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  “Who are you?”

  He shrugged. He was taller than me by two inches. Skinny as an I-beam. And as muscular. But he didn’t know how to fight. I shoved him back against the door.

  “Why are you following me?”

  His teeth wanted to chatter. He wouldn’t let them. Couldn’t stop his hands from shaking though.

  “La photo.”

  “Speak English.”

  “Sí, this side of the border, English. I saw the picture you are showing in la cantina.”

  “You know those two girls?”

  “They used to come in there sometimes, Castle’s.”

  “Used to.”

  “Sí. No more.”

  “How long since you’ve seen them?”

  “Maybe a year. Maybe less.”

  That jibed with what Ramon had said.

  “Where’d they go?”

  “No sé. I don’t know. I have not seen them in town for that long, not only the bar.”

  “Were they hurt? Leave town?”

  Shrug.

  “I know where they live. Lived. I show you for ten dollars.”

  “You show me first.” I pushed him out onto the street. We walked for several blocks, from the main drag to the residential section. He took me to the faded yellow house. Pointed.

  “There. In the back.” He pointed to the garage. Bingo. Moo-moo was lying. I pulled a ten from my pocket, gave it to him. We walked to the corner.

  “How do you know they lived there? How did you know them?”

  He shrugged. Backed away, ready to run. I caught his collar. He seemed to shrivel into his shirt. “I, I follow them here one night. I have, how you say, a liking, a—”

  “—crush.”

  “Sí, un crush on one of them.”

  I pulled the photo out. “Which one?”

  He pointed to Pilar. “Ella es muy bonita, no?”

  “Sí. Did you ever talk to her?”

  “No.”

  I believed him. He was wimpy enough to have followed her around and not say anything to her. “Did she have any boyfriends? Talk to anyone else in the bar?”

  “There was un hombre, Hector. But I have not seen him around either.”

  “Was Hector married?” Fishing. Were Pilar and Anna lovers? Something else. What was going on?

  “Sí.”

  “His wife gone too?”

  “Yes.”

  “Any of the people in Castle’s tonight know them, the girls?”

  “I do not know. People come and go so much here. Many migrant, is that right word, workers.”

  Mental note: check back at Castle’s.

  I asked for his phone and address. Said he had no phone. Gave me the name of a farm outside of town where he was currently working. He said he was usually in this area, but not necessarily at the same farm or ranch. I gave him another ten bucks; he shuffled down the street in the opposite direction of the yellow house. I headed back to it.

  The lights were off. House next door was dark too. I nonchalantly, as if I owned the place, walked down the driveway to the back. Couldn’t see through the curtain in the garage window. Walked around the side. Two more curtained windows. I pried at them. Didn’t budge. Same with the door. No windows in the back. The fourth side, along the border with the neighbor, was walled in. No way to get to it.

  What if someone else was renting there now? A little burglary might enliven their life. The windows on the side were big enough to crawl through. I pulled my boot knife and went to work on them. No need to worry about an alarm here. The window was easy. I was inside in less than a minute.

  Musty. As if no one’d been in for a while. Dark. No flashlight. I pushed the curtains aside. A sliver of moonlight shot in. I stood silently, waiting for my eyes to adjust to the dark. Moved to the next window. Opened the curtains there. More light. Enough to see silhouettes by. A sofa-bed against the rear wall. Closed. No one on it. I felt my way to the tiny bathroom in the back corner. Turned on the light. The outside walls of the bathroom faced the neighbor’s wall and the rear of the property. No one in the main house would see the light on. Gloomy light filtered out to the main room. A kitchenette in one corner. Coffee table in front of the sofa. I closed the curtains I’d opened, just in case. Set about tossing the place.

  Drawers empty. Shelves empty. Low shelves immaculate. Upper shelves dusty enough to write your name in. Open up the sofa-bed. Nothing in the sheets, under the mattress. Nothing in the sofa. Kitchen clear. Bathroom had one half-full bottle of Suave shampoo. Nothing else. Not even a hair left on the tile. Why the bottle?

