The office was located down the street from the West Hollywood Health Club, situated on the edge of five gay blocks along Santa Monica Boulevard that most Angelinos referred to as "Boy's Town."

Overbuilt guys in tank tops and muscle shirts strolled the sidewalks in too-tight jeans, swinging their shoulders and looking like they'd kick the shit out of anybody who even muttered the word "faggot." On the job Jack had never had a problem with the gay community. He'd always figured to each his own, but he was beginning to wonder if having his office here was such a good idea. He was ruggedly handsome and he'd been hit on twice already this morning within the half block he'd walked from his parking space to the front entrance.

By ten o'clock he had set up his desk and moved one club chair in. His old, ink-stained blotter was ready and waiting for that first big career-defining, high-profile case. Bring on a Robert Blake operetta. His new file cabinet was alphabetized but empty, anxious to be crammed full of important revenue-producing, adrenaline-pumping material.

As he worked, he tried to ignore the pain in his lower lumbar region-throbbing at first, then building, as always, until, by late morning his back was on fire. The pain came the same way as it had for almost six and a half years.

Each morning he had to unroll himself from the fetal position he seemed to be arranged in when he woke up. After half an hour of agonizing stretching, with one eye on his bottle of painkillers, he would finally leverage upright and limp into the tiny kitchen of his duplex, telling himself he wasn't going to pop one more Percocet-ever. The little bastards were addictive, and he knew he was badly hooked. But by eleven o'clock he was always in such agony, he could hold out no longer. It was pain unlike anything he had ever experienced before he'd injured his back. He would inevitably find himself circling the pills until, finally, he would angrily grab the plastic bottle, shake one of the damn things into his hand, and wash it down, promising himself that this was absolutely the last one he would take.

End result: He would struggle back to a pain threshold of plus five-which was barely manageable. He would then wander through his day, feeling the pain building ominously until it hit a nerve-jangling nine about four hours later. Unable to find a position or an alcoholic state that enabled him to endure it for even another minute, he would break the solemn promise to himself, grab the bottle, take another, make one more empty promise, and so on. It had been like that ever since he'd stopped the armor-piercing nine-millimeter Parabellum fired by that shithead, Emil Matasareanu, or his buddy, Larry Eugene Phillips Jr., at the North Hollywood bank shootout in February of '97.

Four surgeries and two bone grafts later, he could finally stand up, but it wasn't easy. A grueling two-and-a-half-year rehab followed before he could reapply for duty. He'd been forced to retake the Police Academy physical, which of course included the dreaded obstacle course. He had eventually crashed and burned doing the wall climb, and they carried him off on a stretcher. One lawsuit and another two and a half years later, he was off the force on a 75-percent disability that paid him $2,800 a month, after taxes. But he was also completely addicted to Percocets. Since it was a triple-hit painkiller, three copies of each prescription were filed with various state agencies to guarantee you couldn't get more without a doctor's approval.

A year ago, when his most forgiving M.D. would no longer write him a prescription, Jack Wirta became an illegal drug user. He was now buying black market "Cets" from an African American drug dealer with a speech impediment, named "Carbon Paper"-a moniker derived not from the color of his skin, but from the fact that he was great at forging prescriptions under a variety of phony names.

It was past eleven and Jack had just started hanging pictures and plaques in his new office, trying to hide the wall scars, pounding in nails with a hammer, when, suddenly, the door swung open and Miro Roca was standing there again, hands defiantly on his slender hips.

"Is that supposed to be funny?" he said, lisping slightly. "You're knocking the wall down."

"Relax," Jack said, trying to talk with a nail between his teeth and lisping slightly himself. "Gimme ten minutes and I'll be done. I don't have that many certificates anyway. My career in law enforcement was undistinguished."

Uninvited, Miro sashayed into his office-the hip motion really was something to watch. Then he dropped theatrically into the one worn leather chair: the spin, the drop, and the smile all executed in one fluid motion. Drum riff. Cymbals. Applause. Like that.

Miro started chewing at a cuticle, nibbling thoughtfully, picking up one of the four plaques on the desk with his free hand. It was a Certificate of Merit for the North Hollywood bank thing.

"Help yourself, there," Jack said as he finished pounding the nail in the wall and hung his police academy graduation picture. He was in the third row at the end, ramrod straight, his game face on.

Casimiro was still looking at the North Hollywood certificate, reading the citation. "This was some pretty serious shit," he said. "Miro saw this crazy bastard on the TV, walking around shooting people."

"One doesn't have to use foul language to make one's point," Jack smiled.

"I was being bitchy when I said that. Sorry," Miro conceded.

"Apology accepted." Jack climbed down from the step-ladder, then appraised the pictures and plaques on the wall. "Straight?" he asked Miro, who was now also studying them.

"Funny thing to ask an obviously gay man," Miro said, and when Jack turned, Miro smiled. "Just foolin' with ya, honey. Yes… yes… I think they're straight." And then he wrinkled his nose at the pictures, and for some unknown reason Jack found himself smiling, too. At least this guy didn't take himself too seriously, which Jack noticed was a growing problem among people who hung out west of La Brea.

"I was thinking…" Miro began, "since you used to be police, and since I have a few old issues there, I was wondering if maybe there would be some way we could help each other."

"You mean, I talk to somebody for you and get your file erased, and then you give me ten million dollars? Something like that?"

"Ten million seems a tad high," he replied with mock seriousness. "I was thinking more like I could get one of our boys to answer your phone or something. I have this new one, Jackson Mississippi-he doesn't have a place yet. He just sits around waiting for out-calls. Be nice to give him something useful."

"He's from Jackson, Mississippi?" Jack asked. "No, that's his name. Don't tell him I told you, but I think he made it up. Least it's nicer than this other boy I had, named Bangor Maine. So how 'bout it? Wanna trade favors?"

"No can do." Jack was beginning to wish Miro would just leave so he could take a few more Percocets.

Suddenly, like in a Bogart movie, the door opened and one of the most beautiful women he had seen in six months was standing in his doorway, briefcase in hand.

"Is this the Jack Wirta Detective Agency?" she asked hesitantly.

"Yes, ma'am," he said smiling, giving her his whole grill… the entire sixteen.

"Well, I guess Miro should go back and feed his ducks." Roca got to his feet and really worked it, heading toward the door.

The beautiful woman watched him walk away, and as soon as he was gone she smiled. "Graceful."

"He used to dance professionally," Jack said, and started to clear a space in the office. "Sorry about the clutter. I'm just moving in here."

She moved over to the cracked leather chair where Miro had been sitting and settled in. "I'm Susan Strockmire," she said, putting her knees together and laying her briefcase across her lap. "I called the LAPD. They gave me your name when I asked for recommendations on an agency.