Sparse traffic meant Milo had to stay well behind the Toyota but it also turned Mancusi’s taillights into beacons. The signage of a big-box office supplies barn lit up a red-sauce stain blotching the corner of his mouth. Toss in the black hair and the gray skin and you had Dracula with a penchant for trans fat.
Mancusi caught a red light at Highland, backed up illegally, switched into the left-turn lane.
Milo muttered, “Tony, Tony,” and stayed half a block behind.
The green arrow flashed, Mancusi turned into a darkened parking lot on the east side of the avenue. Headlights off as he rolled to a halt near a shuttered food stand.
Milo doused the Camaro’s lights and watched from across Highland.
A huge painted sign on the roof of the stand starred an elated pig sporting a sombrero and a serape.
Mancusi stayed in his car. Ninety seconds later, three women emerged from the shadows.
Big hair, micro-skirts, stilt-heels, purses on chains.
Loose-hipped and sashaying as they strolled over to Mancusi’s open driver’s window.
Huddled conversation, heads thrown back in laughter.
Two of the women left. The one who remained had a teased platinum do, a big shelf of bust, skinny legs. A red wife-beater exposed flat belly above a minuscule lipstick-pink skirt – no, hot pants, let’s hear it for tradition.
The blonde wiggled her way to the Toyota ’s passenger side, fussed with her hair, tugged at her top, got in.
“Guess Tony’s not gay,” I said.
Milo smiled.
Mancusi drove faster, taking Highland south to Sixth Street, turning left and speeding past Hancock Park and into Windsor Square, with its ancient trees, broad lawns, and landmark mansions.
A sudden turn took him north to Arden Boulevard, where he covered a block, stopped, parked in front of a mini-Tara.
Silent, dark street. Wide-open landscaping and a gap where a street tree had succumbed.
The Toyota ’s brake lights remained on. Ten seconds later, it pulled away, continued another block north, and parked again, this time facing a Georgian masterpiece nearly obscured by three monumental deodar cedars.
An equally massive sycamore on the parkway umbrellaed the car.
The lights went off.
The Toyota remained in place for ten minutes, then started up again and returned to Gordito’s Tacos.
Mancusi idled at the curb as the blonde got out. She fooled with the waistband of her hot pants, leaned in, said something through the passenger window. Whipped out a cigarette and smoked as the Toyota drove away.
Milo jogged across the street, flashed the badge. The blonde punched her thigh. Milo spoke. The blonde laughed the way she had when approaching Mancusi. Milo pointed to her cigarette. She stubbed it out. He patted her down, took her purse.
Holding her by the elbow, he guided her across Highland and straight to the Camaro.
No expression on his face. Her eyes were wide with curiosity.
CHAPTER 27
Milo pulled a steel-handled straight razor out of the hooker’s purse.
“Hands on the car.”
“That’s for protection, sir.” Husky voice.
“On the car.” Pocketing the knife, he stashed the purse in the trunk, put the hooker in back of the car, squeezed in next to her.
“Your turn to drive, pard.”
I slid behind the wheel.
The hooker said, “I love company.”
Next to Milo, she looked small and frail. Mid-to late thirties, hair stiff and shagged, platinum at the roots, copper at the tips. A hatchet face oatmealed by pimples gleamed through bronze pancake. Pert nose, plump lips, glitter-flecked cleavage, big hoop earrings.
Cobalt eyes under gritty half-inch lashes struggled not to bounce.
Below all that, a muscular neck. Pronounced Adam’s apple.
She saw me looking at oversized hands and slipped them out of view.
Milo said, “This is Tasha LaBelle.”
“Hi, Tasha.”
“The pleasure’s all mine, sir.”
“Let’s get moving,” said Milo.
Tasha said, “Where we going?”
“Nowhere in particular.”
“A few hours, Disneyland ’s gonna open.”
“Fantasyland your thing?” said Milo.
No answer.
I pulled onto Highland, hit a pothole that rattled the car’s suspension.
Tasha said, “Ouch. Such a teeny car for such big
Gliding past Sunset and Hollywood Boulevard, I headed east on Franklin, drove past darkened apartment buildings, antique foliage. No people on the street. A solitary dog rooted near some hedges.
Tasha said, “What I done, you taking me for a ride?”
Milo said, “We like company. When we run your prints, what name’s gonna come up?”
“Prints? I didn’t do nothing.” Tension kicked the voice a few frets higher.
“Your name for the record.”
“Record of what?” A tinge of aggression lowered the timbre. Now I was hearing a nasal street guy, cornered and ready for fight or flight.
“Our investigation. There’s also the issue of your little nail file.”
“That’s a antique, sir. Got it on eBay.”
“What name were you born with?”
Sniffle. “I’m
Milo said, “No doubt about that. Let’s not make this a bigger deal than it needs to be.”
“You don’t understand, sir.”
“I do. The past is the past,” said Milo. “Right?”
Hushed “yessir.”
“But sometimes history is important.”
“What’d I
“Besides the blade, you were witnessed engaging in solicitation and prostitution. But you can be back at Gordito’s in fifteen minutes instead of in lockup. Up to you.”
“What’re you investigating, sir?”
Milo ’s pen clicked. “First your given name. Not one of the monikers you use when you get busted.”
“Sir, I have not been arrested in… thirty… eight – seven days. And that was in Burbank. And it was just shoplifting. And charges were dropped.”
“Charges against who?”
Pause. “Mary Ellen Smithfield.”
Milo said, “Like the ham.”
“Huh?”
“What’s on your birth certificate, Tasha?”
“You’re not gonna arrest me?”
“That’s up to you.”
