Milo turned left on Broadway, drove until 108th, and made a right. We passed an enormous, windowless brown brick fortress.
“Southeast Division,” he said. “But we’re not meeting him there.”
He drove for another few miles, through silent residential blocks of tiny, characterless bungalows. Ocher and pink and turquoise texture-coat competed with the angry black-and-Dayglo tangle of gang scrawl. Dirt lawns were surrounded by sheets of chain link. Undernourished dogs scrounged through the trash that lined the curbs. A quick turn took us to 111th. Another led us into a cracked-asphalt alley lined with an alternating band of garage doors and more chain link.
A group of black men in their early twenties loitered midway down the alley. When they saw the Ford cruising toward them, they stared defiantly, then sauntered away and disappeared into one of the garages.
Milo said, “Strictly speaking, this isn’t Watts- that’s farther east. But same difference.”
He turned off the engine and pocketed the keys, then unclasped the shotgun.
“This is where it happened,” he said. “Novato. You want to stay in the car, feel free.”
He got out. I did the same.
“Place used to be a major crack alley,” he said, looking up and down, holding the shotgun in one hand. “Then it got cleaned up- one of those neighborhood group things. Then it got bad again. Depends what week you’re here.”
His eyes kept moving. To each end of the alley. To the garage doors. I followed his gaze and saw the pock and splinter of bullet holes in stucco and wood- malignant blackheads among the graffiti blemish. The ground was struggling clumps of weeds, garbage, used condoms, cellophane packets, empty matchbooks, the cheap-jewelry glitter of foil scraps. The air stank of dog shit and decomposed food.
“You tell me,” said Milo. “Can you think of any reason for him to come down here except for dope?”
The sound of a car engine from the north end of the alley made both of us turn. Milo lifted the shotgun and held it with both hands.
What looked like another unmarked. A Matador. Sage-green.
Milo relaxed.
The car nosed up next to the Ford. The man who got out was about my age, medium-sized and trim, very dark, clean-shaven, with a medium Afro. He wore a banker’s pinstriped gray suit, white button-down shirt, red silk tie, and glossy black wingtips. Square-jawed and straight-backed and very handsome, but, despite the good posture, tired-looking.
Milo said, “Maury.”
“Milo. Congratulations on the promotion.”
“Thanks.”
The two of them shook hands. Smith looked at me. His face was beautifully shaved and fragrant with good cologne. But his eyes were weary and bloodshot under long thick lashes.
Milo said, “This is Dr. Alex Delaware. He’s a shrink, called in to work with the kids at Hale School. He was the one who discovered the connection between the Burden girl and your guy. Been a department consultant for years but had never done a ride-along. I thought Southeast might be instructive.”
“Doctor,” said Smith. His grip was very firm, very dry. To Milo: “If you wanted to be instructive, how come you didn’t give him his own shotgun?”
Milo smiled.
Smith took out a pack of Marlboros, lit one, and said, “Anyway.”
Milo said, “Where exactly did it go down?”
“Far as I can remember,” said Smith, “just about exactly where you’re parked. Hard to recall with all the shootings we get around here. I brought the file- hold on.”
He went back to his ear, opened the passenger door, leaned in, and pulled out a folder. Handing it to Milo, he said, “Don’t show the pictures to the doctor here unless you want to lose yourself a consultant.”
“That bad?”
“Shotgun, from up close- you know what that does. He must have put his hands up in a defensive reflex because they got shredded to pieces- I’m talking confetti. The face was… shotgun stuff. Barely enough blood left in him by the time the crime-scene boys arrived. But he was dope-positive all right. Coke and booze and downers- regular walking pharmacy.”
Milo thumbed through the folder, his face impassive. I moved closer and looked down. Sheets of paper. Lots of typewritten police prose. A couple of photos taped to the top. Living color. Long-view crime-scene shots and close-ups of something lying face-up on the filthy asphalt. Something ragged and wet that had once been human.
My stomach churned. I looked away but struggled to remain outwardly calm.
Smith had been watching me. He said, “I guess you guys see that stuff- medical school and all that.”
“He’s a Ph.D.,” said Milo.
“Ph.D.,” said Smith. “Philosophy doctor.” He stretched his arm down the alley. “Any ideas about the philosophy of a place like this?”
I shook my head and smiled. As Milo read, Smith kept checking the alley. I was struck by the silence of the place- a sickly, contrived silence, like that of a mortuary. Devoid of birdsong or traffic, the hum of commerce or conversation. I entertained postnuclear fantasies. Then all at once, noise intruded with all the shock and harshness of an armed robber: the scream and wobble of an ambulance siren from afar, followed by high-pitched human screams- an ugly duet of domestic violence- from somewhere close. Smith gave a distasteful look, glanced at Milo’s shotgun, opened his suit jacket, and touched the butt of the revolver that lay nestled in his shoulder holster. Then silence again.
“Okay. Let’s see. Ah, here’s the toxicology,” said Milo, flipping pages. “Yeah, the guy was definitely fried.”
“Deep-fried,” said Smith, sniffing. “Why else would he be down here?”
Milo said, “One thing I wonder about, Maury. The kid lives in Venice. Ocean Front’s a pharmacy in its own right- why bother coming down here?”
Smith thought for a moment and said, “Maybe he didn’t like the brand they were selling locally. People do that now- get picky. The businessmen we’re dealing with nowadays are into packaging and labeling. Dry Ice, Sweet Dreams, Medellin Mouton- choose your poison. Or maybe he was a businessman himself- selling, not buying, came here to collect something the boys over in Venice weren’t providing.”
“Maybe,” said Milo.
“Why else?” said Smith. “Anyway, don’t lose too much sleep over it. If I wasted my time trying to second-guess junkies and wet-heads, might as well nail my foot to the floor and run in circles all day.” He puffed on his cigarette.
Milo said, “Yeah, saw your stats on the last report.”
“Grim,” said Smith. “Wholly uncivilized.”
He smoked and nodded, tapped one wing-tip and kept looking up and down the alley. The silence had returned.
Milo returned the file to him. “Not much in the way of background on him- no priors, no history, no family.”
“Phantom of the opera,” said Smith. “Sucker came right out of nowhere, no files on him anywhere. Which fits if he was an amateur businessman. They’re getting crafty. Organized. Buying phony paper, moving around a lot, hiding behind layers, just like the corporations do. They’ve even got subsidiaries. In other cities, other states. Novato told his landlady he was from somewhere back east- that’s as specific as I got. She forgot exactly where. Or didn’t want to remember.”
“Think she was lying?”
“Maybe. She was something, that one- flaming commie, didn’t like cops, wasn’t shy about telling you. Being with her was like being back in the sixties, when we were the enemies. Before Miami Vice made it hip to oink.”
Smith laughed at his own wit, smoked, and said, “Nice to be hip, right, Milo? Take it to the bank, try to get a loan.”
Milo said, “She tell you anything?”
“Diddly.” It was all I could do to get her to let me in her house. She was real uppity. Actually called me a cossack- asked me how did it feel to be a black cossack. Like I was some kind of traitor to the race. You get anything out of her?”