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touch with most of them. In fact, I keep in touch with all of those connected to my brother’s case. A cold case.
    Dobbs studies me and now shakes his head. He looks like he wants to beanywhere but here. Dobbs and I used to get lunch together. He used to tell me about his time in the military, about all the drinking he did overseas. About the girls.
    “Are you working for Eddie Dutch?”
    “Yes.”
    “In what capacity?”
    “He hired me to find his wife.”
    “When?”
    “Yesterday.”
    “Well, his wife has been found. Your job is done. Congratulations. Great job.”
    “Don’t be a dick.”
    Dobbs taps his fingers some more on the file. He takes in a lot of air. I do not know what’s going on in his mind. In the past, he would have been more receptive to my help. In the past, I wouldn’t have called him a dick.
    Finally, he says, “So what’s your interest now, Booker?”
    “Olivia was a friend of mine, too.” It is an understatement, but at the same time it is the truth. This conversation is taking a lot out of me. Indignation isn’t good for my health.
    “I understand that—”
    “I can help you find her killer,” I say, which takes the last of my strength. My voice is barely above a whisper.
    He makes another face, one that consists of his thin lips being drawn down. He then abruptly stands.
    “Booker, I’m sorry this shit happened to you. But you’re in no condition to help me. Go rest. Go hang out with Nubooby, or whatever the hell his name is. Go anywhere but here. We don’t need your help. In fact, I don’t want your help.” He looks at me sadly some more, tries to smile, fails. “Take care, Booker.”
    He turns and leaves.
    A moment later, I feel Numi’s strong hands under my arms, lifting. “Let’s go, cowboy.”
    I find my feet with Numi’s help. I keep from falling over with Numi’s help, too.
    “So how did it go in there, cowboy?” he asks as we exit the conference room.
    “He’s excited to work with me.”
    “He said that?”
    “Not in so many words.”
    “He told you to back off, didn’t he?”
    “Not,” I say, struggling for breath, “in so many words.”
    “But you’re not going to back off, are you?”
    “No,” I say.
    “I was afraid of that.”
    As we walk down the hallway towards the exit, Numi, who’s guiding me every step of the way, turns to me and says, “Nubooby?”
    I grin. “Hey, he was close.”
    “No,” says Numi. “He wasn’t.”

CHAPTER SEVEN
     
    I’m in Elysian Park, near Dodger Stadium, sitting on the side of a hill overlooking the 5 Freeway and Atwater Village far below. Well, maybe not that far. Atwater Village is considered a bit of an armpit, but from up here it doesn’t look like an armpit. From up here, maybe a thousand feet up, it looks sparkling and shimmering and beautiful.
    There are horses penned in a corral not far behind me. I can hear them chewing and snorting. I sometimes give the horses carrots. There’s still a bag of carrots in my refrigerator. The carrots are rotted now, having sat forgotten for months. I should throw out the bag, buy a new bag, and feed the horses again. At least one more time.
    Maybe.
    It is evening and the sun is setting behind the bigger homes on the hill above me, homes that have a perfect view of downtown Los Angeles.
    Although it’s raining, the wind here is warm, blowing up from the grinding freeway below, superheated by endless miles of pavement, exhaust, and angst.
    Eight months ago, I had been given six months to live. If I do the math, and I have, I should have been dead a few months by now. Maybe I am dead.Maybe I am just a spirit reliving his memories. I hate when I think that way. Such thoughts give me anxiety that I do not need.
    The rain picks up a little, rattling the leaves around me, bending the branches over me.
    I can feel myself dying inside. I can feel myself losing the battle. Each day I lose a little more of the battle. Each day, each hour, each minute.
    It rarely rains in