He was right, the shop was close by, and the one he had in mind not only specialized in VWs, Porsches, and Audis, but was in a sort of minimall of repair shops, including a glass shop. One way or another, I’d get a new window. “I built this place,” Keene said, with not a little pride. “Lots of special considerations in this kind of building, but the auto guys appreciate the thought that went into it. I never have vacancies here. Minute a shop opens up, someone wants to rent it.”

The owner greeted Keene like a long-lost cousin, quoted me a price that was just above being suspiciously low, and said he could have it ready for me the next day. I called Frank, but he was out, so I left a message on his voice mail saying where the car was and taking him up on an offer for a ride home.

“Come on,” Keene said, after I had signed the paperwork. “I want to show you my city.”

“WHAT’S IN THE ENVELOPES?” he asked as I settled them under my feet in the big Mercedes.

“Some stuff for work,” I said.

He laughed. “Not exactly a two-way street with you reporters, is it?”

“No, so don’t take it personally.”

That seemed to amuse him, too.

He started talking about O’Connor, the man who had taught me most of what I know about reporting. They were drinking buddies, Keene said, which put him in a group that might not fill a stadium, but which would probably sell enough tickets to allow a home game to be shown on TV.

“That was before I quit drinking,” Keene said, “almost thirteen years ago. I still spent time with O’Connor-early on he let me know he wouldn’t try to tempt me. He’d call me up and say, ‘Let’s have lunch, you rich and sober son of a bitch. You buy the sandwich, I’ll buy the water.’ Good man. Everybody knew it. Had his faults, but he was a good man.”

He was silent for a time, and I didn’t ask him any questions. I was thinking my own thoughts of O’Connor.

He took me downtown, and until he drove past the paper, I worried that he might have changed his mind about talking to me, that he was going to take me back to theExpress and go home to Fallbrook. But about half a block past the Wrigley Building, he started pointing out his work.

“Corbin Tyler did a great job on that restaurant design,” he said, pointing to a popular eatery. “My company did all the work. Lovely building to start with-a Schilling. You don’t know of him, I suppose, but he was very popular in his day. Lots of work in Las Piernas. Corbin studied all of the old prints, drew his lines to complement the original design. Owners were pleased.” He pointed to the monolith that was the BLP. “We did the new bank building, of course. There was an abandoned drugstore there before. And here-this clothing store? That was a massage parlor. Not much of a building there before, so we didn’t save it. The masonry was unreinforced, so it probably would have cost a fortune to bring it up to code.”

Cars were passing us, drivers giving him dirty looks, but Keene paid not one bit of attention. He was so preoccupied with looking up at buildings, for a time I worried that he would rear-end somebody. But he seemed to have this style of driving down to a science, and I began to relax and enjoy the show. He pointed out building after building, some new, some remodeled; some for Roland Hill, some for other developers; a favorite here or there, a story behind each one.

“Do you remember what it was like before?” he asked, when the tour seemed to be over.

“Yes. The skyline was lower, and many of the buildings were getting run-down, but-”

“Run-down! Twenty-five years ago, downtown Las Piernas was a pukehole! It was the three Ds-dirty, dangerous, and dying.”

I didn’t argue. He was right, but still…

“You miss the old buildings,” he said, reading my mind. Or maybe my obstinate look.

“Not all of them, but yes, there was a charm and beauty to them that I just don’t find in the BLP building-no offense.”

“None taken. I’m with you.”

“What?”

“I just build them the way they tell me to build them. Unless I’m the owner, there’s only so much say a construction man has over a project. Don’t get me wrong-I take pride in my work-every nail and brick of it. But would I have destroyed the Gergans Building? Never.”

He was referring to a beautiful old building that had been near the shore. The Gergans was one of the battles preservationists in Las Piernas had lost. I had been in it once or twice before it was torn down, seen the carved woodwork and marble, the loving detail work that had graced every corner of it. To some it was probably made in a cluttered style and hopelessly busy; to me, it seemed to say “I’m filled with visual pleasures and surprises. You could work within me day after day, and still you would find something new to see and discover.” The photos, all that remained of it, never would do it justice.

“If you’re trying to tell me there are no easy answers-”

“Oh,” he said, “you know that already.”

“Then why the tour?”

“Bear with me. Bear with me.”

I hoped I could. I was fairly sure I knew where he was driving now, and I wasn’t sure I was ready to see the Angelus again.

But we were about a block away from the old hotel when Keene pulled his Mercedes over to a curb and stopped the car. He looked down the filthy street and asked, “What do you see here?”

“Nothing too lovely,” I admitted, looking at the decaying, boarded-up buildings that lined the block.

“A long row of shitholes, is what you mean.”

“Maybe if the people who lived here a few years ago had been allowed to stay, it wouldn’t be like this. Maybe it wouldn’t have become a place where only rats could survive.”

“Maybe,” he said, “but I don’t picture them having the kind of bucks it would take to paint one of these places, let alone do the earthquake work.”

“Well, if they’d had the kind of bucks the city gave to Hill and Associates, if someone could have taught them how to bamboozle limited partners out of ready cash, if Ben Watterson had loaned money to them on a handshake and at a big discount, hell, who knows what they could have done to the place?”

His mouth flattened into a tight line, but then he sighed and said, “You could be right. Who am I to say? Maybe this neighborhood wouldn’t have gone into the crapper like it did-or, I should say, could have crawled out of the crapper it had already become. But you’ll forgive me if I say I don’t think it would have been so simple to save it, either.”

“No,” I admitted. “We started out saying there weren’t easy answers, right?”

“Right. Well. Let me tell you what else I see here-”

“We could call your vision ‘economic opportunities,’” I interrupted, “and fight over whose opportunity, or we could settle for ‘convention center.’”

He looked surprised, then started laughing. “Shit. Are you the kind of person who calls up the birthday girl and says, ‘I can’t make it to your surprise party?’”

“No,” I said, smiling, “I just enjoy pissing off rich, sober sons of bitches.”

“God, you’re good at it,” he said, wiping tears from his eyes. He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. When he looked over at me again his expression was grim. “Well, no use taking up more time. I just bought a building that looks like a damned church. It’s as good as any place to make a confession.”

He started the car again and pushed the automatic door locks.