"Which you obviously did," Jack said.

"You bet."

"So that's how you end up living like this," Jack motioned toward the garden and smiled. "Pretty cool."

"Right." Then Izzy wrinkled his handsome brow as it finally occurred to him that maybe he was telling too much. "But please keep this confidential. I mean, all the EPA stuff and everything. That gets out, it's really gonna cause problems. This has to be just between us."

"Right, us and Mimi," Jack nodded.

"For background," Izzy repeated.

"Don't worry," Susan chipped in. "213 does stories about celebrities, Marvin and Barbara Davis fundraisers, stuff like that. Nobody on our staff wants to write about a dumb old toxic hole in the ground."

Izzy looked relieved. "Thank God." Then his smile lit him up. He really was a great-looking guy. "You guys wanna hear some of my new sides?"

"God, wouldn't that be a gas," Susan said, shooting a do-we-have-to look at Jack.

They had to.

Izzy's music was hard to describe. He had the Yamaha Sound Machine on gargle mode, or maybe it was on cats fighting. It lingered between muffled screeches and something that resembled a four-car traffic accident. The rhythm section sounded like drunks pounding ash can lids with hammers.

People outside were banging on the door, adding to the racket, but Izzy was in the zone, lost in his tunes. Somebody out there was shouting about there being some kind of problem with the catering, but Izzy didn't care. He was slamming.

An hour later Jack and Susan managed to shake away, but before they left, Izzy gave them both business cards.

Sure enough-Miracle Records.

Jack shook his head and frowned as he looked at the card. "How 'bout Orgasm Music? If it's good music, it's an orgasm."

Izzy smiled. "God… I love it. If you don't mind, maybe I'll use it."

"My gift."

As Jack and Susan headed toward the front door, she smiled at him. " Clark Lane and Lois Kent?"

"Just trying to keep things interesting," Jack said. Then they turned a corner and ran into two uniformed cops who had just arrived and were asking who owned the green XKE parked up the street. Jack grabbed Susan's arm and diverted her up the hall. "Shit. When I was on the job a car theft hardly ever got solved."

"Maybe it's because they weren't out looking for a pissed-off D.A.'s classic Jag," Susan observed.

When they reached the end of the hall, Jack smiled at the coat-check girl. "She had the red fox with the snakeskin collar and cuffs," Jack said, adding, "I lost her ticket."

"The what?" the coat-check person said, wrinkling her nose at the description.

Susan smiled and nodded. She didn't know what the hell he was doing, but she was playing along as instructed.

"I don't think I saw anything like that," the girl hedged.

"Can I look?" Jack asked. "It's got her initials in it."

"I guess."

She led Jack into the coatroom and watched him like a prison guard while he went through half a dozen coats. He found what he was looking for in the side pocket of a nicely tailored gray gabardine.

A blue valet parking stub.

He deftly switched tickets.

"I don't see it… maybe it's in the hall closet," he hedged, then pulled Susan out of there.

They sauntered past the cops, down to the driveway. Jack handed the new blue claim check to one of the snooty red-jacketed valets, who sprinted off to get the car.

"I can hardly wait to see what we'll get this time," Jack said.

"If it wasn't a class-A felony, it would be more fun," Susan complained.

A beautiful, royal blue Rolls Royce Corniche convertible with a champagne interior rolled down the hill and stopped. The valet opened the door and looked at them with appreciation. Jack got behind the wheel, handing the guy a folded-up one-dollar bill, then pulled away fast before he could unroll the bill and throw an orange or something.

Susan began digging in the glove box for the registration. "Ever heard of anybody named James K. Hahn?" she asked.

"You're shitting me? Our luck can't be that bad. This is Mayor Hahn's car?"

"Just kidding," she smiled. "It belongs to Carlos Ibanazi."

"See. Not even stolen. Purchased with our very own tax dollars," Jack said, already feeling better about the theft. "We're gonna have to ditch it, though. Too obvious. We better get a rental, like your dad suggested." Then, to get her off the theft, he changed the subject. "I can hardly wait to see your dad in court. All dressed up, leaning on the rail, representing a chimp."

Herman's phone rang, blasting him out of a deep, dreamless sleep. He rolled over and snatched it up. After listening to the recorded wakeup message, he called the federal court clerk's office, and confirmed that his TRO had arrived. He had been assigned a hearing for 10:30 that morning in Courtroom Sixteen.

Looking at Jack Wirta's rumpled, empty bed, he rolled to a sitting position feeling surprisingly good. He showered his big, ugly body, soaping and lathering, being careful not to get the stitches too wet on his lower abdomen. Then he toweled down and shaved with extra care, dressed in his number 4s, using a Wellington knot on his black-and-white-striped tie. His last grooming touch was to plaster his unruly hair down with water.

Herm surveyed his sagging, basset hound reflection and said, "You are one goddamn beautiful son of a bitch."

He woke Susan and Sandy by knocking on their door, then found Jack having breakfast out on the patio overlooking the ocean. Herman heard him come in around three, and rolled over and snarled at him to be quiet, before going right back to sleep.

"Our TRO goes before a judge at ten thirty, Federal Court Sixteen," Herman said as he sat at the table. "A very lucky number, if you believe in numerology."

Jack looked puzzled.

"Sixteen. One and six equals seven."

"Shit, I always miss that one," Jack said sourly.

"How'd you and Susan do?"

"Depends on the category."

Herman looked troubled. "It isn't that I don't want you to take her out, Jack. Hey, she makes her own decisions on who she dates. It's just now may not be the most appropriate time."

"I'm known for my bad timing. Celebrated for it, in fact."

They sat in silence for a moment. Then Herman reached over and snagged a slice of Jack's rye toast, buttered it, ladled on some strawberry jam, and started eating.

"Chief Ibanazi lives at 264 Chalon Road in Bel Air," Jack said. "It's a three-acre Spanish mansion. He's a record producer just setting up a new company. So far, I think he's still just working on getting cool stationery. The real news is why he's not living on the reservation." Then Jack proceeded to explain the federal government lease and the seventeen hundred acres rented by the feds to beat the EPA restrictions. Herm listened while he finished the first slice of toast, then helped himself to another.

"I can get you some of your own," Jack offered.

"Always tastes better off someone else's plate."

"Perfect sentiment from a lawyer."

"I think we need to find out what's out there on that reservation," Herman said.

"I just told you-a pit full of toxic or nuclear waste. No EPA leakproof containers, no EPA standards, no ground-pool testing-so everybody drinking the water out in Indio will probably glow in the dark ten years from now."

"How do we know it's really toxic waste?" Herm was skeptical.

"Ahh… you mean a CIA cover story? Conspiracy, right?"

"Right." Herman took another piece of toast.

"Steal another slice and you're gonna wear this fork as a tie pin."

"Jesus, you're touchy." Herman grinned; he was really enjoying the morning… the crashing waves and cool ocean mist. He was looking forward to the legal jousting that would take place in a couple of hours.