“Get ready,” he told his brother. “I’m right beside you.”

Gabriel got close to the van and smashed the wrench at the side window. The glass cracked into intricate lines. He swung the wrench a second time and the window shattered.

For a brief moment, he saw the driver-a young man with an earring and a shaved head. The man looked surprised when Gabriel flung the wrench at his face. The van swerved to the right and hit the guardrail. Metal scraped against metal, sparks spitting out into the darkness. Keep going, Gabriel thought. Don’t look back. And he followed his brother off the freeway and down an exit ramp.

The four cars didn’t turn off the freeway, but Michael drove as if they were still chasing him. Gabriel followed the Mercedes up a steep canyon road where elaborate mansions jutted out into the air, their foundations supported by thin metal pylons. After several quick turns, they ended up in the hills overlooking the San Fernando Valley. Michael turned off the road and stopped in the parking lot of a boarded-up church. Empty bottles and beer cans were scattered across the asphalt.

Gabriel pulled off his motorcycle helmet as his brother got out of the car. Michael looked tired and angry.

“It’s the Tabula,” Gabriel said. “They knew Mother was dying and that we’d go to the hospice. They waited on the boulevard and decided to capture you first.”

“Those people don’t exist. They never did.”

“Come on, Michael. I saw those men try to force you off the road.”

“You don’t understand.” Michael took a few steps across the parking lot and kicked an empty can. “Remember when I bought that first building on Melrose Avenue? Where do you think I got the money?”

“You said it came from investors on the East Coast.”

“It was from people who don’t like to pay income taxes. They’ve got a lot of cash that can’t be put into bank accounts. Most of the financing came from a mob guy in Philadelphia named Vincent Torrelli.”

“Why would you do business with someone like that?”

“What was I supposed to do?” Michael looked defiant. “The bank refused to give me a loan. I wasn’t using my real name. So I took the cash from Torrelli and bought the building. A year ago, I was watching the news and saw that Torrelli got killed outside a casino in Atlantic City. When I didn’t hear from his family or his friends, I stopped sending the rent money to a post office box in Philadelphia. Vincent had a lot of secrets. I figure that he hadn’t told people about his Los Angeles investments.”

“And now they’ve found out?”

“I think that’s what happened. It’s not Travelers and all those other crazy stories Mom told us. It’s just some mob guys trying to get their money back.”

Gabriel returned to his motorcycle. If he looked east, he could see the San Fernando Valley. Distorted by the lens of dirty air, the valley streetlights glowed with a dull orange color. At that moment, all he wanted to do was jump on his bike and ride off to the desert, to some lonely place where he could see the stars as his headlight beam skittered across a dirt road. Lost. Get lost. He would give anything to lose his past, the feeling that he was captive in an enormous prison.

“I’m sorry,” Michael said. “Things were finally moving in the right direction. Now it’s all screwed up.”

Gabriel looked at his brother. Once, when they were living in Texas, their mother had been so distracted that she had forgotten about Christmas. There was nothing in the house on Christmas Eve, but the next morning Michael showed up with a pine tree and some video games he had shoplifted from an electronics store. No matter what happened, they would always be brothers-the two of them against the world.

“Forget about these people, Michael. Let’s get out of Los Angeles.”

“Give me a day or so. Maybe I can make a deal. Until then, we’ll check into a motel. It’s not safe to go home.”

GABRIEL AND MICHAEL spent the night at a motel north of the city. The rooms were five hundred yards from the Ventura Freeway and the sound of the passing cars pushed through the windows. When Gabriel woke up at four o’clock in the morning, he heard Michael in the bathroom talking on his cell phone. “I do have a choice,” Michael whispered. “You make it sound like there’s no choice at all.”

In the morning, Michael stayed in bed with the covers pulled over his head. Gabriel left the room, walked to a nearby restaurant, and bought some muffins and coffee. The newspaper in the rack had a photograph of two men running from a wall of flame with a headline that proclaimed HIGH WINDS FAN SOUTHLAND FIRES.

Back in the room, Michael had gotten up and taken a shower. He was polishing his shoes with a damp towel. “Someone is coming here to see me. I think he can solve the problem.”

“Who is it?”

“His real name is Frank Salazar, but everyone calls him Mr. Bubble. When he was growing up in East Los Angeles, he ran a bubble machine at a dance club.”

While Michael watched the financial news on television Gabriel lay on his bed and stared at the ceiling. Closing his eyes, he put himself and his motorcycle on the top half of the highway that ran up the mountain to Angeles Crest. He was downshifting, leaning into each turn as the green world slipped past him. Michael stayed on his feet, pacing back and forth on the narrow strip of carpet in front of the television.

Someone knocked. Michael peered through the curtains and then opened the door. A huge Samoan with a broad face and bushy black hair stood in the hallway. He wore an unbuttoned Hawaiian shirt over a T-shirt and made no attempt to hide the shoulder holster holding a.45 automatic.

“Hey, Deek. Where’s your boss?”

“Down in dah car. Gotta check dis out first.”

The Samoan came in and inspected the bathroom and the closet. He slipped his massive hands beneath the bedsheets and picked up the cushions on the chairs. Michael kept smiling as if nothing was unusual. “No weapons, Deek. You know I don’t carry anything.”

“Safety is dah first priority. Dat’s what Mr. Bubble say all day long.”

After searching the brothers, Deek left and returned a minute later with a bald Latino bodyguard and an elderly man wearing large tinted glasses and a turquoise golfing shirt. Mr. Bubble had liver spots on his skin, and a pink surgical scar was visible near his neck. “Wait outside,” he told the two bodyguards, then closed the door.

Mr. Bubble shook Michael’s hand. “Good to see you.” He had a soft, wispy voice. “Who’s your friend?”

“This is my brother, Gabriel.”

“Family is good. Always stick with your family.” Mr. Bubble went over and shook Gabriel’s hand. “You’ve got a smart brother. Maybe a little too smart this time.”

Mr. Bubble settled himself in the chair next to the television set. Michael sat on the corner of the bed and faced him. Ever since they had run away from the farm in South Dakota, Gabriel had watched his brother convince strangers that they had to buy something or become part of his plan. Mr. Bubble was going to be a hard sell. You could barely see his eyes behind the tinted lenses and he had a slight smile on his lips as if he were about to watch a comedy show.

“Did you talk to your friends in Philadelphia?” Michael asked.

“It will take some time to set that up. I’ll protect you and your brother for a few days until the problem is solved. We’ll give the Melrose building to the Torrelli family. As payment, I’ll take your share of the Fairfax property.”

“That’s too much for one favor,” Michael said. “Then I won’t own anything.”

“You made a mistake, Michael. And now some people want to kill you. One way or another, the problem has to be solved.”