'Again?' I said. 'You're keeping track of me?'
'We're keeping track of del Rio,' Samuelson said.
'He's not exactly my friend,' I said.
'Well he must like you. If he didn't, I'd be looking into your death.'
'Or his,' I said.
Back in my rental car, I picked up Sunset down from the Civic Center, turned up the air-conditioning, and headed west. Jerome Jefferson's last known residence was a three-story white stucco apartment building on Las Palmas just below Fountain. It had the sort of slick, sleazy look that only Los Angeles has fully mastered, with tiny useless balconies of green iron outside the windows.
There was no listing for Jerome Jefferson at the entry. I rang the bell marked SUPER. And after my third ring, he woke up from his nap and slouched to the door in his slippers. He was wearing an oldfashioned undershirt and plaid knee-length shorts. He had a two-day stubble, mostly gray. His long, limp hair was mostly gray, and showed no sign of shower or shampoo.
'No vacancy,' he said.
'I don't see why,' I said.
'Huh?'
'Implied criticism,' I said. 'I'm looking for a guy named Jerome Jefferson. Big guy, blond hair. Looks like a boozer.'
'He ain't here,' the Super said, 'and he ain't coming back. The management company evicted him.'
'Rent?'
'Yeah. Fucker never paid. Company kept telling me to talk with him. You know him?'
'I've met him,' I said.
'Then you know what'd be like to try and talk with him. They don't pay me enough for me to get my teeth kicked in.'
'You know where he went?' I said.
'Heard he moved in with some broad he was scoring in West Hollywood.'
'Address?'
'Got no idea,' the super said. 'Maybe they know at the company, they been trying to get the rent he owes them.'
There was a sign beside the entry that read MANAGED BY SOUTHLAND PROPERTIES, with an address in Century City.
'You know his friend?' I said. 'Smaller guy. Thin. Big, sharp beak.'
The super shook his head.
'I hope you find the bastard. You look like you might give him trouble.'
'I might,' I said.
'You got the build for it anyway.'
'Thanks for the encouragement,' I said.
He nodded blankly and closed the door and shuffled off back to his nap.
Century City is a cluster of expensive high-rises just below the Los Angeles Country Club that occupies a former movie backlot between Santa Monica and Olympic. There was a big hotel there, and a shopping mall and a theater and a supermarket and the offices of anyone on the west side that wanted a good address. Southland Properties was on the fifteenth floor of a building on Constellation Avenue, with a nice view of the Century Plaza Hotel. I was passed along the chain of command at Southland until I was in the office of their financial compliance manager, whose name, according to the nameplate on his desk, was Karl Adams.
We shook hands and he gestured me to a seat. 'Karl Adams,' he said. 'You're looking for Jerome Jefferson.'
Adams was about my height, and lean. He looked like retired military.
'I am,' I said.
'We are too,' Adams said. 'He owes us six months' rent. What's your interest?'
'I'm trying to see what his connection is to a case I'm working on.'
My card was lying on Adams's desk. He glanced down at it.
'In Boston?' he said.
'Town called Potshot,' I said. 'In the desert.'
'Long way from home,' Adams said.
'Anywhere I hang my hat.'
'Yeah sure,' he said.
He paused and was thoughtful for a small time. Then he said, 'Don't see why not.'
