"What about him?"
"I know him." Ruiz rotated his wrists, tugged the side of his mouth into a grotesque demi-smile.
Milo said, "I'm waiting."
"I need to get out."
"Next time you get arrested, make sure it's in L.A. and it'll be a snap."
"Please," said Ruiz.
"Tell me about Anteater."
"Please," Ruiz repeated. "My wife coming from Juarez. She can't know."
"You got arrested for the same thing two weeks ago, Hector."
"That was a ticket," said Ruiz. "This time they take me in."
"That's called being a repeat offender."
"Please. I got no bail money, they gonna keep me here, she coming two days."
"Tough lady?"
Ruiz pressed a palm against a temple. "Oh, man."
"I'm LAPD, Hector. Most I can do is talk to Culver City Vice."
"Why just talk? Do," said Ruiz. "You say you gran patron."
"In L.A."
"They lie to me, she was a cop." Ruiz outlined female curves. "They give her the hot pants and the boots, she say I blow you for thirty."
"The boots'll do it every time," said Milo.
"She say she blow me before I say nothing."
"Clear case of entrapment, Hector."
"I need out tomorrow."
"Mrs. Ruiz isn't arriving for two days."
"I need clean the house."
"Hiding the evidence, huh?"
"I need out."
"What's Anteater's name and where can I find him?"
"Get me out I tell you," said Ruiz.
Milo leaned in close. "It doesn't work that way, Hector. And just giving me information won't be enough until I make sure it's worth more than your I.D. card."
Ruiz looked away. "What you want with him?"
"Not your business, Hector, but if you want the wife to be happy, I need him in custody."
No answer.
"Comprende, Hector?"
"I know English."
"And a good English it is." Milo shot a cuff, checked his Timex.
Hector Ruiz said, "You promise to help me?"
"Once I've got Mr. Shirt in custody."
"Okay, okay, okay, he live in my apartment."
"You're roommates?"
"No, no, same building. He number five, the bottom. I number seven, the top."
Milo suppressed a smile. "Beverly Hills?"
"No, no, here," said Ruiz. "Culver City. Venice Boulevard, near the freeway."
Out came the pad. "Address."
Ruiz tugged his mouth. Complied.
"Now I need a name, Hector."
"Gilberto," said Ruiz. "Gilberto Chavez, he say he a painter, in Juarez he never paint, just drywall and no good at drywall."
"One of those darn painter wannabes," said Milo.
"Don't say I the one tell you."
"What else do you know about Mr. Chavez?"
"He smoke a lot." Miming a two-fingered cigarette grasp, Ruiz brought his hand to his mouth, scrunched his eyes, hollowed his cheeks, gave a goofy look.
"Marihuana que fumar," said Milo.
"All the time," said Ruiz. "That's what they pay him with."
"Who?"
"Kids."
"What kids?"
"They pay him with weed to buy dry ice. He say lucky day."
"Tell me about these kids, Hector."
"That's all he say. Kids."
"How many?"
Ruiz shook his head. "That's all he say."
Milo waited.
Ruiz said, "You got to get me out before Lupe come."
"If you've done your best, Hector, I'll do mine. Tell me about the kids."
"That's what he say." Crossing himself. "Kids, that's all."
Milo headed for the door.
Hector Ruiz said, "Please."
A call to a Vice D named Gerald Santostefano revealed that Ruiz was scheduled for release in three hours due to overcrowding at the jail.
"Why'd you take him in to begin with?"
"He's a chronic, Lieutenant."
"Likes the ladies, huh?"
"Likes 'em in boots, real pest," said Santostefano. "You know what it's like, we can't get 'em unless we nab 'em in the act. We put one of our cuter rookies in a pair of knee-high white plastics with stacked heels, he was toast."
"There's an idea for Project Runway."
Santostefano cracked up.
Milo said, "Any way you can keep him in for a while?"
"What's a while?"
"Until I call you and let you know his info's good."
"Well," said Santostefano, "I got no personal problem with that but it's a jail issue. Who's on shift there?"
"Officer Bostic."
"Shirronne's okay, I can maybe get her to lose paper for another few hours. Beyond that, I can't promise."
Milo thanked him.
"Hey," said Santostefano. "Who knows, maybe one day I'll need you."
"Not for fashion advice."
The building besmirched a corner lot on the south side of Venice just west of Sepulveda. Two gloomy stories of cracked, gray stucco were rust-striped like a tabby cat. Waist-high chain link boxed in a yard coated with powdery brown dust. Cans and bottles and trash bags had been kicked into a corner. Errant flecks of garbage dotted the dirt near the doorway.
During the quarter hour we watched the premises, two Hispanic males left and three others entered, the third swaggering arm in arm with a chubby, heavily made-up woman wearing a floral micro-dress.
Gilberto Chavez, aspiring housepainter, didn't show up in DMV, AutoTrack, or any other database, making the surveillance guesswork.
Milo watched another man enter. "Could be any one of them." A few more minutes passed, then: "Might as well."
Unit Five was at the rear of the ground floor. A bumper sticker issued by a Spanish A.M. station was glued diagonally across the door.
Milo put one hand near his Glock and knocked three times.
The door opened and the sweet, vegetative aroma of marijuana blew out.
The man who blinked at us in surprise was small-five four, tops, with thick black hair that shrouded his forehead and grazed the top of bushy eyebrows. The eyes below were brown meatballs floating in hot-pink soup. His mouth hung open, showcasing half the teeth he'd grown by six.
He was dressed for stoner comfort in loose, grubby pale blue sweatpant shorts and a T-shirt. The tee was white, three sizes too big, emblazoned with the UC Irvine logo in gold lettering and an anteater of matching hue. The animal was caricatured in profile, extravagantly snouted, hipster-slouching in a way that evoked Robert Crumb.
Milo said, "Gilberto Chavez?"
The man blinked. "Ah… no."
"On the contrary, ah yes."
Chavez tried to close the door. Milo had him spun around, cuffed, patted, and trundling toward the curb before Chavez got out another denial. One of the sweatpant pockets gave up Mexican I.D., a tin of organic rolling papers, and a Baggie of clean-looking marijuana.
"No Gilberto," he insisted.
"That Juarez driver's license sure looks like you."
"No Gilberto."
"Gimme a break," said Milo.
"Okay."
Milo stared down at his diminutive quarry. "Okay, what?"
"I Gilberto."
"So glad we've reached a consensus."
"No my weed."
We waited until traffic thinned to cross Venice, put Chavez in the car. The dope reek embedded in his clothes saturated the interior and Milo cranked open a window. "Tell me about dry ice, Gilberto."
"Huh?"
"Kids paying you to buy dry ice."
"Huh?"
"Last week, in the Valley. Some kids gave you marijuana after you bought them dry ice."
Blank stare from Chavez.
"Hielo seco," said Milo. "Muy frio. Some kids asked you to-"
"Oh," said Chavez, grinning broadly.
"Something's funny, Gilberto?"
Chavez turned serious. "This no about weed?"