From the window, I watch him hurry to the trees that he'd been pointing to. He looks frantic. He runs to one tree. He runs to the next. He's searching each and every tree, crouching down at the bottoms, and then jumping up and pulling the branches apart. Next he moves to some nearby bushes. He starts ripping them apart as his search continues. And quickly he's in the neighbor's yard, making a search of the surrounding foliage. After tearing up a bed of tall flowers, he speeds across the dark street to another house and some more trees and bushes.

I close the curtains. He returns a short while later covered with dirt, leaves, and small branches. He doesn't say a word. I don't think he found any cops.



"I'M driving," I say to Lee as we walk to the Woody parked on the street. From what I understand, we're supposed to follow Vampire and Spin Doctor to a "rave."

"You better remind them that we're following," Joel says.

I agree. I jog over to Spin Doctor's sedan, one of the cars which had been up on jacks but is now lowered.

"Remember, we're following you," I say. "So when you look in your rear-view mirror and see Lee's Woody—remember—it's just us. . . .We're the ones following you. . . .We're the ones following you."

Spin Doctor still has leaves and branches stuck to his Army jacket and even more leaves sticking to his two curly plumes of hair. Vampire still has a pair of handcuffs dangling from one of his wrists.

They're looking at me like I'm the nut.



FORTY minutes later, nearing Santa Monica, it's close to two in the morning. Joel's asleep against the passenger door and I've almost nodded off a few times myself now as I follow Spin Doctor's sedan. Lee's in the back seat "watching for cops." Amazingly I've been able to follow the other crank addicts without them trying to lose us. I'm not exactly sure as to what or to where it is that we're going, but recalling Vampire's earlier words—"Lots of women, lots of dope!"—I'm guessing that this rave is some sort of party. . ."Lots of dope!". . .of crank addicts. . .of tweakers. . . .Oh shit!

"Lee," I say nervously. "What's a rave?"

"A rave, bro?" he cries. "It's like a party and a dance club mixed. Tons of acid, speed, and other dope! Colorful lights, lots of girls. Everyone gets so high and spun out they start raving. You know, bro—dancing and shit. And sometimes jumping off shit. That's why it's called a rave. And so the cops don't bust it, it's thrown in an empty or abandoned warehouse."

"Have the police ever busted a rave before?"

"Oh, yeah! They know what's going on. The trick is to keep them from finding it. That's why raves are always in different places. Stay one step ahead of the cops."

"Uh, huh."

"You see, bro—they know. They want our dope. Our meth. And you want to know what's weird? Say like when I'll steal a car stereo and sell it to a friend. Two months later a different friend—sometimes a total stranger—will try and sell me the same exact deck! It goes around for months. It's a circle. Just like the crank flow." He finally comes up for air.

Re-submerging: "I'm telling you, bro. L.A.P.D.'ll make a huge bust. On the news and shit. Publicity, promotions, raises. . .and then a few months later that same batch of crank—I'm talking keys and pounds—that they seized and supposedly confiscated somehow ends up back on the streets. That same exact batch! Crank can be made in different combinations, so for the most part, the forms of meth are different from each other. . . .It goes in a circle."

Spin Doctor makes an unexpected turn and I almost plow into him. Cursing, I let up on the brakes and follow. We're now on a deserted street leading into a darkened industrial area. We pass by warehouses and factories. Semi-trailers are parked street-side. On some of them the names of the companies they represent are advertised on the sides. Others are spray painted with graffiti. Spin Doctor takes us down another street, this one narrower than the first. And as we drive deeper into this darkened industry, I'm quietly mulling over Lee's latest words. Mad ravings of a paranoid derelict? Or could there be some substance behind what he was saying?

The sedan's lights go out. I take a hint and do the same. The street ahead goes dark. And now we're being led down an even narrower alley.

"Why did we just shut our lights off?" I whisper, a feeling of stealth behind my voice.

"Because it's a signal. If we went down the alley with our lights on then we'd be cops.