“Quinn Glover. He doesn’t have a record and neither does Tristram but your idea about parking was good because Tristram has piled up a lot of paper on or near Los Angeles Street, downtown. That’s industrial but there used to be rave clubs in vacant buildings so maybe there’re strip clubs.”
“They bother enforcing parking there?”
“A while back there were complaints about drug deals so Central blocks off the area after six p.m. I guess once in a while they do enforce.”
He read off the addresses on the citations. “One more thing, Loo. Quinn Glover’s daddy is CEO of Trident Agriculture—that’s the outfit Tristram’s daddy sold his orchards to.”
“Multigenerational ties that bind,” said Milo. “Make up six-packs with each of these kids’ faces. I’m gonna troll for a couple of pole dancers.”
¦
The block was grubby, dim, lined with warehouses and industrial buildings, a good half of them vacant. Loose garbage specked the sidewalk. The air smelled oddly of raw pork and rubber cement. Signs every ten yards warned
The Hungry Lion Gentleman’s Lounge occupied a windowless maroon cube. A stretch of dirt and broken asphalt running behind the buildings served as parking. The space behind the club was empty. Posted hours on the gunmetal door out front said the merriment wouldn’t start for another two hours.
A sign above the building featured a leering simba wearing a red paisley shirt and mirrored sunglasses and sporting a slicked-back mullet-mane. One manicured paw clutched a glass of something fizzy. The other held a wild-eyed, grinning, unclad blonde. The girl’s expression said her ultimate life goal had been achieved.
Milo said, “King Kong was ambivalent, this critter’s licking his chops. Hungry, indeed.” He rapped the metal door, evoked a barely audible thud.
One of the cart-pushers rounded a corner, spotted us, and nearly overturned as he attempted a sharp U-turn. Contents shot out of the cart. We caught up as he stooped to reload cardboard boxes, newspapers, cans, bottles.
Milo bent to help him with the last few treasures.
“That’s okay, Officer, I’m fine.”
“Know anything about that club, friend?”
“I know to stay away, Officer.”
“Bad influence, huh?”
“Bouncer getting upside your head is a bad influence, Officer. Used to be quiet around here, nice place to spend the night, then that place opened and it’s like they own the whole street.”
“Ever get close enough to see the girls?”
“The girls go in through the back.”
“Same question, friend.”
“Something happen there, Officer?”
“Still the same question.”
The man said, “Sometimes the girls come out in front to smoke.”
Milo produced Brianna Blevins’s and Selma Arredondo’s DMV photos. “That include these two?”
“These two,” the homeless man echoed. “Big and little.” Massaging his chest. “Yeah, they’re always together.”
“When’s the last time you saw them?”
“The last time… hmm.” Something changed in the man’s eyes. Clearer, more purposeful. “I could sure use some breakfast, Officer.”
“It’s closer to dinnertime—what’s your name, by the way?”
“I’m called L.A.”
“Love your city?”
“It’s for Loving Albert. My auntie who raised me called me that. She was a moral lady, would sure like me to have breakfast—I like breakfast anytime of day, Officer.”
“Help me out, L.A., and you’ll be breakfasting with the best of them. When’s the last time you saw these two girls?”
“The last time… I’m thinking two nights ago, yeah, two, not last night, last night was the Ebony Princess contest, they had only black girls. Plenty of white guys coming in to watch, though.”
“Two nights for sure or a guess?”
“For sure, Officer.”
Milo gave him a twenty.
The guy stared at the bill. “I guess that could go two breakfasts.”
“Who said anything about two?”
“My auntie was big on nutrition.”
“Ever see these girls with the same customers consistently?”
“No, sir,” said the man. “They with each other, always laughing, you know?”
“Know what?”
“I get the feeling they
The twenty remained in his outstretched palm. Filthy palm but when he closed it over the money, he exposed trimmed nails. Go know.
“Twenty more, I could have three, four breakfasts, Officer.”
Milo peeled off an additional ten.
“Another twenty would be nicer, but thank you, Officer.”
“You lie to me, we’re going out for a four-course dinner and you’re picking up the tab, L.A.”
“Whoa.” Laughter. “That could clean out my 401(k).”
As we edged out of the downtown business district and got on Sixth Street, Milo said, “I’ll be back when it opens, need to figure out a good watch-spot.”
“Let’s buy gold chains, return as gentlemen.”
“Acrylic shirts I’ve already got—all that breakfast talk got me thinking Paul Revere.”
“Little too early for a midnight munchie ride, Big Guy.”
“I’m talking one by land, one by sea. As in surf and turf, as in the T-bone-fillet-langoustine combo at that place on Eighth.”
I said, “Don’t want my patriotism questioned.”
We were well short of the steak house when Sean Binchy phoned in.
“Got Bri and Selma, Loot. Right in front of the father’s house, I barely turned off my engine when they showed up.”
Dropping names as if he and the strippers were old friends. Sean loves the world, an attitude unchanged by facing felonies daily.
Milo said, “Take ’em into custody.”
“Already done, we’ll be at the station in twenty. They’ve got interesting stories, Loot.”
“About the murders?”
“No, nothing like that, just how they’re thinking of turning religious, leaving the life.”
“Tell ’em to hold off on repentance, Sean. I need ’em in full sinner-mode.”
CHAPTER
33
Brianna Blevins and Selma Arredondo wore white tank tops cut high enough to expose drum-tight midriffs,
