He pressed both temples, and I knew a headache had come on.

The waitress brought the check and held it out at arm's length. Milo shoved a twenty at her, asked for aspirin, ordered her to keep the change. She smiled and hustled away looking frightened.

When she brought the tablets, he swallowed them dry. "To hell with Swig and his court orders. Time to get with State Parole, see what they can tell me about Starkweather creeps flewing the coop since Claire went to work there. After that, sure, the movie thing, why not? Equipment rentals, like you suggested."

Crumpling the aspirin packet, he dropped it into an ashtray. "Like you said, it's L.A. Since when has logic ever meant a damn thing here?"

In the coffee-shop parking lot, he cell-phoned Sacramento, billing through LAPD. Authorization took a while. So did being shunted from clerk to supervisor to clerk. Every few seconds a plane swooped down to land. I stood around as he burned up calories keeping his voice even. Finally, his patience earned him the promise of a priority records search from State Parole.

"Which means days instead of weeks," he said, walking over to a nearby phone booth and lifting a chained Yellow Pages from its shelf. Dried gum crusted the covers. "One thing the supervisor did confirm: Starkweather guys do get out. Not often, but it happens. She knows for a fact because there was a case five years ago-some guy supposed to be on close supervision returned to his hometown and shot himself in the local barbershop."

"So much for the system," I said. "Maybe that's why Swig was nervous."

"The system is bullshit. People aren't machines. Places like Quentin and Pelican Bay, there's all kinds of trouble. Either you cage them completely or they do whatever the hell they please." He began paging through the phone directory. "Okay, let's find some rental outfits, play cinema sleuth."

Most of the film equipment companies were in Hollywood and Burbank, the rest scattered around the Valley and Culver City.

"Hollywood first," he said. "Where else?"

It was just after three P.M. when I followed Milo's unmarked 135 onto the 405 and over to the 101. We got off at Sunset. Traffic was mean.

The Hollywood outfits were in warehouse buildings and large storefronts on the west end of the district, between Fairfax and Gower. A concentration on Santa Monica Boulevard allowed us to park and cover half a dozen businesses quickly. The mention of Thin Line Productions and Blood Walk evoked baffled stares from the rental clerks, most of whom looked like thrash-metal band castoffs.

On the seventh try, at a place on Wilcox called Flick Stuff, a bony, simian-looking young man with a massive black hair extension and a pierced lip slouched behind a nipple-high counter. Massively unimpressed by Milo's badge. Maybe twenty-one; too young for that level of world-weariness. Behind him were double doors with an EMPLOYEES ONLY sign. In the background, a female vocalist shouted over power chords. Joan Jett or someone trying to be her. Big Hair wore a tight black T-shirt and red jeans. A slogan on the shut: "No Sex Unless It Leads to Dancing" His arms were white and hairless, more vein than muscle. Lumpy fibroid dope scars in the crooks said he'd probably had police experience.

Milo said, "Were you working here twenty months ago, sir?"

"Sir" made the kid smirk. "Off and on." He managed to slouch lower.

Price lists were tacked to the surrounding walls. Day rates for sandbags, Western dollies, sidewalls, Magliners, wardrobe racks, Cardellini lamps, Greenscreens. Surprisingly cheap; a snow machine could be had for fifty-five bucks.

"Remember renting to an outfit called Thin Line Productions?"

I expected a yawn, but Big Hair said, "Maybe."

Milo waited.

"Sounds familiar. Yeah, maybe. Yeah."

"Could you check your files, please?"

"Yeah, hold on." Hair opened the double doors and disappeared, returned waving an index card, looking ready to spit. "Yeah, now I remember them."

"Problems?" said Milo.

"Big problems." Hair wiped his hands on the black T-shirt. The grubby steel ring through his upper lip robbed his expression of some of the injured dignity he was trying to project.

"What'd they do?" said Milo.

"Stiffed us fourteen grand worth."

I said, "That's a lot of equipment."

"Not for Spielberg, but for assholes like that, yeah. We gave 'em everything. Mikes, props, fake blood, filters, misters, eye chamois, coffee makers, cups, tables, the fuckin' works. The big items were a dolly and a couple of cameras- old gear, no studio would touch 'em, but still they cost. Supposed to be a ten-day rental. They had no history with us and it was obviously like a virgin voyage, so we demanded double deposit and they gave us a check that we verified was covered. I got I.D., everything by the book. Not only didn't they pay up, they fucking split with the equipment. When we tried to cash the deposit check, guess what?"

He bared his teeth. Surprisingly white. Behind them, something glinted. Pierced tongue. No click when he talked-the voice of experience. Were pain thresholds rising among the new generation? Would it make for a better Marine Corps?

I said, "What made you think it was a virgin voyage?"

"They putzed around, didn't know what they were doing. What pisses me off is I guided them, man, told them how to get the most for their money. Then they go and screw me."

"You got blamed?"

"Boss said I did the transaction, I was assigned to find 'em, try to recover. I couldn't find shit."

"You say 'they,' " said Milo. "How many people are we talking about?"

"Two. Guy and a girl."

"What'd they look like?"

"Twenties, thirties. She was okay-looking, blond hair- light blond, like Marilyn Monroe, Madonna, when she was like that. But long and straight. Nice body, but nothing special. Okay face. He was tall, older than her, trying to play hip."

"How old?" said Milo.

"Probably in his thirties. She was maybe younger. I wasn't really paying attention. She didn't say much, it was mostly him."

"How tall was he?" said Milo.

"About your size, but skinny. Not as skinny as me, but nothing like you either." Smirk.

"Hair color?" said Milo.

"Dark. Black. Long."

"Like yours?"

"He wished, man. His was curly, like a perm, maybe went to here." He touched his shoulders.

"Platinum blond for her," said Milo, writing. "Long and curly for him. Maybe wigs?"

"Sure they were," said Hair. "It's not exactly hard to tell, man."

"What kind of clothing did they wear?"

"Regular. Nothing special."

"Any other distinguishing marks?"

Hair laughed. "Like '666' on their foreheads? Nope, unh-uh."

"Could you identify them if you saw them again?"

"I dunno." The pierced tongue slid between his upper and lower teeth. The mannerism formed his mouth into a tragedy-mask frown. "Probably not. I wasn't really paying attention to their faces. I was concentrating on getting them the most for their money."

"But maybe you could recognize them?"

"Why, you have a picture?"

"Not yet."

"Well, bring one if you get it. Maybe, no promises."

"The fact they were wearing wigs," said Milo. "That didn't bother you?"

"Why should it?"

"Maybe they were hiding something." Hair laughed. "Everyone in the industry hides something. You never see a chick with a natural rack anymore, and half the guys are wearing wigs and eye shadow. Big fucking deal-maybe they were acting in their own flick, doing it all. That's the way it is with a lot of these indie things."

"They tell you anything about the flick?"

"Didn't ask, they didn't say."

"Blood Walk," said Milo. "Sounds like a slasher flick."