“Wow is right. These fucking guys are pulling the ultimate comprehensive elder scam. And it’s more of that same aggressive positivity bullshit—mind power über alles. Bahari started with the youth, right? Teen potential. But then he saw where the really big bucks were—the boomer set, going geriatric.”

Fry went silent. Then he said, “I buy it. But euthanasia’s not even illegal here, Addy. And I don’t get what any of this has to do with some garage band from a zillion years ago.”

“These guys—Kip, Rog, Bahari—they’re crooks. They got their hands in all kinds of funny business. Let’s say it’s not only about replacing Durazo with a drum machine. Let’s say Rey found something out—something bad. He’s pugnacious, ballsy—that’s how his cousin described him, anyway. Well—I can’t tell you how I know, but I know that Durazo was flat-out snooping on Bahari.”

“So he stumbles onto something he shouldn’t know and—”

“And he gets vocal—maybe he even threatens. I mean—he’s part of this punker gang, he isn’t afraid of shit, right? He talks back. And maybe this Bahari doesn’t cotton to that. He shuts Durazo up for good and wipes his hands of the whole shebang.”

“You check into the vitamin lab?”

“Yup—nothing there, it’s a front. It looks completely bogus. And no address for Bahari either. It’s like, midnineties he disappeared into the ether.”

“Okay, okay,” Fry said, contemplating. “I’ll try to find out where this Bahari character lives. But meanwhile—you go home. And I mean straight home, lie low. Do not pass go, do not collect two hundred dollars. You got me?”

“Roger.”

I signed off and caught a breath in the dark, then spun the car out of the alley and headed for Santiago Labs, ready to race home, park fast, skip up the stairs, into my room, and doublelock the door.

But as I pulled up, I spotted a car out front—one of those new-style beefy, boxy Arabian gray All-Wheel G-Class Benzos—a quarter-million bucks in a single ride. At first I didn’t flinch, but as I got closer, their lights went on. I kept driving and they pulled out, turned, started tailing.

I cut up Cattaraugus and so did they.

I picked up the pace and so did they.

I tore onto Washington and so did they.

Now we were both pimp-slapping the speed limit, racing down the late-night boulevard, headed for nothing but the sea. On impulse, I peeled right into some residentials after Costco and completely fucked myself, cornered into a three-way cul-de-sac, game over. The Benzo screeched behind me—woman driver with dark Italian eyes was at the wheel—she shot me a sympathetic look. A slim blond man hopped out of the back seat brandishing the butt of a pistol in his jeans. He tapped my window. With great reluctance, I rolled it down. The night streets of Venice were dead silent.

Blond Man grinned. “The fuck you runnin’ for, fraidy cat?”

I didn’t answer.

“You’re Zantz. True?”

I didn’t answer.

“And you want to speak with Dr. Bahari—true?”

Our eyes met.

“That was quick,” I said.

“Yeah, well,” he said, “Doc’s been eager to see you.”

I took it in.

He thumbed west. “Follow us.”

32

Rich car, poor car. I tailed them onto PCH and we shot up the silent coast, past Chautauqua, up Topanga, the dark beachside forest with its sloping, scorched earth, up-up-up the steep mountain. A wisp of night fog hung over heavy trees of mustard, violet, crimson—my tension mounted with every curve. I reached for the burner to call Fry but what could I tell him? I had no idea where the hell I was headed. The forest opened up into a forest ghetto of majestic hippie mansions, one after another, a whole village of ’em, on and on toward what seemed like the end of the line, a dirt dead end sloping off to a long, descending gravel driveway that led into darkness.

This road, this darkness—I was like a moth taking one last look at the flame before flying in.

But what else could I do? I tailed them down the rocky road.

Then the Benz came to an enormous wrought iron gate, they stopped, and Blond Man jumped out again, waved a hand for me to come out. Instead, I rolled down the window.

“What?” I said.

“Come on, chickenshit, I ain’t gonna pluck your feathers. You want to see Dr. Bahari or not?” He pulled open the door to the Benz. “From here you ride with us.”

The lady chauffeur shot me a worried frown as I got out of my car and into theirs. Blond Man shut the door, cut around and slipped in beside me, pointing his little black Glock at my belly. My hands crept up on instinct.

“What’s dat for?” Lady Chauffeur said with a scowl in the rearview. “Put away.”

“Zip it,” he said. “I don’t need this little dork to get any funny ideas about turning tail.”

In disgust, she rolled her window and pressed the gate intercom.

“Hello”—a smooth man’s voice.

“Yes, Marco, hi, this is Giuliana.”

“You took care of that thing?”

“Dat’s right.”

“Nice.” He sounded tentative. Then: “I’ll get the doctor.”

The gate began to open in slo-mo—with a giant lurch, we rolled forward on gravel. Up another short hill, we came to a loop—a spitting baby fountain stood before a behemoth log cabin, circular with twisting wooden staircases jutting over the mountain peak like a zoo habitat for monkeys. I took in the opulence, one eye on the gun. You see so many oversized homes in LA, but this was different, embedded in banana palms, unfurling into the raw nature that sloped down in every direction. One descending incline broke out into dark vineyards, perfect rows and rows of purple-green. I never knew you could make wine up here, but there was plenty about the wealthy I didn’t know. Down in the middle of the vineyard sat a raised lookout house with glass walls. Inside was a round table surrounded by funky face chairs—Picassos. They looked as panicky as me in the night glare.

I looked over my shoulder—the gates were closing smooth behind us.

Giuliana parked in front of massive doors, cut the engine, and was about to get out when Blond Man said, “Ohhh no, sister, you wait here. This is my catch. And don’t get any funny ideas about breaking ranks.”

“What does this mean, break ranks?”

“You just stay put and keep your mouth shut.”

The giant double doors opened and a bruiser with a conspicuous pistol of his own poking out of his sweats made his impatient appearance known. In a flurry, Blond Man got out, cut around the car, pulled me out. Only when my feet hit the gravel did it occur to me that I was at the highest peak for miles in every direction. I turned 360 in the high breeze—the ocean, the basin, the valley stretched out forever, city clusters cropping up like fingers of silver grasping for the sky.

The monster, Los Angeles.

Blond Man caught my one-second reverie, said, “Move” and gunned me to Bruiser who immediately frisked me again and yanked my wallet and keys. Then Blond Man tucked his gun and said, “Marco—apologies for the late intrusion,” just as a slender man in a charcoal gray suit appeared at the door.

“Doesn’t bother me. You caught the fish.”