook his head. “You guys are no good. Rotten, no honor.”

“Oh yeah,” said Milo. “Honor among thieves. Spare me.”

“What do you want!”

“Just to talk.”

“Then get yourself a psychiatrist!”

Milo grinned at me.

“Fuck off, clown.”

“Why so hasty, Kruvinski? Maybe we could help each other.”

“In hell.”

“Maybe there, too.”

Milo leaned over him. “Don't you godfather types make a big thing about gratitude? You're looking at the guy who saved Junior's life.”

Something flickered behind the cloudy eyes.

“Unfortunately, I couldn't save Hope Devane. Or your grandnephew, little Casey. But I did get the guy who did them. Stopped him before he got to Junior.”

The clouded eyes were wide now. Unblinking.

“Who? Gimme a name.”

Milo placed a finger on Kruvinski's lips, gently. “That doesn't mean I'm going to forget about what Junior did. Which you can bet the scumbag will use as his defense. Odds are any jury's going to sympathize with him. Especially one of our idiot L.A. juries. Or we won't even have a trial 'cause the D.A. will plea-bargain it down. Meaning sooner or later the scumbag's gonna be out and guess who he's gonna be looking for? So unless Junior plans to stay on vacation forever, he's gonna be looking over his shoulder a lot.”

The old man smiled. “I give a-”

“Right,” said Milo. “You're Don Corleone.”

Silence. “So what do you want from me?”

“I need to know if Junior operated on anyone else for your sake. And what was the connection between Hope and your family? Why'd you pay her allowance?”

Silence.

“It's gonna come out. Better we let the prosecution have it before the defense.”

“Yeah,” said the old man, “we're all on the same side.” He tried to spit, produced only a belch.

“God forbid,” said Milo.

Soft conversation drifted from the kitchen. Then loud snaps. Cops opening and closing cabinets.

“Shaddup!” screeched the old man, to no effect.

“Your people are all gone,” said Milo. “Some people. Armand and Little Miss Anna- the former Storm Breeze. Closest she ever came to an R.N. was playing one in that movie of yours- Head Nurse. Junior teach her the fundamentals of renal care?”

No answer.

“Little blur between reality and fantasy, Mr. K.? Like Junior's Beverly Hills office, all those diplomas, business cards advertising fertility medicine, but no patients. Anything to make the kid feel important, huh?”

The old man spat.

Milo stretched and looked around. “That operating room. Those dialysis machines. A clinic for one man. At least Junior had his fling at medicine over in Santa Monica. Because the chance of him ever practicing again when all this comes out is zippo. Assuming the scumbag lets him live.”

Kruvinski didn't speak for a long time.

“Push me outside,” he finally said. “Under that tree.”

Waving a claw hand toward the olive-green drapes.

“What tree?” said Milo.

“Behind the curtains, moe-ron. Open 'em, get me out in the air.”

In the shade of the oak, he said, “Gimme a name.”

“Don't know your own donor's name?”

“I don't know any donor.”

“You could be forced to submit to a checkup.”

“On what grounds?”

“I'm sure the defense will find one.”

“Good luck.” Gnarled hands rested in his lap. The jaws worked faster.

“How many other kidneys has Junior harvested for you?”

“You're crazy.”

“Fine,” said Milo. “Play hard-to-get. Other victims start coming forward, Junior's going to be in the hot seat and the scumbag'll start looking like a hero. Maybe you don't care about Hope, just another hooker's kid. But little Casey- try explaining that to his grandma, your sister Sonia. San Francisco cops told me you bailed him out of those meth-manufacturing busts at Berkeley, smoothed his record, got Hope to sponsor him into grad school. Which wasn't that big of a stretch. He was a smart kid, top of his class, just like Hope. Just like Junior. But look where it got all of them.”

The old man looked up through the tree. A hairline of light had pierced the branches, creating a hot, white scar down the center of his degraded face.

“When it comes out that Casey died because of his association with Junior, how are you gonna explain that to your sister Sonia and Casey's mommy, her daughter Cheryl? They trusted their baby to you. How you gonna explain why he's cooling in the coroner's fridge instead of writing his thesis?”

The old man gazed out at the pool. The black bottom gave it a mirrored surface, no visibility of the depths. Ten years ago, black bottoms had been the thing. Then a few kids fell in and no one noticed them.

“Family ties,” said Milo. “But Don Corleone took care of his people.”

“My son is-” said the old man. “You'll never have such a son.”

“Amen.”

The cloudy eyes popped. “Fuck you! Coming in here, thinking you know, you don't fu-”

“That's the point,” said Milo. “I don't know.”

“Thinking you know,” repeated the old man. “Thinking you- moe-ron- lemme tell you”- a finger wagged-“she was good people, Hope. And her mama. Don't shoot your mou- don't disrespect people you don't know. Don't- you don't know so shaddup!”

“Was she family, too?”

“I made her family. Who the hell you think paid for her schooling? Who the hell got her mama outta hooking and into managing a club, regular hours, a paycheck, goddamn pension plan? Who? Some fucking social worker?”

The finger curled laboriously, managed to point at his caved-in chest. “I been working my whole life helping people! And one of the ones I helped most was that girlie's mother. When she got cancer I helped with that, too. When she died, I paid for the funeral.”

“Why?”

“Because she was good people.”

“Ah.”

“The girl, too. Little blondie, body like that, you think I couldn'ta got her into club work if I wanted to? But, no, I could see she was finer. Had a brain. So I told Lottie we keep her far from the clubs. We make sure she gets schooling. I figured she'd be a doctor, like Mike. Botha them did the science projects together, geniuses. She changes her mind, decides to be a shrink, okay, it's almost the same. I treated her like she was my daughter.”

“Smartest boy, smartest girl,” I said.

The wizened face snapped toward me. “You bet, pal. My Mike was the smartest thing you ever seen, you shoulda had such a kid, reading at three, saying stuff people couldn't believe. And you know where brains come from? Genes. They proved it. All the kids in my family are brains. Casey skipped two grades, got a brother studying at MIT, nuclear physics. I came to this country with nuttin', no one gave me shit. Greatest country in the world, you're smart and you work, you get what you want, not like the niggers on welfare.”

“Why'd you make Hope family?” said Milo. “ 'Cause you liked her mama?”

The old man glared at him. “Get your mind outta the gutter. If I wanted that kinda thing, I had plenty of others. You wanna know? I tell you. She helped Mike. Botha them helped Mike. Lottie and Hope. After that…” He crossed his index fingers. “Family.”