  The place was empty. Except for the bottle. Did it mean anything? I couldn’t fathom a guess. I turned off the bathroom light, put the windows back the way they were. Split.

  Back at the Bolivar, I fell asleep to The Philadelphia Story dubbed into Spanish. I wondered if it lost something in the translation.

  I braced Castle’s again in the daytime. Again no one owned up to having known Pilar or Anna.

  Went back to the yellow house. Vacuum was going again. The woman had a clean fetish. Maybe that was why the guest house had been so spotless except for the bottle of Suave.

  Rang the bell.

  “You again.”

  She tried to close the door on me. Too slow. Too late. I was already inside. Ratty furniture. Old Motel 6 stuff that’d seen better days. Creepy floral patterns. By the numbers paintings on the wall. But all as clean as could be.

  “You lied to me.”

  “Get outta here. I’ll call the cops.”

  “I’m tired of being lied to. The wheel spun round and landed on you. You’re gonna tell me the truth.” I walked up to her. She was my height. Probably outweighed me by twenty pounds. She didn’t back off.

  We stood eye to eye. Glare contest. She took a step forward. I didn’t move. Our noses touched. Hers was warm, greasy. She finally backed away. I thought I’d give her more space. I stepped back too. She reached behind a large upholstered chair, grabbed a baseball bat. Swung it at me. I ducked. Grabbed the bat. Her grip on the bat was tight. She wouldn’t let go.

  Twisting the bat in her hand, I freed it. Tossed it across the room. Pushed her into a chair.

  “Sit.”

  She did. Neither one of us spoke. I pulled the Star, held it on her, while I peeked into the kitchen, dining area and hall, without leaving the living room. No sign of anyone else.

  “Tell me about Pilar and Anna.”

  “Leave them alone. They just want to be left alone.”

  “Who do you think I am?”

  “I don’t know. I do know they was bothered. Just wanna be left alone.”

  “From who?”

  “Everyone. Wanna do their thing in peace.”

  “How long since they’ve been gone?”

  “About three, four months, I think.”

  “You cleaned up their place pretty good.”

  “Got nothing better to do. ’Sides, a clean house is a—”

  “—clean house.”

  She glared at me.

  “I’m a detective. I’m not out to hurt them.”

  “They wanna be left—”

  “I know. Did anyone else come around looking for them?”

  “You’re the detective.”

  “Don’t get cute. I’m trying to help them.”

  “Why?”

  “Anna’s brother, Ramon, gave me this address. He wants me to find them.”

  “Yeah, I remember him. Came around a few times.”

  “Who else came around?”

  “You’re the cop, you ought to know.”

  “I’m not leaving till I get the information.”

  We sat in silence for minutes that passed slowly. She picked up a long, slender cigarette holder from the end table next to her. Stuffed a cancer stick in one end. Lit it. Drew in the smoke. She didn’t quite fit my image of the cigarette holder type. “I don’t know much. They were scared-a something,” she exhaled.

  “Someone?”
<
br />   “Yeah.”

  “Who?”

  “Guy that liked Pilar I think. I don’t know his name.”

  The Weasel.

  “You ever see him?”

  “Nah. But they told me if he comes around tell him they don’t live here.”

  “How would you know who to tell that to?”

  “They told me what he looked like.” She described the Weasel to a T.

  “Did they tell you his name?”

  “Sure.”

  My heart raced. “What is it?”

  “It’s been a long time.”

  “Did you write it down?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe.” She stared at me over the end of her cigarette holder. “Maybe you’re working for him.”

  Not anymore, lady.

  “I’m not. I’m investigating the murder of Teddie Matson.”

  “Poor girl. I used to watch her show.”

  “We have reason to believe that there’s a link between her murder and Pilar. The man that killed Teddie could be the same man who’s after Pilar. Are you forwarding mail for them?”

  She moved to get up. I lowered the gun. She went to a small table near the front door. Handed me an envelope on it. It was from a loan company, addressed to Anna. A line through the address for the yellow house led to a handwritten note: No forwarding address known. “I was going to send it out with the mail.”

