CHAPTER 1<br >I didn t have much trouble finding Paul Ellman s new busi-<br >ness address. It was one of those trim and sterile black glass<br >monoliths that dwarf the colorful walks and shops of Cen-<br >tury City. The last time I had worked a case for Paul， he had<br >been located oil the corner of Third and Broadway， just a<br >hop， skip， and jump from the Hall of Justice， tile New<br >County .Jail， and half a dozen all-night bail bondsmen. But<br > about six months ago， Paul and his parmer， Larry Stein-<br > berg， had decided to forsake convenience for appearance<br > and had made tim move. I couldn t blame them， really， not<br > in this age of conspicuous consumption. It was just that it<br > was a long haul ti om my own office.<br > I walked through the l()bby， past an eight-foot-high metal<br > sculpture that looked like a tornado in a junkyard， to the<br > live pairs of stainless steel elevator doors that lined the<br > marble wall opposite the entrance， and pressed the UP<br > button. When I stepped out onto the fourth floor， nay al-<br > ready-splitting head was ringing with the lilting， 46-violin<br > version of "Shenandoah" I d been treated to on the way<br > up， and I groped my way down the hallway looking for<br > Suite 409. I ibund it and went in.<br > The couch-lined waiting room was large and plushly<br > decorated in soft browns and golds and the frosted hair of<br > the receptionist blended right in. She looked up from her<br > desk and smiled.<br > "May I help you?"<br > "I have an appointment with Mr. Ellman."<br > 1<br >
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