The Murder Book

"No Playa del Sol." Behind him was the wall of brass boxes. A sign advertised FedEx, UPS, rubber stamps, While-U-Wait gift-wrapping. Milo spotted no ribbons or happy-face wrapping paper. This was all about secrets.

"When did they stop renting?" he said.

"Had to be at least a year ago."

"How do you know?"

"Because the current tenant has been renting for thirteen months."

Tenant. Milo pictured some leprechaun setting up house in the mailbox. Tiny stove, refrigerator, Murphy bed, thumbnail-sized cable TV blaring The Pot of Gold Network.

"Who's the current tenant?" he said.

"You know I can't tell you that, sirrr."

"Aw shucks," said Milo, producing a twenty-dollar bill. Keep those felonies coming…

The Pakistani stared at the bill as Milo placed it on the counter, closed his hand over Andrew Jackson's gaunt visage. Then he turned his back on Milo and began fiddling with one of the empty mailboxes and Milo reached over and took hold of the Rolodex and read the card.

Mr. and Mrs. Irwin Block

Address on Cynthia Street. Just a few blocks away.

"Know these people?" said Milo.

"Old people," said the Pakistani, still showing his back. "She comes in every week, but they don't get anything."

"Nothing?"

"Once in a while, junk."

"Then why do they need a POB?"

The clerk faced him and smiled. "Everyone needs one- tell all your friends." He reached for the Rolodex, but Milo held on to it, thumbing back from Bl to Ba. No Bartlett. Then up to P. No Playa del Sol.

The Pakistani said, "Stop, please. What if someone comes in?"

Milo released the Rolodex, and the clerk placed it under the counter.

"How long have you been working here?"

"Oh," said the clerk, as if the question was profound. "Ten months."

"So you've never dealt with anyone from Playa del Sol."

"That is true."

"Who worked here before you?"

"My cousin."

"Where is he?"

"Kashmir."

Milo glared at him.

"It's true," said the man. "He had enough of this place."

"West Hollywood?"

"America. The morals."

No curiosity about why Milo wanted to know about Playa del Sol. Given the guy's line of work, Milo supposed he'd learned not to be curious.

Milo thanked him, and the clerk rubbed his index finger with his thumb. "You could show your thanks in another way."

"Okay," said Milo, taking a very low bow. "Thank you very much."

As he left, he heard the man utter something in a language he didn't understand.

He drove to the Cynthia Street apartment of Mr. and Mrs. Irwin Block, pretended to be a census taker, and enjoyed an affable five-minute chat with the possibly hundred-year-old Selma Block, a blue-caftaned, champagne-haired pixie of a woman so bent and tiny she might very well have fit into one of the mailboxes. Behind her sat Mr. Block on a green-and-gold sofa, a mute, static, vacant-eyed apparition of similar antiquity whose sole claim to physiologic viability was the occasional moist and startling throat clear.

Five minutes taught Milo more about the Blocks than he'd wanted to know. Both had worked in the Industry- Selma as a costume mistress for several major studios, Irwin as an accountant for MGM. Three children lived back East. One was an orthodontist, the middle one had gone into "the financial world and became a Republican, and our daughter weaves and sews hand-fashioned-"

"Is this the only address you keep, ma'am?" said Milo, pretending to write everything down but doodling curlicues. No chance of Mrs. B. spotting the ruse. The top of her head was well below the pad.

"Oh, no, dear. We keep a post-office box over by the Healthy Foods."

"Why's that, ma'am?"

"Because we like to eat healthy."

"Why the post-office box, ma'am?"

Selma Block's tiny claw took hold of Milo's sleeve, and he felt as if a cat was using his arm for a spring post.

"Politics, dear. Political mailers."

"Oh," said Milo.

"What party do you belong to, dear?"

"I'm an independent."

"Well, dear, we like the Green Party- rather subversive, you know." The claw dug in deeper.

"You keep the box for Green Party mailers?"

"Oh, yes," said Selma Block. "You're too young, but we remember the way it used to be."

"The way it used to be when?"

"The old days. Those House UnAmerican fascists. That louse McCarthy."

Refusing the invitation to stay for tea and cookies, he extricated himself from Mrs. Block and drove around aimlessly, trying to figure out his next move.

Playa del Sol. Alex was right, it did have that real estate ring, so maybe the Cossacks did have their hand in this- assisted by LAPD.

The fix. Again.

Early on, he'd looked up Cossack Development's address, found it on Wilshire in Mid-City, but he hadn't retained the numbers in his head- those days were gone- so he called Information and fixed the placement between Fairfax and La Brea.

The sky was dark and traffic had started to thin and he made it over in less than a quarter hour.

The Cossack brothers had headquartered themselves in a three-story pink granite, ziggurat-dominated complex that occupied a full city block just east of the County Art Museum. Years ago, this had been junk real estate- the fringes of the pathetically misnamed Miracle Mile. Back in the forties, The Mile's construction had been an historic first: a commercial strip with feeble street appeal but entry through the rear parking lots- yet another symptom of L.A.'s postwar infatuation with The Car. Twenty years later, westward flight had left the central city area a sump of poorly maintained buildings and low-rent businesses, and the only miracle was that any part of The Mile survived.

Now, the current cycle: urban renewal. County Art- not much in the way of a museum, but the courtyard did offer free concerts and L.A. didn't expect much- had spawned other museums- tributes to dolls, folk art, and most effectively, The Car. Big, glossy office structures had followed. If the Cossacks had gotten in early and owned the land under the pink granite thing, they'd made out well.

He parked on a side street, climbed wide, slick granite steps past a huge, shallow black pool filled with still water and dotted with pe

He rode the elevator, stepped into an unfurnished, white-carpeted, white-walled space. One big abstract lithograph greeted him- yellow and white and amorphous, maybe some genius's notion of a soft-boiled egg- then, to the left, double, white doors. Locked. No sound from the other side.

The elevator door closed behind him. Turning, he stabbed the button and waited for it to return.

Back on Wilshire, he continued to study the building. Lot of lights were on, including several on the third floor. A couple of weeks ago, the state had warned of impending power shortages, urged everyone to conserve. Either the Cossacks didn't care, or someone was working late.

He rounded the corner, returned to the Taurus, reversed direction, and parked with a clear view of the building's subterranean parking lot. Fighting back that old feeling: wasted hours, stakeout futility. But stakeouts were like Vegas slots: Once in a great while something paid off, and what better basis for addiction?

Twenty-three minutes later, the lot's metal grate slid open and a battered Subaru emerged. Young black woman at the wheel, talking on a cell phone. Six minutes after that: a newish BMW. Young white guy with spiked hair, also gabbing on cell, oblivious, he nearly missed colliding with a delivery truck. Both drivers traded insults and bird-flips. The streets were safe, tonight.