Moe ate raw vegetables, listened to police calls, watched the mouth of Swallowsong Lane.

It was eleven p.m. and he'd been there since nightfall, dressed for the long haul in a baggy sweatshirt and jeans, brown corduroy car coat at the ready if he needed to hide his gun.

The chance it would get that exciting was low; during the last three hours, only one vehicle had rolled toward the No Outlet sign. Pale blue Prius driven distractedly by a ponytailed, cell-phoning brunette in her forties. Moe had noticed the vehicle in the driveway of a neighboring property, so no link to the house at the top of the hill.

The calls on the police band were the usual: 415 disturbances, burglar alarms likely to be false, a few traffic stops that required further attention when license checks turned up wants and warrants.

A deep, throbbing rumble from the intersection made him switch off the radio. A black Dodge Ram truck rolled down from Swallow-song, barreled through the stop sign, sped past before Moe could run the tags or see who was inside.

But make, model, and color matched Ax Dement's drive.

Aggressive hunk of metal, strutted high on oversized, black-rimmed wheels. From the sound of the engine, lots of aftermarket beef. Not your typical Industry-brat ride, but in that family portrait Ax had been working the Rural Shitkicker bit.

The truck was long out of view but Moe could still hear it. His choice was follow or wait around on the off chance Mason Book would go tooling by, either alone or chauffeured by Rory Stoltz.

For all he knew, Book was in Ax's passenger seat right now, playing good ole boy. But if so, Moe didn't see it as a club prowl; the Ram would attract too much attention on the Westside.

Were Book and Ax slumming?

Looking for some unsuspecting female to gang?

No serious reason to believe that, but Moe turned the ignition key.

By the time he reached Sunset, traffic was sludged up, everyone too irate to let him in. He idled and cursed his indecision. Then a burst of horns and shouted curses directed him to the source of the jam: the black Ram was five yards up, perpendicular to the flow, blocking every eastbound lane.

Easy enough to reconstruct what had happened: The truck had bullied its way into the slow-moving stream, only to get stuck when the light turned red.

The light turned green.

All the vehicles east of the truck took off but the Ram didn't budge, leaving its western neighbors stranded.

More cell phone distraction?

No, too much time was passing for that.

No engine breakdown, the Ram was growling.

“Move it, asshole!”

“C'mon dickbrain!”

“Moooove!”

Burst of horns. Dumb move on Ax's part if Mason Book was a passenger.

Unless Book was too stoned to care.

Or he liked the attention.

The honks grew deafening. The Ram's brights flashed twice, talk about a screw-you move.

More noise. The Ram's driver's window rolled down and a thick, tattooed arm right-angled upward, flipped the world a giant bird.

“Asshole!”

“What wrong with you?”

A huge black guy in blue velvet sweats got out of an Infiniti and moved toward the truck. Moe unlatched his seat belt, had one hand on his 9mm, the other on his door handle when the Ram revved loud and peeled out.

The black guy gaped, then everyone started honking him. Scowling, he ambled back to his car, drove off. Within seconds, Sunset was moving again and the Ram was nowhere in sight.

It took a while for Moe to muscle himself into the flood of happy travelers and by the time he'd reached twenty per, he spotted the truck. Nearly two blocks up but-elevated by the sprung chassis and big tires-an easy target.

He made a few lane changes, gained ground, got a block behind. Then three car lengths, where he stayed.

Tossing a carrot stick into his mouth, he chewed in rhythm with the pounding of his heart.

The truck stayed on the boulevard all the way through Hollywood and into Echo Park, driving through dark blocks of the gussied-up thrifts posing as antiques shops and the fly-by-night boutiques that signaled the district's flimsy gentrification. Laundromats, Latino bars, and liquor stores cast their votes for Old School. Off in the distance the grid-lit downtown skyline beckoned.

This far east, fewer cars traveled Sunset. Moe hung back. Lucky move, because the Ram veered without signaling and parked. Dousing his lights, Moe swung to the curb at the end of the preceding block. Reaching for his binoculars, he framed the truck.

Hard to see much in the dark. Soviet-surplus infrared scopes like Aaron probably had would be nice…

The Ram sat there, same way it had when wreaking momentary havoc on the Strip.

Moe checked out the terrain. Quiet block, lots of shuttered windows, one functioning establishment marked by a smudge of neon at the far end. He refocused the binocs, made out the sign.

The T ll Tale in sputtering red, above a blue happy mask similarly malfunctioning.

Probably The Tall Tale. Poor bulb maintenance; your basic low-rent alky bar.

If Mason Book was a passenger in the truck, was he figuring he wouldn't be recognized here? Risky. So was the possibility of some juicehead taking a random swing.

Maybe whoever was in the truck had no intention of getting out and this was a dope pickup.

If the quarry did enter the place, could Moe chance going in? He thought about that for a while, decided he'd dressed perfectly for the part. What Aaron called Moe's 818 wardrobe would fit in a whole lot better than Aaron's overpriced Italian stuff…

But clothes only made the man to a point, his muscles and obvious health would stand out. He'd lay on some stoop and shuffle, hang his arms in a way that narrowed his shoulders, mumble when he spoke, like the bar wasn't his first stop of the night.

All that became hypothetical when two people exited the bar and walked toward the truck.

Big person, smaller person.

As they got closer, details blossomed. Small had long hair, unmistakable female curves. Big shuffled and slouched.

The two of them reached the truck and held a brief sidewalk conference with whoever was inside. Then they continued walking-in Moe's direction. Passed Moe and gave him a look.

Tight clothing for her, baggy for him. She swung an undersized purse, had a loose-hipped walk, kind of theatrical. The two of them stopped at a compact car three vehicles behind Moe. The man took a long time to get his keys out, dropped them, cursed loud enough for Moe to hear.

Finally, they were both in the car and the black truck's lights had switched on.

The car-a dark Corolla-pulled away first, driving with its own beams off for an entire block. The Ram pulled away, sped up until it was on the Corolla's butt, continued to follow closely.

Forgetting the lights and the way the Corolla weaved signaled an obvious DUI. Moe hoped no patrol cars were around. Hoped the idiot didn't hit someone and leave Moe feeling guilty for the rest of his life.

The truck and the car headed toward downtown but stopped short of the bright lights.

Out of Hollywood Division and into Rampart, where Central American gangs thrived and the potential for random bullets and other bad news was high.

The Corolla pulled into the parking lot of a place called the Eagle Motel. The Ram followed.

More faulty signage, this time a cracked plastic panel featuring a poorly rendered, leering raptor, more buzzard than National Symbol. Making matters worse, the crack ran down the bird's beak, made the mascot look downright goofy. Smaller signs promised cable TV and movies on demand.

The layout was typical: a dozen rooms around a U-shaped parking lot. A dark-skinned clerk sat in a glaringly illuminated front office. Iron grating protected the door, but to Moe all that light made the clerk a sitting target.