Navaro could forgive the man his mediocrity, could forgive even his own mediocrity, but a drunk was a drunk was a drunk. The handyman lived on Las Palmas Avenue, north of Hollywood Boulevard—in the land of malt liquor and crack smoke, of struggling guitar players and cold beans eaten from from cans. Navaro had planned only to drop in, say hello to the guy and check him out, then hop right on the 101 and pick up the 405 down to Torrance. At ten o’clock, though, the handyman didn’t answer his door, so Navaro decided he’d walk around the neighborhood to see how it had changed. He didn’t get far. Hollywood Boulevard was closed to pedestrian and vehicular traffic from Highland to Fairfax. Proprietors of seedy establishments stood on sidewalks, arms folded, incensed; the tourists had no way to get to those T-shirts and fuzzy dice and postcard racks. At a street corner, as Navaro hit the change-light-please button, a policeman stopped him with his arm. “Closed off. Sorry.” In his other hand the cop held a Mag-Lite like a billy club.
