It had been almost half a year since my premature retirement and I was still amazed at how easy it was to make the transition from compulsive overachiever to self - indulgent bum. Obviously I'd had it in me from the beginning.

I returned to the bathroom, sat on the rim of the tub munching and drew up a vague plan for the day: a leisurely soak, a cursory scan of the morning paper, perhaps a jog down the canyon and back, a shower, a visit to The doorbell jarred me out of my reverie.

I tied a towel around my waist and walked to the front entry in time to see Milo let himself in.

"It was unlocked," he said, closing the door hard and tossing the Times on the sofa. He stared at me and I drew the towel tighter.

"Good morning, nature boy."

I motioned him in.

"You really should lock the door, my friend. I've got files at the station that illustrate nicely what happens to people who don't."

"Good morning, Milo."

I padded into the kitchen and poured two cups of coffee. Milo followed me like a lumbering shadow, opened the refrigerator and took out a plate of cold pizza that I had no recollection of ever owning. He tailed me back to the living room, collapsed on my old leather sofa - an artifact of the abandoned office on Wilshire - balanced the plate on his thigh and stretched out his legs.

I turned off the bathwater and settled opposite him on a camels king ottoman.

Milo is a big man - six - two, two - twenty - with a big man's way of going loose and dangly when he gets off his feet. This morning he looked like an oversized rag doll slumped against the cushions - a doll with a broad, pleasant face, almost boyish except for the acne pits that peppered the skin, and the tired eyes. The eyes were startlingly green and rimmed with red, topped by shaggy dark brows and a Kennedyesque shock of thick black hair. His nose was large and high - bridged, his lips full, childishly soft. Sideburns five years out of date trailed down the scarred cheeks.