  She couldn’t have thought ahead this far to prepare something like this. Besides, the letter was postmarked only a few days ago. I handed her my card.

  “If you think of his name, come across a paper with it, or think of anything, please call me. The girls are in danger.”

  “I know. I didn’t talk to you ’cause I was trying to protect them.”

  “I’m on their side. I’m licensed.” I pointed to my license number on the card. “Bonded. Check me out. If you think of anything, no matter how trivial you think it is, call me. Leave a message with my service.” I didn’t plan to keep the service forever. Only until I could replace the machine. “Call me.”

  “I will.”

  “By the way, what’s your name?”

  “Mrs. Laren. There is no Mr. Laren anymore. That’s another reason I was cold to you. Never know who’ll show on your doorstep.”

  “You’re right to be careful. I’m sorry I barged in like this.”

  “Maybe I’m too distrustful.”

  “Keep your guard up.”

  I headed to my rental car parked at the curb.

  “Hey, wait a minute. I think his name started with a J. I’m not sure. James, Jeremy. Something like that.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Don’t hold me to it. It’s been a long time. But I think it was a J-name.”

  I got in the rental, headed back to L.A.

  CHAPTER 32

  Instead of heading into L.A., I turned off on 395 and headed for Reno. The road was a roller coaster of up and down hillocks and valleys. Heat waves melted into the asphalt giving it a sleek sheen of black dye.

  Copses of Joshua trees meandered off on either side of the road. Little men, hunched over their work, tending the desert garden. I felt eyes on the back of my neck. Was I being followed again? Had I ever been followed?

  A gaggle of cars pressed around me, front and rear. There was open road about a mile ahead. I decided to run with the wind. Dodging in and out of traffic. Each car a land mine to be avoided.

  Honk. Sorry, buddy, didn’t mean to cut you off. Thanks for the bird.

  Open road. Checked the rearview. No one making any sudden lane changes.

  Hoboes count ties, I counted broken lines in the road. Hypnotic. Don’t drift. The road began to look the same. Same trees, same fast food joints, gas stations and quick-stop stores clustered in bunches. Same white lines.

  L.A. Beirut felt as far away as the real Beirut. It might as well have been across an ocean. The sky was clear, no settling ash from the days of fire and firefights. No lines of people waiting for their ration of food and food stamps. No attitude.

  Not far outside Reno, a weird dude on a three-wheeled bicycle. Tattered trench coat, in the high desert heat. Stubbly beard. Hat. Saddlebags on either side of the rear wheels and a box on top of it. Heat musta got to him. Pedaling along. Rear-view mirror. Stopping. Getting off bike. Bending over. What the hell’s he doing? Still no sign of a tail.

  I made Reno with only two stops for gas. Checked into the Edsel Motel. Gleaming chrome and polish. Ten Edsels lined up, five on each side of the walk to the main office. Edselmania. I hoped the motel had a better history than the car. The room was cramped. Clean. Repro photos of Henry Ford, Edsel on the walls. Various shots of Ford cars from the Model T through the late ’50s porthole Thunderbird. A TV you didn’t have to put quarters into. Bathroom glasses wrapped in sanitary wrap. “Do Not Throw Sanitary Napkins In Toilet” over the tank.

  Beat. Wanted to crash. Couldn’t do it. Shaved. Showered. Put on clean shirt. Wished I’d brought more clothes. Called Laurie. No answer. Jack. No answer.

  The Crystal Palace Hotel and Casino. Look up gaudy in the dictionary. Flashing, clashing neon lights. Lit up like a sunny afternoon in the dark of night. No clocks. Always high noon.

  Genteel ladies with blue hair feeding hungry slots. Businessmen in Michael Milken toupees and thousand-dollar suits playing five card stud and Baccarat. Long-legged women in fishnet stockings and low-cut uniforms serving free watered-down drinks to the customers to keep them playing past their bedtimes. Past their limits. Big spenders wearing shorts and flip flops. I felt right at home in my jeans and sport shirt.

