Made to Kill Read Online Free PDF Page B

traveled somewhere up the hill toward the Hollywood Sign. Balanced in a rut behind him was a big canvas sack that was a deep sea green in color.
    I cleared my throat like an old Chrysler in need of an oil change changing gears, and then I said “Private eye,” and I pulled out the wallet with my license in it.
    The man made his way to me and I made my way to him. When we were within fighting distance he peered at the wallet and looked up at my face. He frowned and pushed back his cap a little and made a huffing sound. “That a fact, mister?”
    I nodded. “Machines can’t lie,” I said, lying through my circuits. “I thought I was a sir?”
    “Oh,” said the man. He kept the frown on his face and pulled the front of his cap down, and then he sniffed and he said: “I’m not sure how it ever worked with you lot. Are you a sir or a mister?” He sniffed again. “Damned if I know. Does it make a difference?” A third sniff. “Anyway, nobody supposed to be up here without permission. This is all private land. Restricted access. Too dangerous. Even for—” he paused and waved the hand that wasn’t holding the rake—“sirs or misters like yourself.”
    He stood back and leaned on the rake with both hands like a wizard in double denim.
    “I’ve been engaged to find a missing person,” I said, hoping this would wipe the frown off the guy’s mug, but all it did was add a crinkling of the nose to it. I wondered if I should stop talking in case I turned the guy’s face all the way inside-out.
    The man seemed to be considering something. Whether it was what I had just said or not, it was hard to tell. Then he gave another sniff and half-turned away. He looked at the ground. “You can either help me pick up trash or you can get the hell out. I’ll leave that to you.”
    The man was old enough to remember robots and I had a hunch he hadn’t liked them then and he didn’t like them— me —now.
    He stood there, waiting for an answer. I didn’t give him one. Instead I looked back up at the sign.
    “How many you get,” I asked, “jumping off that thing?”
    The man shuffled in the dusty soil. When he looked at me he folded his arms over the end of his rake in a way that didn’t look at all comfortable. He didn’t seem like he wanted to give me an answer and as far as I was concerned that was just fine.
    I held up my hands and said “okay,” and then I turned and tried to pick out the path I’d taken down. I took one step and then another, and then the man behind me said: “Fewer than you think.”
    I turned back around. I was about two feet higher up the hillside than he was and I was another one and half taller than him in the first place. From where I was he looked quite far away.
    “Okay,” I said.
    “But some,” he said. He started raking up some trash. Then he stood up and leaned back on the rake and looked up at the sign. I followed his gaze.
    “I mean,” he said, “you really want to do it, you’ll find a way. But don’t ask me. I’m just from the Parks Department. The place is locked up at night but there’s nobody here. So you want to get in, you could.” He paused, looked at me, that frown back and deeper than ever. “You did.”
    I nodded. No point in arguing.
    “You seen many people up here?” I asked.
    “Jumpers?”
    I shrugged. “Or not.”
    The man went back to raking. “You get sightseers. They mostly stay out on the road and take pictures. You can get a view from up top. Kids come in too. Seems a good place for necking I guess. What do I know? They don’t cause any problems.”
    “No vandalism?”
    The man laughed and doubled his efforts at raking up the debris. “Maybe once. But they came and done up the sign. Looks as good as new now. Better even. Those lights haven’t worked in, oh, forty years at least.”
    “When did they fix it up?”
    “Oh, they just gone and finished about two days ago. No, three days ago. Took them all of a week. Had a lot of men up here.