Milton took out his key and unfastened the locks. He checked again that he was alone in the facility and, satisfied that he was, opened the door. He had stocked the storage crate with everything he would need in an emergency. There was a change of clothes, a cap, a packet of hair dye and a pair of clear lensed spectacles. There was a go bag with three false passports and the money he had found at El Patrón’s superlab before he had torched it. Five thousand dollars, various denominations, all used notes. At the back of the crate, hidden beneath a blanket, was a Desert Eagle .50 Action Express with a picatinny rail. It had been El Patrón’s weapon and, like everything else in his comic-book life, it had been tricked out to clichéd excess: the gun was gold-plated with diamonds set into the butt. Milton had no idea how much it was worth — thousands, obviously — but he didn’t really care about that. The semi-automatic was one of Milton’s favourite weapons. It was gas-operated with a firing mechanism usually found in rifles as opposed to the more common short recoil or blowback designs. The mechanism allowed for far more powerful cartridges and he had purchased a box of Speer 325-grain .50 AE ammunition for it the day after he arrived in town. He tore back the cardboard and tipped the bullets onto the floor of the unit; they glittered in the light of the single naked bulb that had been fitted to the roof of the crate. Lethal little golden slugs.

Milton detached the magazine and thumbed seven into the slot.

He slid the Desert Eagle into his jeans, his belt pressing it against his skin. The golden barrel was icy cold, the frame flat against his coccyx. He filled his pockets with the rest of the bullets. He dropped the Smith & Wesson 9mm into the go bag and slung it over his shoulder.

He shut and locked the crate.

He wouldn’t be coming back again.

Things were already too hot for him in San Francisco. He hadn’t been named in any of the newspaper reports that he had read about the missing girls but that was probably just a matter of time. It was a little irrelevant, too; his name would have been recorded by the police and Control would sniff that out soon enough. They could be here tomorrow or next week; there was no way of knowing when, except that they were coming. Under normal circumstances, he would have moved on already, but he didn’t feel able to leave until he had tried a little harder to find Madison. Trip would have no chance without him and, besides, he had a lead now. He would find out what he could and then disappear beneath the surface again.

The Explorer was parked close to the entrance of the facility.

He nodded to the attendant and made his way out to his car.

* * *

A short detour first. Manny Martinez ran his operation out of a grocery shop in the Mission District, not far from Milton’s place. Milton had called ahead to make an appointment and, when he arrived, he was ushered all the way to the back of the store. There was a small office with a desk and a computer. A clock on the wall. Ramirez was a big man, wearing an old pair of cargo pants and a muscle top that showed off impressively muscled biceps and sleeves of tattoos on both arms. His head was shaved to a furze of rough hair and he had a tattoo of a tear beneath his right eye. Prison ink. Milton checked the office: his eye fell on the cudgel with a leather strap that was hanging from a hook on the wall.

“You Smith?”

“That’s right. Thank you for seeing me.”

“How much you want?”

“I don’t want anything.”

“You said—”

“Yes, I know — and I’m sorry about that. It’s something else.”

He sat up, flexing his big shoulders. “That right?”

“One of your customers — Richie Grimes?”

“Yeah,” he said. “I know Richie. Fucking reprobate. Drunk.”

“How much does he owe you?”

“What’s it got to do with you?”

“I’d like to buy his debt.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

“What if I don’t wanna sell?”

“Let me make you an offer — if you don’t want to sell after that, that’s fair enough.”

Ramirez swivelled the chair so that he was facing the computer and clicked through a series of files until he found the one he wanted. “He’s in the hole for fifty-eight hundred. He wanted four and the vig was ten per cent.”

“How’d you get to fifty-eight from there?”

“Compound interest, buddy. Interest on top of interest.”

“Hardly ethical.”

“Ethical? These are the streets, buddy. Ethics don’t get much play here.”

“I’ll give you five.”

Ramirez shook his head. “No.”

“Debt’s only worth what someone’ll pay for it.”

“What are you? An economist?”

“Five. That’s a grand clear profit.”

“I can get seven.”

“Not from him.”

“Don’t have to be from him, does it?”

The second hand on the clock swept around the dial. Milton opened his bag and reached into the stolen drug money inside. He would put it to good use. He took out the five bundles, each secured by an elastic band around twenty fifties, and put them on the desk.

“Five thousand. Come on, Mr. Ramirez — it’s right there.”

Ramirez looked up at him with an amused cast to his face. “I said no.”

“What’s the point in dragging this out? He’s got nothing.”

“He told you that? Guy’s an addict, like I said. You can’t believe a thing they say.”

“I believe him,” Milton said. “He can’t pay.”

“Then he’s got a problem.”

“Is that your final word?”

“That’s right.”

Milton nodded. He picked up the money and put it back into his bag.

“Come back with seven, maybe we can talk.”

Milton looked at him, then the cudgel. He was a big man but he was lounging back in his chair. He was relaxed. He didn’t see Milton as a threat but Milton could have killed him, right there and then. He could have done it before the second hand on the clock had skirted another semi-circle between the nine and twelve. Fifteen seconds. He thought about it for a moment but that wouldn’t solve Richie’s problems. The debts would be taken over by someone else, and that person might be worse. There would have to be another way.

“See you around,” Martinez said. A gold tooth in his mouth glittered as he grinned at him.

“You will,” Milton said.

* * *

Milton called Beau Baxter as he drove to the airport.

“Morning, English. What can I do for you?”

“Did you get a name for me?”

“I did. You got a pen and paper?”

“Go on.”

“You want to speak to Jarad Efron. You know who that is?”

“I’ve heard it before.”

“Not surprising. He’s a big noise on the tech scene.”

“Thanks. I’ll find him.”

“Goes without saying that you need to leave the Italians out of this.”

“Of course. Thanks, Beau. I appreciate it.”

“Anything else?”

“There is, actually. One other thing.”

“Shoot.”

“Do our friends have an interest in the lending business?”

“They have interests in lots of things.”

“So I’ll assume that they do. There’s a loan shark in the Mission District. A friend of mine owes him money. I just made him a very generous offer to buy the debt.”

“And he turned you down?

“Thinks he can get more.”

“And how could our friends help?”

“I get the impression that this guy’s out there all on his own. A lone operator. I wondered, if that’s something they’re involved in, whether the competition is something they’d be happy about. You think you could look into it for me?”

“What’s this dude’s name?”

“Manny Martinez.”

“Never heard of him. I can ask around, see what gives. I’ll let you know.”

Milton thanked him and said goodbye, ended the call and parked the Explorer. He took his go bag and went into the terminal building. He found the Hertz desk and hired a Dodge Charger, using one of the false passports and paying the three hundred bucks in cash. He drove it into the long-stay car park, put the go bag in the trunk, locked it, and then found his way back to the Explorer.