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I still like to think of myself as a responsible citizen. Whatever your current rates are, I’d be glad to pay them.”
    “I no longer work for pay,” I said. “Mike was my friend.”
    “Be tactful now, Brock, if you decide to investigate.”
    “Of course. Tact is my middle name.”
    He smiled. “What a change!”
    On that cynical note, he left. An effing broker is what Heinie had called him. Nolan might be one of the better ones.
    Suppositions, suppositions, facts not in evidence, as the defense attorneys love to declaim. But it was an avenue of inquiry, the bread and butter of private eyes.
    I had left San Valdesto very early this morning to avoid the freeway traffic; I was bushed. It was still two hours short of dinnertime. I stretched out on the bed for a nap.
    An hour later I woke up, wet with sweat. I had dreamed of my father again. He had died when I was a kid, killed by a hoodlum, a man who was out on probation for the fourth time.
    I took a long warm shower and then a cool one. I dressed and read the sports and business sections of the Times. Then I went down to the lobby to wait for Lars.
    He looked kind of spiffy when he showed. He was even wearing a tie, one of those William Tell bow ties that columnist George Will favors.
    “You put on weight, huh?” was his opening remark.
    “Almost two pounds since my playing days,” I admitted. “Anything new since last we talked?”
    He shook his head. “Mike is not exactly a priority item at the Department right now.”
    “And with you?”
    “Let’s have a drink,” he said.
    Over our drinks, he told me, “You left town before Mike went the last ugly mile. So it’s possible that you’re more sold on him than I am. You probably didn’t know that he wound up on drugs.”
    “Lars, this town is loaded with highly admired and influential citizens who sniff cocaine at all their fancy parties.”
    “Hell, yes! But do they also sell it?”
    “I don’t know. Did Mike?”
    He shrugged. “How else can a poor man support his habit if he doesn’t deal or steal?”
    Facts not in evidence again. I said, “Pretend you’re not a cop. Pretend you really care about what happens to victims. Are you telling me to forget what a close friend to both of us Mike was?”
    He glowered at me. “God damn you, I liked the guy! But every day we deal with drunks, child molesters, rapists, con men, murderers, burglars, and robbers. And you sit up there in San Valdesto living high off the hog on your inheritance.”
    “Guilty,” I said, and smiled at him. “Another drink?”
    He sighed and smiled back at me. “You bastard! I’ll have another double. I apologize for the crack about your money. If anybody deserves it, you do.”
    It went better after that. We traveled down memory lane, recounting old friends and enemies—and where were they all today?
    I didn’t mention what Nolan had told me. Maybe later … He promised to keep me informed on the progress (if any) on Mike’s murder investigation but repeated that it was not a high priority item to the SMPD.
    Then he went home to his woman of the month and I went up to my lonely bed.

CHAPTER TWO
    T HERE WAS A FAINT tinge of smog in the room when I awoke in the morning. The worst of it, according to the bedside radio, was a second-stage alert in the San Fernando Valley. Santa Monica and Venice, where I planned to prowl this morning, were relatively clear.
    I had checked the phone book last night and learned that the cult called Inner Peace was in Venice. That was also where Denny’s Tavern was, a knowledgeable source of information for any chicanery that was going on in the area.
    The tavern was in an old brick building of three floors, the second and third floors inhabited by Denny and his wife.
    Most bars don’t open early in the morning. But Denny had another source of income, booking horse bets. He got the blue-collar trade, early-morning bettors on their way to work.
    He had been a jockey at one time, but ridden too