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excuse to hang out anywhere that does have AC—typically movie theaters and restaurants. My dilemma was that it was probably too early for a matinee, and I had no appetite after downing so many cookies. I drove instead to the one place with Arctic-like temperatures where I knew I could linger as long as I wanted—my favorite mecca of shameless consumerism, Costco. Much of Rancho Bonita seemed to have had the same idea. The warehouse was mobbed.
    I navigated my empty cart through aisles clogged with shoppers with their own empty carts who, like me, appeared relieved to be out of the heat. I paused to read the small print on items I had no intention of buying. A $328 electric letter opener? A two-gallon jar of imported Spanish olives? Seriously?
    I decided to head over to pet supplies and was thinking about buying Kiddiot a new cat bed, not that he deserved one, when I literally ran into Eric Ivory—or, rather, he ran into me. His cart was so overloaded with stuff, he couldn’t see where he was going.
    “Oops. Sorry, man.”
    “No worries.”
    Ivory recognized me and smiled. “Hey, what are you doing here, Logan?”
    “Pretending to shop.”
    “Yeah, I can see that,” he said, glancing at my cart and grinning.
    We shook hands.
    Good-looking in a beefy, weathered ex-jock sort of way, with a raspy voice that sounded like two rocks grinding together, Ivory owned and operated “Immaculate Wings,” a one-man, mobile aircraft-cleaning service. From as far south as Oxnard and north to San Luis Obispo, he would drive to the airport where your bird was parked and, for a few hundred dollars up to several thousand, wash and wax until it shined. I’d see him once in a while around the Rancho Bonita Airport, but I could never afford what he charged. Even if I could’ve, there was little he could’ve done to spruce up my plane. The Ruptured Duck’s paint was so sun-faded in spots, I would’ve worried about melanoma had the skin not been made of aluminum.
    I nodded toward Ivory’s shopping cart, filled with cases of red wine, T-bone steaks, and enough fresh crab legs to feed a football team. “Business must be good.”
    “I got no complaints,” he said, chewing on his ever-present toothpick. “Business was booming, until poor old Roy Hollister had to go and get himself shot. You see the paper this morning, that animal rights guy? Dude sounds like a complete nut job.”
    “I read the story, but I don’t understand,” I said. “You’re saying your business was good until Hollister got shot?”
    “Roy was a steady gig. I used to service their Citation every week, top to bottom, whether it needed it or not. Disinfectant, steam clean the carpets, the whole nine yards. Let me put it this way: he had some issues with germs, OK? Not a lot of people knew that about him. He could be a real jerk sometimes. But Toni, man, she was a sweetheart. Beautiful lady. Always incredibly nice to me, to everybody. We got to be pretty tight there for a while. A real shame, them getting killed that way. That kind of stuff happens down in LA, not here.”
    “True.”
    “I’m just glad they found the guy who did it. I heard on the radio they were planning to make an arrest today or tomorrow.”
    A slender Latina in spike heels and skinny jeans pushed a flat cart past us piled high with cartons of fresh vegetables and fifty-pound bags of rice.
    “Well, anyway,” Ivory said, focused on her well-formed backside. “Hey, you don’t need your plane cleaned, do you, Logan? I’ll give you a great deal. Make that crate looking good as new. I do cars too. Even ratty old pickups like yours.”
    “Tell you what: I’ll call you after I’ve made my first million.”
    “You do that.”
    We shook hands again.
    “Good seeing you, Logan. You take care of yourself.”
    “You as well, Eric.”
    As I pushed on, down the aisle, he hollered after me, “Hey, you know how to make a million bucks in general aviation, don’t you?”
    “Yeah,” I said,