“Thank you, Dmitri,” Cosmo said. “I shall be correct in my business with you.”

After hanging up, Cosmo made the second crucial call, to Farley Ramsdale’s cell number, but got only his voice mail. It was the first time this had ever happened. The addict never slept and was always open for business deals. It staggered him. He would try again in thirty minutes. He still had the alternate plan for Farley and Olive, but this did not bode well. He had all of the killing tools with him and he was ready.

Where in the hell was Olive? She knew they were almost down to their last dollar and had to work the mailboxes or maybe try again to pass some of the bogus money they still had. Or just go to a RadioShack or Best Buy and try to boost a DVD player to sell at the cybercafé. Things were that desperate!

But where was the stupid bitch? All Farley knew was she went out searching the goddamn neighborhood for that crazy Mabel’s fucking cat! He was about to go out looking for her, when he got a cell call from Little Bart.

When he recognized the voice he said, “Whadda you want?”

“I felt bad the way things were left between us,” Little Bart said.

“So you’re calling to say you wanna send me flowers?”

“I wanna do a deal with you.”

“What kinda deal?”

“I want you to deliver a couple of brand-new computers to a real nice house on the west side of Laurel Canyon.”

“Deliver them how?”

“In your car.”

“Why don’t you deliver them?”

“I lost my driver’s license on a DUI.”

“That’s the only reason?”

“And I hurt my back and can’t carry them.”

“They ain’t very heavy. Tell you what, how about I deliver in your car?”

“They impounded my car when they popped me.”

“Uh-huh. So how much do I get for this delivery?”

“Fifty bucks.”

“Good-bye, Bart,” Farley said.

“No, wait! A hundred bucks. It’ll take you a half hour, tops.”

“One fifty.”

“Farley, I’m not making much on this. They aren’t the very best top-of-the-line computers.”

“I don’t risk my ass delivering hot computers that you’re too chickenshit to deliver for less than one twenty-five.”

“Okay, deal.”

“When?”

“Can you meet me at Hollywood and Fairfax in twenty minutes? I’ll be standing on the corner and I’ll walk and you follow me to where you pick up and deliver. The merchandise is in a garage there. Then when you got it, I’ll ride with you to the drop-off address.”

“Why will you walk to the pickup location instead of riding with me?”

“I can’t be anywhere near this pickup. I can’t explain.”

“And you’ll have the money?”

“Half. I’ll give you the other half when the job’s done.”

“Can you make it later? I can’t find that goddamn bitch of mine.”

“You don’t need her.”

“Who the hell you think does the heavy lifting?” Farley said. “And she goes in first in case there’s anything chancy going on.”

“We can’t wait for her. Twenty minutes, Farley,” Bart said.

Farley looked all over the street but still no Olive. He made a quick stop at Mabel’s and found the old witch reading tarot cards in which Olive believed with all her heart.

Farley peered through the rusted screen. “Hey, Mabel, you seen Olive?”

“Yes, she’s out looking for Tillie. I think Tillie might be pregnant. She’s acting peculiar and roaming around as though she’s looking for a nest. She was once a feral cat, you know. I took her in and tamed her.”

Farley said, “Yeah, I’m sure you got a Humane Society award. If you see Olive, tell her I had to do a quick job and she should wait for me at home.”

“All right, Farley,” Mabel said. “It might interest you to know that the cards don’t look good for you,” she added. “Maybe you should stay home too.”

She heard him mumble “Crazy old bitch” when he left her porch.

Olive was in the backyard of a neighbor six houses away, looking for Tillie and chatting with the neighbor about the beautiful white camellias that bordered her property. And Olive just loved the pink and white azaleas that climbed the fence. Olive told her that someday she hoped to have a garden. The woman offered to teach Olive the basics and to get her started with the proper seeds and a few young plants.

Olive thought she heard Farley’s Corolla, excused herself, and running to the street saw his taillights at the stop sign. She yelled but he didn’t hear her and was gone. Olive then went home, hoping he wasn’t mad at her.

There he was on the northeast corner of Hollywood and Fairfax, jumping around like he had to take a leak. Or had to score some tweak, more likely, Farley figured. He didn’t like any part of this. Little Bart couldn’t drive because he had no license? When did that ever stop a tweaker from driving? He couldn’t carry a computer because his back hurt? He couldn’t ride in Farley’s car to the garage where the computers were? What was this shit all about?

Little Bart walked over to his car and said, “Just follow me real slow for half a block. When I get to the house, I’ll point with my finger behind my back. Then you drive into the driveway and go to the garage. The door will open manually. Get the computers and pick me up two blocks north.”

While he was driving slowly behind Bart, he missed Olive more than he had in the eighteen months they’d been together. This was a very bad deal. Bart was scared to pick up the merchandise, which meant that Bart didn’t trust the thief who’d stolen the computers, or the fence who’d hired Bart to deliver them.

If Olive were here, there’d be no problem. He’d drop her off at the pickup address and let her go into the garage and check it out. If the cops were there and grabbed her, he’d just keep on moving down the road. If there was one thing he was sure of, Olive would never rat him out. She’d take the hit and do the time if she had to and come to him when she got out of jail, just as though nothing had happened.

But Olive wasn’t here. And that fucking Little Bart was pointing at a house, a modest one for this neighborhood. Then Bart kept walking north. Farley parked across from the house and looked at the garage.

The house wasn’t unlike his own. It was in that ubiquitous California style that everyone calls Spanish, which means nothing other than tile roof and stucco walls. The longer he looked at it, the worse he felt about the whole arrangement.

Farley got out of the car and walked across the street to the house. He went to the front door and rang the bell. When he got no answer, he went to the side door, which was only forty feet from the garage, banged on the door, and yelled, “Olive, you there? Hellooooo? Olive?”

It was then that two Hollywood Division detectives came out of the garage, badged him, put him against the wall, patted him down, and then dragged him back into the garage. There was nothing in the garage except a workbench, some tools and tires, and two boxes containing new computers.

“What is this?” he said.

“You tell us,” the older detective said.

“My girlfriend, Olive, went to lunch with a pal of hers and gave me the pal’s address. This is it.”

“Right,” the younger detective said. “What’ve you been in jail for?”

“Petty kid stuff is all,” Farley said. “What’s this all about?”

“You been busted for burglary?”

“No.”

“Receiving?”

“Receiving what?

“Don’t fuck with us. Receiving stolen property.”

“No, just kid stuff. Drug possession. Petty theft a couple times.”

“Are you going to use the S-O-D-D-I defense?”

“What’s that?”

“Some other dude did it.”

“I’m innocent!” Farley cried.

“Well, partner,” the younger detective said to the other. “Let’s take kid stuff here to the station. Looks like our surprise party is blown.”

“Hey, man,” Farley said, “I musta wrote down the wrong address is all. My girlfriend Olive’s gonna be looking for me. If you’ll let me call her, she’ll tell you.”