“Mr. Too-embarassed-to-testify,” said Milo.

“Him I do have a current address on, North Hollywood. I tried his number. A male voice answered, kind of hoarse, and I hung up. How say we subject Mr. Bowland to additional humiliation?”

Milo said, “I could use some recreation.”

Petra said, “As long as we don’t have to wear sweats.”

Bassett Bowland lived in a white, three-story apartment complex on Laurel Canyon, just south of Saticoy. That far north, Laurel ceases to be a leafy canyon and devolves to a noisy, smoggy mixture of low-rent commercial businesses and housing to match.

Sparkles embedded in the stucco gave the building the look of a Styrofoam cooler. A sign in front said units could be rented by the month. A ten-year-old brown Camaro in the rear carport matched Bowland’s DMV registration. His single was on the top floor, just off an open stairwell.

Petra pushed his doorbell. The resulting buzz was barely audible over traffic noise.

Just as she was about to try again, the door opened, and the space filled with flesh.

A refrigerator with limbs whispered, “Huh?”

“Bassett Bowland?”

“Yuh.”

“Detective Connor. This is Lieutenant Sturgis and Alex Delaware.”

Bowland rubbed the front of his neck and curled his mouth. Puffy cheeks inflated to grapefruit size nearly blocked out his eyes.

Pink grapefruit; his skin tone was Permanent Sunburn. Limp, bleached-blond hair fringed his shoulders. Porcine features belonged on a much smaller man. He wore a black System of a Down T-shirt, frayed red shorts, no shoes.

Not much older than Kyle Bedard but he hunched like an old man.

“May we come in?”

Bowland coughed, didn’t bother to cover his mouth. His raspy “I guess” was overpowered by the traffic.

The apartment was the usual lonely-guy combo of cheap furniture and wide-screen TV. The set was on mute. ESPN Classic, the L.A. Rams getting walloped by Dallas. It’s been a long time since Los Angeles has rooted for a home team.

Bowland glanced at the score, yawned, and dropped onto a black leatherette couch. A half-gallon carton of milk stood on the blue plastic counter of the kitchenette, spout open. A huge olive-green uniform hung from the knob of a kitchen cabinet. Military pockets, epaulets.

Petra said, “We’d like to talk to you about Robert Fisk.”

Piggy eyes jumped. “Whu for?” Even with the door closed and the traffic noise dimmed, his voice lacked volume.

“He’s a suspect in a crime and we’re doing background.”

“Little shit. Who’d he cold-cock this time?” Managing no more than a phlegmy whisper, each word taking effort.

“A guy in Hollywood,” said Petra. “Fisk’s a dirty fighter?”

“Cocksucker,” said Bowland. “Motherfucking cocksucker dipshit.” A melon fist pounded a catcher’s-mitt palm. Bowland’s arms and torso jiggled.

“What did the two of you fight about?”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“He jumped me.”

“Tell us about it.”

Bowland breathed in through his nose, exhaled through his mouth. “I was working. Bouncer.”

“At Rattlesnake,” said Petra.

“That’s what they called it that week.” Another pause for breath. Bowland touched the front of his throat. “Still hurts. Motherfucker. Tell me where he’s at and you don’t need to waste no time.”

Holding up a fist. Jumpy eyes tuned machismo down to pathetic.

“Don’t blame you for feeling that way,” said Petra, sitting next to him. He screwed up his lips, ran his tongue under one cheek. Each of his thighs was as broad as her body. “So you were working at Rattlesnake and then what happened?”

“Motherfucker comes in with some other motherfuckers, everything’s cool. Then motherfucker thinks he’s gonna get up and dance with the band. I tell him he ain’t, he smiles and gets off the stage, like he’s cool.”

Bowland sighed. “I’m walking him away from the stage, he starts running his mouth. But being cool, he knows I’m just doing my job, he’s been there, dude. I’m like you been there? You’re a toon, man, know whum saying?”

“He is a little guy, Bassett-can I call you Bassett?”

“Bass. Like the ale.” Bowland rubbed a thumb and forefinger together. “You do like this he could disappear, motherfucking toon.”

“So he’s cooperating with you, pretending to be friendly.”

“We keep walking, I get him past the bar, go have a drink bro, chill, he’s like I don’t drink, keep it real. Holds out his hand like this.”

He formed a power shake. “I wanna keep it cool so I do it know whum saying? Instead of shaking he gets me here.” Touching a wrist. “My fucking arm goes dead then he kicks me in the knee then he grabs me.”

“By the neck,” said Petra.

“Fucking iron claw,” said Bowland. “I’m hitting him upside the head, he’s kicking me.” Caressing a knee. “Dislocated the bone or something, I’m falling over and he’s still doing the claw. They told me he stomped my back but I’m big, you know, he didn’t break nothing.”

Rasping out the words had exhausted him. He panted, sat back hard enough to budge the couch.

“Sneak attack,” said Petra.

“Only way he coulda done it,” said Bowland. “That’s the whole story. Now I gotta sleep.”

“Working hard?”

His reply was a yawn.

“What kind of work you do, Bass?”

“Security.”

“Where?”

“Pawnshop on Van Nuys. Persians. Gotta wear that, pay to clean it.”

“Who’d Fisk come to the club with that night?”

“Other cocksuckers. He’s gonna get his.” Lazy smile as he formed a finger gun.

“We sympathize, Bass, but we are the law, so be careful.”

“I didn’t mean that,” said Bowland. “God’s gonna pay him back.”

“You’re religious?”

Bowland reached inside his T-shirt and drew out a small gold crucifix. “Everyone pays.”

“Fisk didn’t pay because you didn’t want to testify.”

Bowland didn’t answer.

“Guy did that to me, Bass, I’d want him to serve some jail time.”

Bowland appraised her slender frame. “Guy did that to you, he should get the death penalty.”

“As opposed to you?”

“I can handle myself.”

“I’m sure you can, but still-”

“What?” said Bowland. “I go to court and cry and everyone’s saying Bass is a pussy, needs the po-lice to do his game?”

He closed his eyes.

Petra said, “What else can you tell us about Fisk?”

“Nothin’.”

“Ever see him before that night?”

“Coupla times.”

“He always hang with the same people?”

“Yeah.”

“How about some names?”

“One was Rosie,” said Bowland. “The other was Blazer.”

“Rosie his girl?”

“Black guy, he deejays sometimes.”

“At Rattlesnake?”

“No.”

“Where, then?”

“Dunno.”

“How do you know he deejayed?”

“He told me.”

“When?”

“Before.”

“Before Fisk attacked you.”

“Yeah.”

“You and Rosie were having a conversation.”

“We were by the stage and he was saying the band was okay but he could deejay more power by himself.”

“Ever have problems with him?”

Head shake. “Always cool.”

“What’s his last name?”

“Dunno.”

“What about Blazer?”

“Little guy, last name’s something with Pain.”

“Blazer Pain?”

“Something like that,” said Bowland.

“Black or white?”

“White. Thinks he’s a ceeleb.”

“Wants the VIP room?”

“There weren’t none at the Snake. Motherfucker just acts stupid.”

“Stupid, how?”

“Walks around like he’s all that.”

“Blazer Pain,” said Petra.

“Something like that.”

“Robert Fisk hung with these two regularly.”

“I guess.”

“You don’t know?”

“It was always crowded.”

“You were at the door, you saw who came in.”

Bowland shook his head. “Sometimes I was by the stage.”

“The night Fisk attacked you, where were you stationed?”