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car.”
    â€œYou're right,” he said, surprising me. “But that will require some doing.”
    â€œLike most things in life.” A dark suspicion crossed my mind. “Only it's not my turn to create a diversion.”
    He turned the full force of his dimples on me. “But you do it so well.”

chapter seven
    E ight minutes later, I walked to the Rabbit with as much naturalness as I could muster, sensing the scrutiny of three men. That one of them was Doc did not help. I felt I was on a high wire without a net, a sensation furthered by the fact I was shoeless; I'd given Doc my Converse All Stars.
    What would Ruta do, in my socks? “Pretend it's wartime,” she said. “Only they don't know what side you're on yet, so they're not going to shoot you.” I wasn't sure about the analogy, but it didn't seem that my death was in anyone's best interest.
    Careful not to look at the Alfa Romeo, I got into my car and reparked it properly, despite shaking limbs. From the hatchback I grabbed a large piece of cardboard in the shape of sunglasses, which I positioned on the Rabbit's dashboard, as though the sun were overhead rather than across the world, shining down on Europe. I made a show of checking door handles, and prayed the Alfa Romeo was too far away to see that the driver's side was in fact left open.
    My key was under the front seat.
    I clutched my purse and turned toward Kinko's. A voice stopped me.
    â€œWho's sorry now?” sang a gravelly soprano. The high-heeled woman wobbled out from behind a set of blue Dumpsters. I speeded up, but she wobbled faster, serenading me. Catching up, she offered her Vons bag. I waved her off.
    This could mess things up. The Alfa men were supposed to think I would lead them to Doc—they'd seen us, presumably, in the Donut Stop, they knew we were a team. If it looked like I was hanging with this woman, would it confuse things? Would any of this work? How fast could a heart beat before it exploded?
    I reached the steps to Kinko's, the singer right with me, continuing her way through “Who's Sorry Now,” a version of the song that contained just those three words. I climbed a step. Then another. Behind us, a car door slammed.
    The Alfa Romeo.
    I hesitated, waiting for the sound of the other door. It didn't come. Was only one man getting out of the car? This complicated everything.
    â€œCorn chips?” The singer held out the Vons bag again. It must have been an instrumental break in her song. I shook my head and plunged into Kinko's.
    The copy shop was warm and blindingly bright and blessed with human beings, one at a computer terminal, two working the printing machines. They looked up at our traveling lounge act. I strode down the aisle toward the front of the store, picking up speed until I reached the glass door, then turned to the chanteuse. “Stay. Do not follow. Sing to these people, they need a song.”
    She turned to check them out. At the back of the shop, someone opened the door we'd just come through—one or both of the Alfa Romeo men. I didn't wait around for a good look; I hurried outside, onto Ventura Boulevard.
    A gym bag sat against the brick building, inconspicuous unless you were right on top of it, at which point you might notice it bulge and move, as if it were about to give birth. I grabbed it and ran into the street, to the taxi summoned by Doc with his cell phone.
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    I PAID WITH a credit card and, as Doc suggested, had the taxi drop me off a block early. I'd spent the entire ride staring out the back window, so this was probably unnecessary, but I wasn't taking chances. There was always the possibility my pursuer had cleverly attached himself to the taxi's trunk and ridden there undetected.
    Activity on Sunset was minimal. Even street people had retired into doorways with their blankets or furniture pads or newspapers as defense against the cold March air. I knelt down and