a teaspoon of milk.

“I called, but . . .” He stopped. With Machine Shop, it was like there were two people in there, engaged in steady, often heated conversation. The other must have said something. “All right,” Shop said, “I never called. I just came over.”

“How’d you know where to find me?”

“You had matches from the Mark, when you were smoking. You smoke too much, man. The body is a temple.”

“I just quit.”

“Good. You had two packs of matches. You got to the end of one, and you had another pack. So you had to be staying here, not just using a pack of matches somebody gave you. And then I made some calls.”

“Calls.”

“I keep my ear to the anvil,” Shop said.

“Called who?”

“All right,” Machine Shop said, “I didn’t call exactly. I just asked around about you. I have my network. Down on the water. Who you were. I knew where you were from, you told me that. I asked people who knew people. I found out, you know, what you do.”

Jimmy waited.

“You know, that you’re a detective and all. From Down Below.”

“You mean hell?”

“L.A., that’s what I call L.A. It’s one of my trademarks.” He heard another inner rebuke. “All right, that’s what a friend of mine calls it. Los Angeles, Down Below. Or jus’ D.L., short for Down ’Low.”

“D.L. instead of L.A.,” Jimmy said.

“That’s jus’ him,” Machine Shop said. “Look, like I said, I maybe got something for you . . .”

“Tell me what you think you know about me,” Jimmy said, an edge to his voice now.

“That you’re a detective. You look into things for people. But not for the money. You work out of your house. That it has to be something that, you know, touches you in your soul.”

“That it? Is that who I am?”

“That, you know, you’re a Brother. Well, not a brother, but, you know, a . . .”

There was a knock at the door.

“That’s probably him now,” Machine Shop said.

Jimmy reached for the knob, not really hearing the last thing he’d said. “That eye looks bad,” he said. “You know any Sailor doctors?”

“Look, before you—”

Jimmy opened the door.

Two people stood there. One was a very short man, built like a bomb. Brown cuffed trousers, a white short-sleeved shirt, tight over the biceps. Brown wing tips. A full head of straight black hair, oiled, combed back, a once-a-week barbershop haircut.

And a sad, Greek face.

The other guy standing there was a thirty-year-old boy in a Kelly green Mark Hopkins blazer who wondered who the man beside him was.

“Is this him?” the Greek man said to Machine Shop, pointing a finger at Jimmy.

“I said wait,” Machine Shop said. “Downstairs.”

“Mr. Miles?” the hotel boy started.

Jimmy dismissed the boy. “It’s all right,” he said, “I’ll do it myself.”

The green-blazered boy looked at the tiny, strong man and then at the tall black man with the beat-up face.

“You sure?” he said.

“Yeah, thanks,” Jimmy said.

The hotel runner gave Machine Shop and the short Greek man another comprehensive look, as if he might be called upon to testify later, and nodded to Jimmy again and padded away.

So then it was just the three of them.

Jimmy let the Greek man come in, even let him close the door behind him. He didn’t break five feet, but no doubt he could kick both of their asses.

“Have a seat,” Jimmy said to the little guy. The Greek man took a seat.

Jimmy snagged Machine Shop’s eye and tipped his head for him to follow him into the bedroom.

Shop came into the bedroom. Jimmy closed the door. He just looked at Shop, asking the obvious.

“It was his daughters who stepped off last night,” Shop said.

Jimmy didn’t exactly see that coming. People were always showing up with “a friend,” some old grievance they thought Jimmy could fix, something “that should just take a couple hours.” If you were a plumber, after you’d had a burger or hot dog out in the backyard, before the game started, they’d probably ask you if you’d mind taking a quick look under the toilet.

But this came at him from an unexpected angle. Had he forgotten about the beautiful naked girls, the dive off of Pier 35 last night, his first night in town? It’s not the going fast that kills you; it’s the sudden stop. He went over to the window. The city was purple all of a sudden, from one edge to the other. It was like a postcard with the color out of whack.

“The twins,” Machine Shop said.

“Yeah,