The phone rang.

He ignored it.

It kept going, ten times.

He let it die a natural death.

A minute later, it rang again and he figured maybe he should answer it, what if it was Rumley testing him?

Clearing his throat and getting Mr. Sincere ready, he picked up. “Save the Marsh.”

Silence on the other end made him smile.

One of his friends pranking him, probably Ethan. Or Ben or Jared.

“Dude,” he said. “What’s up?”

A weird kind of hissy voice said, “Up?” Weird laughter. “Something’s down. As in buried in your marsh.”

“Okay, dude-”

“Shut up and listen.”

Being talked to like that made Chance’s face go all hot, like when he was ready to sneak a flagrant in on some loser on the opposing team, then get all innocent when the dude wailed about being nut-jammed.

He said, “Fuck off, dude.”

The hissy voice said, “East side of the marsh. Look and you’ll find it.”

“Like I give a-”

“Dead,” said Hissy. “Something real real dead.” Laughter. “Dude.”

Hanging up before Chance could tell him to shove dead up his…

A voice from the door said, “Hey, man, how’s it shaking?”

Chance’s face was still hot, but he put on Mr. Sincere and looked over.

There in the doorway was Duboff, wearing his Save the Marsh T-shirt, geek shorts showing too much skinny white thigh, plastic sandals, that stupid gray beard.

“Hey, Mr. Duboff,” said Chance.

“Hey, man.” Duboff gave a clenched-fist salute. “Did you have a chance to check out the herons before you got here?”

“Not yet, sir.”

“They’re incredible animals, man. Magnificent. Wingspread like this.” Unfolding scrawny arms to the max.

You’ve obviously mistaken me for someone who gives half a shit.

Duboff came closer, smelling gross, that organic deodorant he’d tried to convince Chance to use. “Like pterodactyls, man. Master fishers.”

Chance had thought a heron was a fish until Duboff told him different.

Duboff edged near the desk, showed those gross teeth of his. “Rich folk in Beverly Hills don’t like when the herons swoop in during hatching season and eat their rich-folk koi. Koi are aberrations. Mutations, people messing with brown carp, screwing up the DNA to get those colors. Herons are Nature, brilliant predators. They feed their young and restore nature to true balance. Screw those Beverly Hillbillies, huh?”

Chance smiled.

Maybe it wasn’t a big enough smile because Duboff suddenly looked nervous. “You don’t live there, do I recall correctly?”

“No, sir.”

“You live in…”

“Brentwood.”

“Brentwood,” said Duboff, as if trying to figure out what that meant. “Your parents don’t keep koi, do they?”

“Nope. We don’t even have a dog.”

“Good for you guys,” said Duboff, patting Chance’s shoulder. “It’s all servitude. Pets, I mean. The whole concept is like slavery.”

Keeping his hand on the shoulder. Was the guy a fag?

“Yeah,” said Chance, inching away.

Duboff scratched his knee. Frowned and rubbed a pink bump. “Stopped by the marsh to check for trash. Musta got bit by something.”

“Providing food for the little guys,” said Chance. “That’s a good thing, sir.”

Duboff stared at him, trying to figure out if Chance was messing with his head.

Chance brought out Mr. Sincere and Duboff decided Chance was being righteous and smiled. “Guess you’re right… anyway, I just thought I’d stop in, see how you’re doing before your shift ends.”

“I’m fine, sir.”

“Okay, check you out later, man.”

Chance said, “Uh, sir, it’s kinda close to the end.”

Duboff smiled. “So it is. At ten, you can lock up. I’ll be by later.” Walking to the door, he stopped, looked back. “It’s a noble thing you’re doing, Chance. Whatever the circumstances.”

“Absolutely, sir.”

“Call me Sil.”

“You got it, Sil.”

Duboff said, “Anything I should know about?”

“Like what, sir?”

“Calls, messages?”

Chance grinned, flashing perfect white chompers, courtesy five years of Dr. Wasserman.

“Nothing, Sil,” he said, with utter confidence.

CHAPTER 2

Bob Hernandez needed the money.

Nothing but money would get him out here this early.

At five a.m., Pacific Public Storage was a fog-shrouded dump-like one of those gloomy places they used for serial killer and drug shootout movies. Twenty-four-hour facility, but most of the bulbs supposed to light up the passageways between the units were out and the auctioneer had to use a flashlight.

At this hour, no one was fully awake except for the Asian guy. Lousy turnout compared with the other auctions Bob had attended. Just him and four other people and the auctioneer, a white-haired guy named Pete in a suit and tie. The suit was cheap and brown and the tie needed Viagra. Guy reminded Bob of those shabby lawyers hanging around the downtown court building, waiting to be assigned to a case.

L.A. law but nothing like L.A. Law. Or Boston Legal, for that matter.

Bob would’ve loved to get hooked up with a good-looking girl attorney like on those shows, real passionate about defending him. Passionate about other stuff, too, after she saves his butt, the two of them…

Instead he got Mason Soto from the PD’s office, guy went to Berkeley, let that fact slip into the conversation three separate times. Trying to bond with Bob, like they were homeboys, talking about immigration, La Raza.

Mason Soto had grown up in San Francisco and thought the country should open its borders to everyone. Bob had been raised in West Covina by a third-generation Mexican American ex-marine firefighter dad and a fourth-generation Swedish American police dispatcher mom and both his brothers were cops and the whole family, including Bob, thought people should play by the rules and anyone who didn’t should get their ass kicked out.

He told Soto, “I hear you,” hoping that would get Soto to put out some extra effort, get him totally clear of the traffic warrants as well as the failure to appear.

Soto yawned through the trial and Bob ended up with a massive fine and ten days at County Jail, cut to five. Then reduced to an overnight stay because of overcrowding but, man, one day in that hellhole was enough.

The fine was a more enduring problem. Thirty-five hundred bucks that he needed to come up with in sixty days and none of his landscaping jobs had come through and he was already behind on his rent. Not to mention the child support. If Kathy decided to make trouble for him, he was screwed.

He missed the kids living in Houston with Kathy’s folks.

Truth be told, he missed Kathy.

His own damn fault. Screwing around with women he didn’t even care about, he still didn’t understand why he kept doing it.

He’d borrowed five hundred dollars from his mom, telling her it would go toward the fine. But the city wouldn’t take partial payment and he needed something to generate income so he could square up his rent as well as the fine.

Yesterday, the tree-moving company out in Saugus had called back, told him to come in, fill out forms, maybe that would pan out.

Meanwhile, he was doing what he could.

Up at four a.m., making sure he’d sail on the drive from Alhambra to Playa Del Rey, be at the storage facility when it opened.

He’d read about abandoned property auctions on the Internet a few months ago, forgot about it until being slapped with the fine. Not stupid enough to think he was going to come up with one of those treasures that made the papers-a Honus Wagner baseball card or a rare painting-his hopes were pinned on eBay.

Because people bought anything on eBay. You could sell a stool sample on eBay.

So far, he’d attended four auctions, driving as far as Goleta-which turned out to be a total bust. But striking gold-silver, actually-right close to home.