Traffic was light until a mile before the interchange, where it started to curdle.

“Get off at Ninth and take it to L.A.,” said Milo.

I followed his directions north on Los Angeles Street, drove through run-down blocks filled with fashion outlets shrieking bankruptcy bargains, discount appliance stores, import-export concerns, and pay parking lots. To the west a range of mirror-glass high-rises rose like synthetic mountains built on soft soil, Federal redevelopment funds, and Pacific Rim optimism. To the east was the industrial belt that divided Downtown from Boyle Heights.

Downtown was doing its usual split-personality routine: Fast-talking, fast-walking Power Dressers, Wannabee Tycoons, and stiff lipped secretaries sharing turf with bleary-eyed, filth-encrusted human shells transporting their life stories in purloined shopping carts and verminous bedrolls.

At Sixth Street, the shells took over, hordes of them congregating on street corners, slumping in the doorways of boarded-up businesses, sleeping in the shadows of overflowing dumpsters. I caught a red light at Fifth. The taxi in the next lane shot the light and nearly ran over a long-haired, smudge-eyed blond man dressed in a sleeveless T-shirt and torn jeans. The man began cursing at the top of his lungs and, with scabbed tattooed hands, slapped the trunk of the cab as it sped on. Two uniformed cops issuing a jaywalking citation to a young Mexican girl across the street paused to observe the tantrum, then returned to their paperwork.

Half a block later I saw two skinny black men in baseball caps and topcoats veer off the sidewalk and come face-to-face under the sagging portico of a half-demolished SRO hotel. They lowered their heads and did a palm-slapping routine so well-coordinated it could have been choreographed by Balanchine. Then one man flashed a small wad of bills and the other bent quickly and retrieved something from his sock. A quick exchange and the two of them were on their way, heading in opposite directions. The entire transaction had taken ten seconds.

Milo saw me watching. “Ah, free enterprise. There’s the place- park wherever you can.”

He was pointing to a wide, flat-roofed three-story building on the east side of the street. The ground floor was faced with off-white tiles that brought to mind a bus station lavatory. The upper facade was pale-aqua stucco. A single row of barred windows ran along the top of the first story, too high to be reached from the street. The rest of the structure was a blank slab. Four or five men, mostly black, all ragged, congregated drowsily near the front door, which was topped by a dead neon deco-style sign that read ETERNAL HOPE MISSION.

All the parking spots in front of the building were taken, so I drove up ten yards and nosed into a space behind a Winnebago with MOBILE MEDICAL painted on the back. A larger and more energetic group of derelicts hovered nearby- at least two dozen men and three or four women, yapping and shuffling and rubbing their arms. As I turned off the ignition I noticed it wasn’t health care they were after. A loose line had formed in front of an accordion-grated storefront. Another neon sign, these tubes flashing: $$ FOR PLASMA.

Milo removed a piece of paper from his pocket, unfolded it, and placed it in the Seville’s front window. A 10 by 12 card reading LAPD VEHICLE: IN SERVICE.

“Be sure to lock,” he said, slamming his door.

“Next time we take yours,” I said, watching a bald, eye-patched man engage in an angry conversation with a dead elm tree. “You did it!” the man kept repeating, slapping the trunk of the tree every third or fourth utterance. The palms of his hands were bloody but there was a smile on his face.

“No way- they’d eat mine,” said Milo. “C’mon.”

The men hanging out in front of the mission noticed us long before we got to the front door, and stepped aside. Their shadows and their stench lingered. Several of them looked hungrily at my shoes- brown loafers, purchased a month ago, that still looked new. I thought how far $120,000 would go in this neighborhood.

Inside, the building was overheated and brightly lit. The front room was large, aqua, crowded with men sitting and lying across randomly placed green plastic chairs. The floors were black-and-gray linoleum, the plaster bare except for a single wooden crucifix tacked high to the welcoming wall.

More body odor, mixed with disinfectant, the bilious reek of stale vomit, and the suety smell of something simmering in broth. A young black man in a white polo shirt and tan slacks circulated among the men, carrying a clipboard and chained pen and a handful of brochures. A name tag above the tiger embroidered on his chest said GILBERT JOHNSON, STUDENT VOLUNTEER. He made his way among the men, consulting the board from time to time. Stopping and bending to talk to someone. Handing out a leaflet. Once in a while he got a response.

None of the men moved much. No conversation that I could see. But there was still noise from afar. Metallic rattles and machine pulses and a rhythmic baritone drone that had to be prayer.

I thought of a depot filled with travelers who’d lost their way.

Milo caught the young black man’s eye. The man frowned and came over.

“Can I help you?” On the clipboard was a list of names, some of them followed by check marks.

“I’m looking for Joel McCloskey.”

Johnson sighed. He was in his early twenties, had broad features, Asian eyes, a cleft chin, and skin not that much darker than Glenn Anger’s tan.

“Again?”

“Is he here?”

“You’ll have to speak to Father Tim first. One second.”

He disappeared down a hallway to the right of the crucifix and came back almost immediately with a thin white man in his early thirties wearing a black shirt, clerical collar, and white jeans over high-top black-and-white basketball shoes. The priest had jug ears, short light-brown hair, a wispy drooping mustache, and skinny hairless arms.

“Tim Andrus,” he said in a soft voice. “I thought it was all cleared up with Joel.”

“Just a few more questions,” said Milo.

Andrus turned to Johnson. “Why don’t you get back to bed-count, Gilbert? It’s going to be tight tonight- we’ll need to be really accurate.”

“Sure thing, Father.” Johnson shot a quick look at Milo and me, then returned to the men. Several of them had turned around and were staring at us.

The priest gave them a smile that wasn’t reciprocated. Turning to us, he said, “The police were here quite a while last night and I was assured everything had been taken care of.”

“Like I said, Father, just a few more questions.”

“This kind of thing is very disruptive. Not so much for Joel. He’s patient. But the rest of the men- most of them have had experiences with the police. Lots of them are mentally disturbed. The upset in routine…”

“Patient,” said Milo. “Good of him.”

Andrus gave a short, hard laugh. His ears had turned scarlet. “I know what you’re thinking, Officer. Another bleeding-heart liberal do-gooder- and maybe I am. But that doesn’t mean I’m unaware of Joel’s history. When he came here six months ago he was totally forthright- he hasn’t forgiven himself for what he did all those years ago. And it was a terrible thing, so of course I had my reservations about allowing him to serve. But if I stand for anything it’s the power of forgiveness. The right to be forgiven. So I knew I couldn’t turn him away. And over the past six months he’s proved me right. No one’s served more selflessly. He’s not the same man he was twenty years ago.”

“Good for him,” said Milo. “But we’d still like to talk to him.”

“She still hasn’t shown up? The woman he…”

“Burned? Not yet.”

“I’m so sorry. I’m sure Joel is, too.”