somebody who?s well heeled. He has that talent. He can look at a mark and tell how much money he?s
got in his kick.”
“Amazing,” Zapata said, shaking his head.
“He?ll be working the track tomorrow,” Charlie One Ear said. “We?ll nail him. Now, about your
problem. Perhaps we can give you something there.”
That didn?t surprise me.
“A pimp named Mortimer Flitch, alias Mort Tanner,” he continued. “A wimpy sort and not too flashy.
Handles high-class clientele, usually four or five girls at most. He calls Saint Louis home. He also has
a thing for ladies of means.”
“Rich broads, you mean,” Zapata said.
“Yes, Chino, rich broads.”
“A gigolo, eh?” said Stick.
“I hate to give him that distinction,” said Charlie One Ear.
“Where?d you see him at?” Zapata asked.
“Out on the Strip, a week or two ago. This Turner thing came up and I never followed through.”
“It?s Tagliani,” said Salvatore.
“What?s he look like?” Zapata asked.
“Tallish, a little under six feet. Slender, I?d say one forty, one forty-two. Wears three-piece suits.
Lightweight for the climate. Goes in for coloured shirts and has atrocious taste in ties. Flowers, lots of
bad colours, that kind of thing. Brown hair and not a lot of it. Combs it over his forehead to stretch it
out. Brown eyes. Always wears black boots.”
“Quirks?” Zapata asked.
“Bites his fingernails.”
Zapata turned to me. “You want this guy?”
I wasn?t sure what I?d do with him, but I said, “Sure, it?s a start.”
“Thirty minutes,” Zapata said. “Wait here. Come on, Salvatore, I need company,” and they were
gone.
“Zapata?s amazing,” Charlie One Ear said, watching them rush out the door. “Nose like a
bloodhound.”
“Looks more like a waffle iron,” I said with a laugh.
“True,” said Charlie One Ear. “But that doesn?t impede his instinct for finding people. He?s unerring.”
I got the impression maybe Zapata had been hit one or two times too many on the soft part of his
head. Later I learned that he was as streetwise as any cop I?ve ever known. He may have been short