  Neither Warren, Mrs. Matson nor Ramon could tell me any of Teddie’s or Pilar’s friends’ names from their stays in Reno. It would have been so much easier if I’d had a name. Now I had to start questioning people blindly.

  “Thanks,” I said, taking one of the free drinks offered by a hostess. She smiled, started to walk off. “Wait, please.”

  “Yes.”

  I maneuvered her to a corner. She looked slightly uncomfortable. It was hard to tell if it was real or part of the show. “There was a young woman who worked here a few years ago. I’m trying to locate anyone who might have known her.”

  “I’m sorry. I’ve only been on the job a few months.”

  “Who’s been around a while?”

  “Was she a hostess? Dealer?”

  “I think she was in the chorus in the show.”

  “The show’s producer is Jeanette Lyon, but I don’t think she’s been here that long either.”

  “Can I talk to her?”

  “I’m sorry. I wouldn’t know. I have to go now. They don’t like us spending too much time with any one customer and they watch through the ceiling.” She nodded to a row of mirrors above us. She smiled again, walked off. I headed for the showroom.

  The first show of Follies Crystal was already in progress. It was more than an hour till the midnight show. Between shows seemed like a good time to find Ms. Lyon. I figured the show’d been rehearsed a dozen times, played for an audience a million. It probably ran by itself. Lyon might not even be around.

  A stiff tuxedo, pressed and spit-shined, stood at the door to the showroom. When I headed toward it, the tuxedo nodded and smiled a rehearsed smile at me.

  “I’m sorry, sir. There’s no admittance until a break in the show. If you have tickets for this show I can arrange to exchange them for—”

  “I don’t want to interrupt such a lovely and well-practiced speech, but I don’t have tickets for the show.”

  A frown overtook his face. He wasn’t prepared to ad-lib.

  “I’m looking for Jeanette Lyon. Is she here tonight?”

  “Do you have an appointment with her?”

  “No. But I think she’ll want to see me. An old friend said to look her up.”

  “If you tell me who that is, I’ll look and see if she’s here.”

  “No can do. It’s got to be a surprise.”

  “No can do,” he said, mimic
king. Nodded his head. Before I could blink, three large men surrounded me. None of them smiling.

  “Three for the price of one,” I said.

  “Can I help you, sir?” the largest said in a meek voice that was more Pee-Wee Herman than Hulk Hogan. Still, the sir oozed from his tongue like hot oil slithering from a crank case.

  “I’m not sure why you gentlemen were called. I merely told this fellow that I was looking for Jeanette Lyon.”

  “Miss Lyon is a very busy woman. She can’t be meeting with just anyone who wants to meet her.”

  I wanted to talk to Lyon. I didn’t particularly want these hulks to know my business with her. The lid had to stay on the can of worms for now.

  “It’s nothing really. An old friend of hers asked me to look her up. I didn’t think it would be this much trouble.”

  “No trouble. We take care of our people.”

  Like they did in the Soviet Union.

  “If you tell us who the friend is and where you’re staying, we’ll have her get back to you. In fact, why don’t you step back to my office and we’ll see if we can reach her right now?”

  Out of sight of the public, are you kidding? “No thanks. It’s not that important to me. I’m just doing a favor for a friend.”

  I started to walk off, into the casino. The four of them stood, guarding the entry to the showroom as if I was stalking Jeanette Lyon. I played a few hands of blackjack, figured I’d better quit for the night and headed back to the Edsel. It was about a three block walk. There were plenty of people on the street. I felt followed, didn’t turn around. After making a couple of detours, hoping to lose the tail, if there was one, I finally hit the Edsel. Before hitting the bed, I checked the phone book. No Jeanette Lyon. I called information. Nothing there either. The wild hair was making me crazy. What the hell, I figured and called the Palace, asked for Jeanette Lyon. The phone rang seven times. A raspy woman’s voice said, “Hello?”

  “Ms. Lyon.”

  “No, this is her assistant. She’s in a meeting now. Can I take a message?”

  “I’ll try back later,” I said. My head hit the pillow and my brain hit dreamland.