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this pest hole. We’ll leave that to the nerds in the lab.”
     
    “Then why did I bring you?”
     
    “Peer pressure, pure and simple. A historian without the support of another historian is just a geek. What’s in the basement?”
     
    Valentino was abashed. “I haven’t seen the basement.”
     
    Broadhead cuffed him on the forehead with the heel of his hand. “Have you learned nothing from me in all the years we’ve known each other? The answer to everything is always in the basement.”
     
    “He’s right.” Fanta’s tone was grave. “Dr. Broadhead dissected The Invasion of the Body Snatchers scene for scene.”
     
    “Kyle,” Broadhead corrected.
     
    “Mercy,” Valentino said. “Some of us have to live in the real world.”
     
    Broadhead said, “The more pity you. To the bat cave!”
     
    Valentino sighed and followed them to the ground floor. After some exploration they found a narrow door leading to the subterranean reaches of The Oracle.
     
    “The Pit and the Pendulum,” said Broadhead, as they negotiated the flight of slimy stairs to a part of Los Angeles Cortez himself had never laid eyes upon. Lime dripped all around like the drool of lizards employed by Roger Corman.
     
    “The Shining,” furnished Fanta. “Nightmare on Elm Street.”
     
    “The L.A. County building code,” Valentino said. “I mean, if you really want to be scared.”
     
    At the base of the stairs, Broadhead pulled up before a life-size cutout of Mickey Rourke, advertising 9 1/2 Weeks.
     
    “Now, that’s scary,” he said.
     
    They followed provocative stacks of crates, wooden and cardboard, and a depressing panoply of patching material and PVC pipe, into a room that was a shambles of loose brick and mortar, most of it accumulated at the base of the far wall. The light was dim from the surface windows in the passageway. Valentino glowered at the cracks in the wall, some of which were as wide as his wrist. Seventy-five years of earthquakes and traffic vibration had taken a heavy toll. “I hope it isn’t structural.”
     
    “You used up all your hope when you bought this pig in a poke,” Broadhead said.
     
    Fanta put out an exploratory hand—and jumped back when a square yard of brick collapsed into a pile on the concrete floor. “Whoa!”
     
    “Whoa!” echoed her voice from behind the wall.
     
    Silence draped the three.
     
    Broadhead broke it. “Physics isn’t my field. However, when you shout into what should be eight feet of solid Southern California hardpack, it isn’t supposed to shout back.”
     
    Valentino fumbled on his flashlight.
     
    Broadhead and Fanta climbed onto the pile and began pulling pieces of rotten brick out of the edge of the hole, dropping them onto the mound. Soon the opening was big enough for a man to step through. The beam of the flash probed through and fell on rows of dusty bottles lying on their sides in a wooden rack.
     
    The young woman—Valentino no longer thought of her as a girl—steadied herself with a hand against the side of the hole and leaned inside. “Bitchin’ wine cellar. Why hide it?”
     
    “That’s not a wine cellar, child,” said the professor. “It’s a Prohibition stash. We just found another of Max Fink’s secrets.”
     
    They entered the chamber. It was nearly as big as the room they’d left, with racks and shelves all around. The bottles they’d glimpsed were shards of empty vessels, burst where they lay, their contents evaporated. There were empty wooden cases stenciled with the names of extinct brands of Scotch and bourbon and gin. All that remained of what must have been a magnificent private stock was a faint odor of stale sour mash.
     
    “Film cans!” cried Fanta.
     
    Valentino slid the beam along a neat row of flat tins on a shelf near the floor, held upright by a board nailed across the heavy oaken uprights.
     
    Broadhead slid one out. “Hold that light steady.”
     
    “I can’t. My hand’s shaking.” He gave the