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“Because you’re too good to waste. Besides, who knows? Maybe someday you can save my ass.”

3
    R eading traffic was an art. Lymon checked in both directions, made eye contact with the guy in the Chevy truck, and eased the clutch out as he made a right onto Wilshire Boulevard. Traffic was still light. The time 6:38 displayed on the fairing-mounted clock as Lymon tapped his BMW into fourth.
    The light changed to yellow and Lymon slowed, downshifting before putting his right foot down. The 1150 RT puttered happily, sending soft vibrations through the seat and bodywork. A motorcycle could be a godsend when it came to Los Angeles traffic. The Japanese crotch rockets might have been faster, but the ass-in-the-air seating position was excruciating. What was the point of looking racy if the position reminded you of a bug snuffling under a cow flop?
    When the light turned, Lymon motored past familiar businesses and took a right for a half block to the alley. Turning in, he passed the Dumpsters and waved at the two homeless guys, Stewart and John, who lived under a blue polytarp behind the bakery. They weren’t bad for homeless. They peed and crapped in the storm drain, kept their lash-up neat, and even did odd jobs for the street-front businesses.
    Lymon idled into his small parking lot and killed the engine. Pulling off his gloves, he locked them in the tank-side compartment, flipped out the sidestand, and locked the forks.
He pulled his helmet off as he climbed the steel steps to his second-floor offices. After unlocking the door he disarmed the security system and let himself into the back hallway.
    He passed the small storeroom to his right, and then walked past the line of cubbyhole offices where his associates held court when they weren’t on the job.
    Lymon’s empire consisted of twelve hundred square feet of the second floor. The rent wasn’t bad, considering the location on Wilshire. He was minutes from Beverly Hills, Brentwood, and Pacific Palisades, where most of his clients lived. The second floor wasn’t a deterrent to his business. He didn’t need a high-traffic location, and most of his clients sent representatives if they came at all.
    He stopped in the cubbyhole where the Capresso machine sat, pushed the button, and watched the lights glow to life. A faint wisp of steam rose from the grate on top. He retrieved his cup from his desk, filled it, and had just settled in to go through the mail in the in-box when a knock came at the back door.
    He frowned at the clock—still ten to seven—and walked back. To his surprise, Mark Ensley stood on the narrow landing.
    Lymon opened the thick security door. “You’re about the last person I expected to find hanging out at my back door. Let me guess, you decided to give up on that two-by-twice outfit you run and come looking for a real job.”
    â€œWork for a chickenshit like you? Not a chance in hell. I’d rather hire on as watchman at a junkyard.” Ensley stood five ten and appeared to be in his midthirties when in reality he was a fit and well-preserved forty-two. He wore an expensive silk sport jacket over a powder blue button-down shirt. Lymon supposed that the bundle in the right-hand coat pocket was the missing tie. Ensley jerked a nod as he stepped into the hallway. His dark eyes looked tired, and his hair was slightly mussed.
    â€œThat coffee I smell?” He had a smooth baritone.
    â€œYeah, and it looks like you need it.” Lymon led the way. “Long night?”

    â€œYeah, weird.” Ensley was rubbing the back of his neck. “I was headed home. Took a chance that you might be in early.”
    â€œHey! Glad to be of service. Anything for the competition!” Lymon pulled a cup from the rack. “Strong?”
    â€œYeah. I need all the horsepower I can get.”
    While the machine ground, steamed, pressed, and dribbled, Lymon cataloged the stress reflected in Ensley’s