The Detachment

we met before?”
    “I could be there in twenty minutes.”
    “Go to the same hotel. I’ll call in less than an hour.”
    “Good.”
    I clicked off.
    “He’s got some more work for us?” Dox said.
    “Two more. And a big completion bonus, apparently. How’s that sound to you?”
    He smiled. “Sounds like money, partner.”
    “Maybe. How do you feel about a face-to-face?”
    “You worried he’s gonna be Jack Ruby to our Lee Harvey Oswald?”
    “Something like that.”
    He reached under the seat and produced the Wilson Combat. “Old Oswald should have carried one of these.”
    I thought about it for a moment, and decided there was a way. “Head to West Hollywood,” I said.
    When we were off the highway and had driven a couple of miles west on Santa Monica Boulevard, I called Horton again. At this point, anyone listening in wouldn’t have time to scramble a team after us, so the momentary breach of communication security I was about to commit would be harmless. “Urth Caffé,” I told him. I knew the place from previous visits to L.A., and though I liked their coffee, we wouldn’t be enjoying it today. “Corner of Melrose Avenue and Westmount Drive.”
    “I’ll be there in under ten minutes.”
    I clicked off. Horton was a precise man, and it occurred to me that he must know the city reasonably well to be able to instantly offer such an estimate. I wasn’t sure what that meant, if it meant anything, but I filed the information away for subsequent consideration.
    We parked on Westmount, just south of Melrose, and got out. The air felt cool compared to the blast furnace heat of Las Vegas, and the late morning sky above the mixed palm and deciduous trees was a clear, hard blue. We both headed to the restroom in Urth, squeezing past tables of chattering, oblivious Angelenos clustered around metal tables under the shadows of green umbrellas on the sidewalk and patio. The coffee smelled like heaven, but we didn’t have time and I was already amped for the meeting with Horton. Maybe later.
    We went back to the car, Dox in the backseat this time while I took the wheel. I drove around the block, right turn following right turn, single family bungalows, walk-up apartment houses, low slung commercial establishments like Bodhi Tree Bookstore and Peace Gallery, repeat. Knots of pedestrian shoppers shifted and glided along the sun-drenched sidewalks, but no sign of Horton. And no sign of anything untoward, either—black Chevy Suburbans with darked-out windows; sedans with hard-looking men inside idling at the curb; a formation in sunglasses and unseasonable jackets taking up positions around the perimeter of the restaurant and beginning to move in.
    My phone buzzed—Horton. I clicked on and said, “Yeah.”
    “I’m here, but I don’t see you.”
    “Walk out of the restaurant left on Melrose and immediately turn left onto Westmount. We’ll be there in a minute.”
    “Still being cautious, I see.”
    “I’m sure it’s unnecessary.”
    He chuckled. “I fully understand.”
    I clicked off and handed my phone back to Dox. “Phones off,” I said. “And take out the batteries.” Horton knew the number, and someone could triangulate on it while we drove. Probably unnecessary, as Horton put it, along with my other precautions, but if you’re serious about having something life-saving in place the one percent of the time you really need it, you’ll have to have it in place the other ninety-nine percent, too.
    Dox laughed. “This about automobile cell phone use being illegal in the great state of California?”
    “No,” I said, glancing in the rearview and trying to hide my exasperation. Dox’s cell phone habits had once nearly gotten us killed in Bangkok. “It’s about—”
    He laughed. “I know, I know, we don’t want anyone triangulating on us. Just pulling your leg, partner. Though I don’t know why I bother, it’s so easy.”
    I sighed. Probably I would never get used to it. I always go quiet in the moments before a mission, but Dox needed to crack jokes, most of them at my expense.
    I turned on the bug detector and circled the block again, right on Westbourne, right on Sherwood, right on Westmount. I spotted Horton halfway up the street, on the sidewalk to our right, heading toward us. He was dressed the way he had been the other day—short-sleeved shirt, tucked in, nowhere good to conceal a gun except in an ankle holster. Or maybe, for the moment, in the back of his waistband, which