The boy lounged in the doorway. “Felix is indisposed right now.”

Danny looked him over, his stomach queasing at blond hair straight from a peroxide bottle. The living room backdropping the boy was ultramodern, with one whole wall mirrored—tinted glass like the one-ways in police interrogation stalls. Vandrich on Gordean: he perved watching men with men. Danny said, “Tell him it’s Deputy Upshaw.”

“It’s all right, Christopher. I’ll talk to this officer.”

The pretty boy jumped at Gordean’s voice; Danny walked in and saw the man, elegant in a silk robe, staring at the one-way. He kept staring; Danny said, “Are you going to look at me?”

Gordean pivoted slowly. “Hello, Deputy. Did you forget something the other night?”

Christopher went over and stood by Gordean, giving the mirror a look-see and a giggle. Danny said, “Four names that I need rundowns on. Donald Wachtel, Alan Marks, Augie Duarte and Timothy Costigan.”

Gordean said, “Those men are clients and friends of mine, and they were all at my office this afternoon. Have you been spying on me?”

Danny stepped toward the two, angling himself away from the mirror. “Get specific. Who are they?”

Gordean shrugged and put his hands on his hips. “As I said, clients and friends.”

“Like I said, get specific.”

“Very well. Don Wachtel and Al Marks are radio actors, Tim Costigan used to be a crooner with the big bands and Augie Duarte is a budding actor who I’ve found commercial work for. In fact, maybe you’ve seen him on television. I found him a job playing a fruit picker in a spot for the California Citrus Growers’ Association.”

Pretty Boy was hugging himself, entranced by the mirror; Danny smelled fear on Gordean. “Remember how I described my suspect the other night? Tall, gray-haired and forty-fivish?”

“Yes. So?”

“So have you seen anyone like that hanging out around your office?”

A deadpan from Gordean; Christopher turning from the mirror, his mouth opening. A brief hand squeeze, pimp to Pretty Boy; the kid’s deadpan. Danny smiled, “That’s it. I’m sorry I bothered you.”

Two men walked into the living room. They were wearing red silk briefs; one man was removing a sequined mask. Both were young and overly muscular, with shaved legs and torsos slicked down with some kind of oil. They eyed the three standing there; the taller of them threw Danny a kissy face. His partner scowled, hooked his fingers inside his briefs, pulled him back to the hallway and out of sight. They trailed giggles; Danny felt like vomiting and went for the door.

Gordean spoke to his back. “No questions about that, Deputy?”

Danny turned around. “No.”

“Wouldn’t you say it runs contrary to your life? I’m sure you’ve got a nice family. A wife or a girlfriend, a nice family who would find that shocking. Would you like to tell me about them over a glass of that nice Napoleon brandy you enjoy so much?”

For a split second Danny felt terrified; Gordean and Pretty Boy became paper silhouettes, villains to empty his gun into. He about-faced out the door, slamming it; he puked into the street, found a hose attached to the adjoining house, drank and doused his face with water. Steadied, he pulled his Chevy around to the opposite side of PCH and parked, lights off, to wait.

Pretty Boy left the house twenty minutes later, walking toward an overpass to the beach. Danny let him get to the steps, cut him five seconds’ more slack, then ran over. His motorcycle boots thunked on cement; the kid looked around and stopped. Danny slowed and walked up to him. Christopher said, “Hello. Want to enjoy the view with—”

Danny hooked him to the gut, grabbed a handful of bottle blond hair and lashed slaps across his face until he felt his knuckles wet with blood. The moon lit up that face: no tears, eyes wide open and accepting. Danny let the boy kneel to the cement and looked down at him huddling into his kimono. “You did see that man hanging around Gordean’s office. Why didn’t you talk?”

Christopher wiped blood from his nose. He said, “Felix didn’t want me to talk to you about it,” no whimper, no defiance, no nothing in his voice.

“Do you do everything Felix tells you to do?”

“Yes.”

“So you saw a man like that?”

Christopher got to his feet and leaned over the railing with his head bowed. “The man had really beautiful hair, like movie star hair. I do file work at the agency, and I’ve seen him out at the bus stop on Sunset a lot the last few days.”

Danny worked the kinks out of his knuckles, rubbing them on his jacket sleeve. “Who is he?”

“I don’t know.”

“Have you seen him with a car?”

“No.”

“Have you seen anybody talking to him?”

“No.”

“But you told Felix about him?”

“Y-yes.”

“And how did he react?”

Christopher shrugged. “I don’t know. He didn’t react much at all.”

Danny leaned over the railing, fists cocked. “Yes, he fucking did, so you fucking tell me.”

“Felix wouldn’t like me to tell.”

“No, but you tell me, or I’ll hurt you.”

The boy pulled away, gulped and spoke fast, a fresh-turned snitch anxious to get it over with. “At first he seemed scared, then he seemed to be thinking, and he told me I should point the man out from the window the next time I saw him.”

“Did you see him again?”

“No. No, I really didn’t.”

Danny thought: and you never will, now that he knows I’m wise to his stakeout. He said, “Does Gordean keep records for his introduction service?”

“No. No, he’s afraid of it.”

Danny shot the boy an elbow. “You people like playing games, so here’s a good one. I tell you something, you put it together with Gordean, who I’m sure you know real well. And you look at me, so I can tell if you’re lying.”

The kid turned, profile to full face, pretty to beaten and slackfeatured. Danny tried to evil-eye him; trembly lips made him look at the ocean instead. “Does Gordean know any jazz musicians, guys who hang at the jazz clubs down in darktown?”

“I don’t think so, that’s not Felix’s style.”

“Think fast. Zoot stick. That’s a stick with razor blades at the end, a weapon.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“A man who looks like the one you saw by the bus stop, a man who uses Gordean’s service.”

“No. I’d never seen that man by the bus stop before, and I don’t know any—”

“Dentists, dental workers, men who can make dentures.”

“No. Too chintzy for Felix. Oh God, this is so strange.”

“Heroin. Guys who push it, guys who like it, guys who can get it.

“No, no, no. Felix hates needle fiends, he thinks they’re vulgar. Can we please hurry up? I never stay out on my walks this long, and Felix might get worried.”

Danny got the urge to hit again; he stared harder at the water, imagining shark fins cutting the waves. “Shut up and just answer. Now the service. Felix gets his kicks bringing guys out, right?”

“Oh Jesus—yes.”

“Were any of those four men I mentioned queers that he brought out?”

“I—I don’t know.”

“Queers in general?”

“Donald and Augie, yes. Tim Costigan and Al Marks are just clients.”

“Did Augie or Don ever turn tricks for the service?”

“Augie did, that’s all I know.”

“Christopher! Did you fall in and drown!”

Danny shifted his gaze, wave churn to beach. Felix Gordean was standing on his back porch, a tiny figure lit by a string of paper lanterns. A glass door stood half open behind him; the two musclemen, barely visible, were entwined on the floor inside. Christopher said, “Please, can I go now?”

Danny looked back at his sharks. “Don’t you tell Gordean about this.”

“What should I tell him about my nose?”

“Tell him a fucking shark bit you.”

“Christopher! Are you coming!”