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When this shade emerged from the doorway, Travis turned off the ignition. It was then that I recognized Kenneth Rouche, a revolver held down at his side. I was wary and yet somehow pleased that he thought he needed the extra edge of a firearm.

I got out of the sports car, both hands in plain sight.

“Mr. Oliver,” the professional tough guy said.

“Mr. Rouche.”

“You stay out here,” the professional gunsel said to Travis. “Press the buzzer if anyone comes around.”

“You got it,” the young man assured him. I got the feeling that Travis knew he would have been out of his depth inside the house itself.

“After you,” Rouche said to me, and I walked right ahead, into the shadowy chamber.

The little hopper room housed a washer and dryer; beyond that was another door, framed in light.

As we passed through the doorway I asked, “Are you the one tried to put a tracker on my VW Bug?”

“You had my people following a Rolls-Royce all the way down to Palm Springs.”

“Sorry about that.”

“No matter. All things come to him who waits.”

We passed through the next doorway into a very large room with a low ceiling and, maybe thirty feet on, an outer wall made of glass. Through the window could be seen the lights of Los Angeles—cold and ignorant lights, illumination with no hope.

The only furniture in this room was a thick-limbed chair that seemed to be made from bronze. The chair had a high back and armrests. I was pretty sure that it would have taken a stronger man than I to break that front-row seat apart.

“Sit,” Mr. Rouche said to me, softly.

I lowered into the throne, even placed my forearms on the armrests.

Then Rouche turned up the volume, saying, “He’s ready.”

A door that I hadn’t seen before opened and Melton “Malto” Lamming came through. He wore jeans and a light blue long-sleeved work shirt. From his left hand there dangled multiple pairs of handcuffs.

“This is very familiar,” I said to the elder of the two.

“What is?” Malto asked.

“This party. I think you threw the last one too, at the photographer’s studio, but you didn’t get there in time.”

“No police to save you here, Mr. Oliver,” the rapist said, lowering his voice to do so.

At that same moment, Rouche leveled the muzzle of his six-shooter at my right temple.

“You can put ’em on now,” the gunsel said to his boss.

The manacles had only a single link between the cuffs. This meant that once they clamped my wrists and ankles to the arms and legs of the metal chair, I could be released only by their largesse—or by an act of God. As Melton went about locking me down, I had to suppress the urge to jump on him while somehow keeping from being shot.

I didn’t jump.

“Kenny,” Malto said.

“Yeah?”

“Why don’t you go get us a couple of folding chairs? I think this is gonna take a while.”

Rouche handed Malto the pistol and then went through the door that his boss had used to enter.