"For all my Cartier and Tiffany. Wait here."
He disappeared and I stood there, humbled once more by the truism I'd learned a thousand patients ago: Everyone has secrets. At the core, we're alone.
That made me think of Robin. Where was she? What was she doing? With whom?
Milo returned, minus his necktie. "Hungry?"
"Not really."
"Good, let's eat."
He locked up and we got back in the car. I said, "That call from Personnel. Maybe procedures have tightened up with John Broussard in charge. Isn't troop discipline his pet issue?"
"Yeah. How about Hot Dog Heaven?"
I drove to San Vicente just north of Beverly and parked at the curb. Hot Dog Heaven was built around a giant hot dog, yet another testament to L.A.'s literal thinking. The fast-food joint became a landmark when the pony ride that had occupied the corner of La Cienega and Beverly for decades was replaced by the neon-and-concrete assault known as the Beverly Center. Too bad Philip K. Dick had committed suicide. A few years later and he'd have seen Blade Runner spring to life. Or maybe he'd known what was coming.
Back during pony-ride days, the dirt track had been a favorite weekend visitation hangout for divorced dads and their kids. Hot Dog Heaven had thrived peddling nitrites to lonely men who smoked and hung around the low-slung corral, watching their progeny go round and round. Where did displaced dads go now? Not the mall. The last thing kids at the mall wanted was proximity to their parents.
Milo ordered two jumbo chili cheese dogs with extra onions, and I got a knockwurst. We filled out the bill with two large Cokes and sat down to eat as traffic roared by. It was late for lunch and early for dinner and only two other tables were occupied, an old woman reading the paper and a tall, long-haired youth in hospital blues- probably a Cedars-Sinai intern.
Milo wolfed the first chili dog without the aid of respiration. After tweezing every scrap of cheese from the wax paper with his fingers, he gulped Coke and got to work on the second. He finished that one, too, sprang up, and bought a third. My wurst tasted fine, but it was all I could do to feign hunger.
He was counting his change when a bronze Jeep Cherokee parked in front of my Seville and a man got out and walked past me toward the counter. Black suit, pearl shirt, soot-colored tie. Smiling. That's what made me notice him. A big, wide, toothy grin, as if he'd just received terrific news. I watched him stride quickly to the counter and come to a stop just behind Milo, where he waited, bouncing on his heels. His black suede loafers were lifted by two-inch heels. Without them he was an easy six feet. He stood close to Milo, kept bouncing. Milo didn't seem to notice. Something made me put down the wurst and keep my eyes on both of them.
Smiley was thirty or so, with dark hair gelled and combed back, curling over his collar. Big-jawed face, prominent nose, golden tan. The suit was well cut- Italian or pretending to be, and it looked brand-new, as did the suede shoes. The gray shirt was satin-finish silk, the tie a bulky knit. Dressed for an audition as a game show host?
He edged even closer to Milo. Said something. Milo turned and answered.
Smiley nodded.
Milo picked up his food and returned to the table.
"Friendly sort?" I said.
"Who?"
"The guy behind you. He's been smiling since he left that Jeep."
"So?"
"So what's to smile about?"
Milo allowed his own mouth to curl upward. But he let his eyes drift back to the counter, where the smiling man was now conversing with the counter girl. "Anything other than that bother you about him?"
"He was standing close enough to you to smell your cologne."
"If I wore any," he said, but he continued to watch the goings-on at the counter. Finally sat back and sank his teeth into the third chili dog. "Nothing like health food." He regarded my half-finished wurst. "What's with the anorexia?"
"Just out of curiosity, what did he say to you up there?"
"Oh, boy…" He shook his head. "He wanted to know what was good, okay? I told him I liked anything with chili. Heavy-duty intrigue."
I smiled. "Or flirting."
"Me?"
"Him."
"Oh, sure, strangers always come up and hit on me. The old fatal charm and all that."
But he hazarded another glance at the counter where Smiley was still gabbing with the girl as he paid for his dog. Plain, no chili. He sat down at the table closest to ours, unfolded a napkin over his lap, flipped his hair, beamed at Milo, said. "Chickened out on the chili."
"Your loss."
Smiley laughed. Tugged at his lapel. Took a bite. A dainty little bite that didn't alter the shape of the hot dog.
I mumbled, "Fatal charm."
Milo said, "Enough," and wiped his face.
Smiley continued to nibble without making much progress. Dabbed his chin. Showed off his dental work. Made several attempts at catching Milo's eye. Milo moved his bulk around, stared at the ground.
Smiley said, "These really are a mouthful."
I fought back laughter.
Milo nudged my arm. "Let's go."
We stood. Smiley said, "Have a nice day."
He got to his feet as we reached the car and jogged toward us, sandwich in one hand, the other waving.
"What the hell," said Milo and his hand sidled under his coat.
Smiley reached into his own jacket and all at once Milo had interposed himself between the stranger and me. A flesh barrier, immense; tension seemed to enlarge him. Then he relaxed. Smiley was still waving, but the something in his hand was small and white. A business card.
"Sorry for being so forward, but I… here's my number. Call me if you'd like."
"Why would I do that?" said Milo.
Smiley's lips drew back, and his grin morphed into something hungry and unsettling. "Because you never know."
He dangled the card.
Milo stood there.
Smiley said, "Oh, well," and placed the card on the hood of the Seville. His new face was serious, vulpine, purposeful. He trotted away from us, tossed the uneaten hot dog in the trash, got into the Jeep, and sped away as Milo hustled to copy down his license plate. He picked the card off the hood, read it and handed it to me.
Off-white vellum with a faintly greasy feel, engraved letters.
Paris M. Bartlett
Health Facilitator
Below that, a cell phone number.
" 'Because you never know,' " said Milo. "Health facilitator. Do I look sick?"
"Other than stains on your shirt you look perfectly put-together."
"Health facilitator," he repeated. "Sounds like something from the AIDS industry." He pulled out his cell phone and jabbed in Paris Bartlett's number. Frowned again. "No longer in service. What the hell…"
"Time to DMV the plates?" I said.
"DMV'ing is illegal when I'm on vacation. Using departmental resources for personal reasons, big no-no."
"John G. would disapprove mightily."
"Mightily." He made the call to State Motor Vehicles, recited the plate, waited a while, wrote something down. "The plates belong to a two-year-old Jeep, so that's kosher. Registered to the Playa del Sol Corporation. The address is right here in West Hollywood. I recognize it. Parking lot of the Healthy Foods market on Santa Monica. There's a post-office box outlet there. I know because I used to rent there myself."
"When?"
"Long time ago."
A safe. A POB. All the new things I was learning about my friend.
"Dead number, shadow address," I said. "Playa del Sol could be nothing more than a cardboard box in someone's apartment, but it does have the ring of a real estate outfit."
"As in the Cossacks." He studied the card. "That and the call about my vacation time. Right after we talk to Marlene Baldassar. Maybe she can't be trusted."
Or maybe he hadn't covered his trail. I said, "It could be just a pickup attempt." But I knew that was wrong. Paris Bartlett had bounded out of his car with clear intention.