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birthday.”
    As I turned, she put her arms around me and gave me a kiss. I noticed she was still wearing the strand of lace around her neck. “So where’s my present?” I asked.
    “You got it last night.”
    “I hate it when they come unwrapped.”
    She wriggled tight against me, and I felt myself respond.
    She fingered the lace. “I happen to have a little time right now.” Her breathing was shallow, and her eyes had a faraway look.
    I held her at arm’s length. “I have a rule. Never when there’s bacon on the wind.”
    She sniffed the air. “I’ve got to admit, that does smell wonderful. Okay, you’ve got a rain check. By the way, was I as good as Rhonda?”
    In the big book of life, these are the kinds of questions where the answer is so obvious that you wonder why any guy ever gets it wrong. But the cemeteries and alimony lines are full of guys who do. “Rhonda? Who’s Rhonda?”
    Kim gave me a mock punch, but she liked it. “You know, when I woke up, it took me five minutes to figure out you weren’t there. That’s the biggest goddamn bed I’ve ever seen— or been laid in. Who knew sheets even came in that size.”
    “The Martha Stewart Big and Tall Collection.”
    “And I didn’t even have to shave you.”
    “That one of your hidden talents?”
    Suddenly, she seemed flustered, as if she’d said something she hadn’t intended to. “Just a figure of speech,” she stammered, then looked at the newspaper on the table. “What have you got there?”
    I handed her the magnifying glass. “You tell me.”
    While she bent over the newspaper and adjusted her eyes,I admired the fit of the familiar jeans, the white sleeveless blouse and sandals. And once again, it took a couple of deep breaths to get my emotions back in their cage.
    After a long moment, Kim stood up. “My God, that’s me,” she said.
    “And your best side too.” Under magnification, you could make out Kim’s bare back climbing over the center divider. I made a mental note of the name of the guy who was credited for the picture—Walter Kempthorn.
    While Mallory served us cheese omelets and thick slices of slab bacon, Kim and I made light conversation. Finally, I said, “You want me to run you home later?”
    She looked away, seemed to gather herself. “Hey, it’s Sunday anyway. Why don’t we just lie around this little ol’ place of yours and soak up some sun. Maybe catch a nap this afternoon.” The last line was delivered with a seductive lowering of her voice that I read as genuine, but it could have just been wistful thinking.
    “Sounds fine. Especially the nap part. But I’ve got to run an errand first.”
    “Need company?”
    “Why don’t you stay here and get started on that sun. I won’t be long.”
    “Okay, but if you want to win my heart, stop and pick up a pack of smokes. I promise to pay you back.”
    “I’ll hold you to it.”
    I took the Rolls down the hill and turned east on Sunset. Drove through West Hollywood and on the far side hung a left on one of the winding streets up into the hills. Almost at the top, there was a narrow drive marked by a couple of reflectors on a metal pole over a KEEP OUT sign. I turned in and immediately heard Benny Joe’s dogs barking.
    I like dogs, but there’s nothing warm and cuddly about four aggressive Dobermans that don’t obey their owner all that well. Having been chased back to my car more than once after they’d slipped through an unlatched gate, I sat inthe Rolls and leaned on the horn. That set the dogs off even more.
    A minute or two later, Benny Joe Willis came out wearing a pair of old sweatpants and a wife-beater. As usual, he was shoeless and unshaven. Also as usual, he was carrying a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon in one hand and a .357 Magnum in the other.
    I opened the door. “You can put the peashooter away, Benny Joe. I shook the FBI tail coming through town.”
    “You’re a fuckin’ riot, Rail. It ain’t the cops I’m worried about. It’s that