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Machines that looked like cold war—era computers bumped and clunked and whirred as men and women monitored the progress of paper and cardboard and bindings. The machines were loud, and most of the workers wore hearing protection but not all of them, and most of them smoked. A woman with a cigarette dangling from the corner of her mouth was wearing a T-shirt that said EAT SHIT AND HAVE A CRAPPY DAY . “I’m looking for an employee you let go three weeks ago, Clark Haines.”
    Livermore made the brushing gesture again. “Got rid of’m.”
    “I know. I’m wondering if you have any idea where he might be.”
    “Try the morgue. All fuckin’ junkies end up in the morgue.”
    I said, “Junkie?” I think my mouth was open.
    Livermore stopped so suddenly that I almost walked into him. He glared at two guys who were standing together by a large offset press, then made a big deal out of tapping his watch. “What is this, vacationland? I ain’t payin’ you guys to flap gums! We got orders to fill!”
    The two men turned back to their machines, Livermore set off again, and I chased after. So much ass to kick, so little time to kick it. I said, “Are you telling me that Clark Haines is a drug addict?”
    “Guy was a mess since day one, always runnin’ to the john, always shakin’ with the sweats an’ callin’ in sick. I knew somethin’ wasn’t right, so I started keepin’ my eyes open, y’see?” He pulled the skin beneath his right eye and glared at me. Bloodshot. “Caught’m in one’a the vans, Haines and another guy.” He jabbed the air with a stiff finger. “Bammo, they’re outta here. I got zero tolerance for that crap.”
    I didn’t know what to say. It didn’t seem to fit, but then it often doesn’t. “Have you heard from Clark since that day?”
    “Nah. Why would I?”
    “Job reference, maybe? He told his kids he was looking for work.”
    “Hey, the guy’s a top printer, but what am I gonna say, hire a junkie, they give good value?”
    Livermore beelined to a short Hispanic man feeding booklet pages into a binder. He grabbed a thick sheaf of the pages, flipped through them, then shook his head in disgust. “This looks like shit. Redo the whole fuckin’ order.”
    I looked over his shoulder. The pages and the printing looked perfect. “Looks okay to me.”
    He waved at the pages. “Jesus Christ, don’tcha see that mottle? The blacks’re uneven. Ya see how it’s lighter there?”
    “No.”
    He threw the pages into a large plastic trash drum, then scowled at the Hispanic man. “Reprint the whole goddamn run. Whadaya think we’re makin’ here, tortillas?”
    I guess printing isn’t a politically correct occupation.
    The Hispanic man shrugged like it was no skin off his nose, and began shutting down the binder.
    Livermore was again stalking the aisles. I said, “Who was the man with Haines?”
    “One of the drivers. Another fuckin’ junkie, but him I could figure. Him, he had asshole written all over’m.”
    “What was his name?”
    “Tre Michaels. I think Michaels was the dealer.”
    “Did you call the police?”
    “Nah. Hey, I thought about it, okay, but they put up such a fuss, whinin’ and cryin’ and all. Michaels is on parole, see? I coulda violated him easy, but I figured, what the hell, I just wanted him outta here.”
    “Think I could have his address?”
    Livermore made a little waving gesture and walked faster. “Go back up front, and ask Colleen. Tell’r I said it was okay to give you what you want.”
    Colleen was only too happy to oblige.
    Tre Michaels lived on the second floor of an apartment building just south of the Santa Monica Freeway in the Palms area, less than ten blocks from Culver City. It was just before eleven when I got there, but Michaels wasn’t home. I found the manager’s apartment on the ground level, told her that I needed to speak with Mr. Michaels about a loan he had applied for, and asked if she had any idea when he might be back. She