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number nine is another Korean guy. I’m sitting there on the subway reading those names over and over and I feel like crying ’cause it’s so beautiful. Eight Jew names and two Koreans.”
    “I do remember you talking about this now. But it was like six months ago.”
    “I’m getting choked up now just thinking about it. The media in New York needs to put Koreans on the same lists as Jews. The media doesn’t give a shit about blacks and Mexicans except when they’re running for president or illegally mowing some senator’s lawn. But when it comes to posting some terrifying shit—like landlords who let their tenants die over fifty bucks in repairs—and it comes to naming names, then they’re all over Koreans and the Jews. It’s a sign of fucking respect, like those kids carrying Ray Liotta’s groceries in
Goodfellas
.”
    “His mother’s groceries.”
    “When some Norteno gets popped up in the Mission, what’s thenews coverage? Three sentences. Juan Valdez and his donkey were shot by Juan Marichal. The Taco Bell Chihuahua has been detained as a possible accomplice. Police are investigating. Or when Kunta Kinte shoots a wayward Theo Huxtable over in the Western Addition, there might be four sentences ’cause the media doesn’t care.”
    “Marichal. Was he any good?”
    “What a question.”
    “I’m trying to change the subject.”
    Kim stood up, a laborious process of bulk adjustments and belt pulls, and took a step toward Finch’s desk. He squinted down at the photos and then picked up the notepad where Finch had written “barefoot.”
    He chuckled, tossed the notepad onto Finch’s lap, and said, “You deserve a raise, Keanu. All these fuckers in Sacramento talking about budget crisis and cutting government jobs. If they just saw this notepad, they’d all sleep a lot better.”
    Kim’s cell phone buzzed. He slapped at it vaguely. He said, “
Chron
is calling already—shit’s about to get terrible.”
    “Well, then, I’m going to cut out.”
    “Where you headed?”
    “Surfing.”
    “Smart man. That’s gotta be the only way anyone can stay out of cell phone range in this city. There aren’t even any decent tunnels.”
    “You could move to Marin. Drive around the hills.”
    Kim sounded a Bronx cheer and said, “The line of hippie tolerance ends at the Golden Gate Bridge, my friend. They’d string me up in the middle of the Mill Valley Strawberry Festival. Or they’d make me bang their ugliest women in the hopes of producing exotic kids who show aptitude at math and the violin.”
    “Nothing coming out of that stubby cock is going to be attractive.”
    “Stereotypes.”
    “Ugly is not a stereotype.”
    “You want to go interview some witnesses when you get back?”
    “Sure. That sounds detectivey.”
    “All right, then. Go paddle out there and bust Swayze for me.”
    FINCH DID NOT drive to the beach. Instead, he drove down to the Mission. His wife, Sarah, poured drinks at Parea, the neighborhood’s first wine bar. They had met there ten years ago. She, wearied by four years at Cal Arts and two grad years at Pratt; he, two years out of the academy and fully tanned from his newfound surfing habit. Some college friends had come into town. Finch, whose postcollegiate social life consisted almost entirely of playing poker in a local casino, was forced to consult the Internet for suggestions on what to do. The wine bar was the first place to pop up on a restaurant/nightlife review site.
    He had spent most of the night sulking in the corner. His friends talked wine and asked the bartender a lot of questions about vintages and vineyards and whether or not the cheese plate was made of copper. Finch, of course, hated all of them. This fact, though, wasn’t what bothered him. He had expected to hate them. Instead, he was concerned, embarrassed, really, over his hatred’s easy circuitry. Was he really so simple?
    When a party of overdressed Stanford grad students walked up to their booth and