or phone number listed for her from Santa Barbara down to San Diego.'
'Dawn Herbert,' he said. As in the other Hoover.'
'Middle name of Kent. As in Duke of.'
'Fine. I'll try to squeeze in a trace before I go off shift.'
'I appreciate it.'
'Show it by feeding me. Got any decent grub in the house?'
'I suppose-' 'Better yet, haute cuisine. I'll pick. Gluttonous, overpriced, and on your credit card.'
He showed up at eight, holding out a white box. On the cover was a cartoon of a grinning, grass-skirted islander finger-spinning a huge disc of dough.
'Pizza?' I said. 'What happened to haute and overpriced?'
'Wait till you see the bill.'
He carried the box into the kitchen, slit the tape with his fingernail, lifted the lid, removed a slice from the pie, and ate it standing at the counter. Then he pulled off a second wedge, handed it to me, got another one for himself, and sat at the table.
I looked at the slice in my hand. Molten desert of cheese, landscaped with mushrooms, onions, peppers, anchovies, sausage, and lots of things I couldn't identi~ 'What is this pineapple?'
And mango. And Canadian bacon and bratwurst and chorizo.
What you've got there, pal, is authentic Spring Street Pogo-Pogo pizza.
The ultimate democratic cuisine-little bit of every ethnicity, a lesson
in gastronomic democracy.'
He ate and spoke with his mouth full: 'Little Indonesian guy sells it from a stand, near the Center. People line up.'
'People line up to pay parking fines too.'
'Suit yourself,' he said, and dug in again, holding one hand under the slice to catch dripping cheese.
I went to the cupboard, found a couple of paper plates, and put them on the table, along with napkins.
'Whoa, the good china!' He wiped his chin. 'Drink?'
I took two cans of Coke from the fridge. 'This okay?'
'If it's cold.'
Finishing his second slice, he popped his can and drank.
I sat and took a bite of pizza. 'Not bad.'
'Milo knows grub.' He guzzled more Coke. 'Regarding your Ms. Dawn K.
Herbert, no wants or warrants. Another virgin.'
He reached into his pocket, took out a piece of paper, and handed it to me. Typewritten on it was: Dawn Kant Hesbert, DOB 12/13/63,5'S', 170 lb brown ~d brown. Mazda Miata.
Under that was an address on Lindblade Street, in Culver City.
I thanked him and asked him if he'd heard anything new on the Ashmore murder.
He shook his head. 'It's going down as your routine Hollywood mugging.'
