whorehouse.'
'I know what it is,' Underman said, her patronizing tone losing its charm. 'Al works here, at least the last time I checked.'
'Never heard of him,' she said.
'You must be new,' Underman said.
That got her mad. 'I've been working here two years next week, buster, and I've never heard of him.'
'Al Scarpi,' Underman said.
'Not ringing any bells.'
'Little Hands,' he said.
'You want to see Little Hands? Why didn't you say so?'
'I just did. His name's Al.'
'No one calls him that,' she said defensively.
'His friends do.'
'Little Hands has friends? That's a new one to me.'
Sassy approached the stage. The pianist stopped her playing and they had a little chat; the pianist raised her eyes and gave Underman a hard look. Underman stared right back while sipping his coffee. It had grown ice cold but still tasted great. Maybe he could talk the management into putting a bluebird special on the menu: coffee, talk dirty to a hostess, more coffee. It was about all he was good for these days.
'Follow me,' Sassy said, offering Underman her hand. She escorted him to the entrance and then outside into the sweltering desert inferno. Instantly, her face turned old, the harsh sunlight keeper of few secrets. She pointed down the road in the opposite direction from which he'd come.
'Get in your car and go west five miles. There're a couple of trailers down there, girls who service the migrants. Little Hands lives there.'
'Thanks,' he said, reaching for his wallet.
She slipped the fifty between her breasts and pecked his cheek.
'Stop back in if you need anything.'
'I'll do that,' Underman said.
The Intrepid was too hot to drive. Underman started the engine and got out, letting the AC run while he hid in the building's shadow, thinking about Sassy. She was a hostess, not a hooker, so her offer intrigued him. She probably talked to a thousand sex-starved men a week, which made her a real pro on the male condition. With a selection like that, why service him?
Driving down a miserable gravel road ten minutes later, Underman was still wondering about it. Just about all he was good for these days was playing chess and listening to records. Wouldn't Sassy have figured that out? He'd lost his vanity long ago and assumed everyone saw the same old crow he saw in the mirror each morning. How bad was the light in there?
The migrant brothel was an ugly sore on the landscape. Four inhospitable double-wide trailers surrounded by a row of razor-sharp cyclone fencing. Underman pulled up to a guard booth and rolled down his window. Inside sat a dark-skinned Mexican with a shotgun, a small electric fan beating back his stringy hair.
'What you want?' the Mexican said.
'I'm looking for someone,' Underman said.
The Mexican raised an expectant eyebrow.
'Little Hands.'
The Mexican had a face of stone. Underman decided he wasn't nearly as stupid as he looked. For all he knew, the Mexican owned the place.
'Who?' the Mexican asked.
Underman held up his hands and wiggled his fingers. 'Little Hands.'
The Mexican frowned, not seeing the humor. 'Who you?'
'A friend.'
'Never seen you before,' the Mexican said.
The Intrepid's interior was heating up, his precious cool air escaping. With sweat pouring down his brow, Underman said, 'Look, do I look like trouble to you?'
The Mexican lifted his head, peering inside the rental.
'Maybe,' he said. He picked up a walkie-talkie from the floor and called inside. 'What your name?'
'Don't push it,' Underman said.
The Mexican's brow furrowed suspiciously.
'You not gonna tell me your name?'
'I don't think so,' Underman said through clenched teeth. 'Let me ask you a question. How well do you know Little Hands?'
The Mexican's face turned blank.
Underman smiled. 'Good. I just wanted to be sure we understood each other.'
The Mexican chewed his lip, considering. Then said, 'He's behind trailer with red door.'
Underman pulled into the squalid compound and got out of his car. The ground was soft beneath his feet and he saw a squashed scorpion where his tires had been. He walked around the trailer with the red door, the sun beating down mercilessly on his head and shoulders. It was like descending into hell, one step at a time.
Little Hands was in the back with his shirt off. It was a frightening sight, his muscles popping grotesquely as he stuck a crowbar into the dashboard of a Volkswagen Beetle and tore it from the car. The Beetle was brand new, a temporary license taped to the rear window. Its owner, a freckle-faced whore wearing a pink nightshirt, stood helplessly nearby, kicking the ground with her bare feet.
Underman found a shady spot and watched Little Hands dismantle the vehicle. The rules against the women stashing money were strict. Every room was wired, allowing management to listen in as negotiations were made and prices settled on. Once the money was collected, it was the woman's responsibility to deliver it to the office, where it was held, to be split in half later.
'You gonna tell me where you're hiding it?' Little Hands said when he had reduced the Beetle to a worthless shell. He ripped the last seat apart and tossed the stuffing at the freckle-faced whore's feet. 'Or what?'
'Ain't nothing to tell,' she said sullenly.
'You think I'm fucking stupid?'
'Never gave it much thought.'
Little Hands went to work on the body. German engineering was no match for American bodybuilding, and soon the car looked like a hot rod, its frame stripped down to almost nothing.
'These Michelins are worth something,' Little Hands said, whacking the front tires with the crowbar. 'You want me to puncture them, or are you going to tell me where it is?'
The freckle-faced whore crossed her arms. Little Hands jabbed the right front tire, causing it to explode. Underman jumped as the hubcap went flying. A small, tightly wrapped plastic bag fell out of a hollow cavity in the tire. The whore burst into tears, then ran into one of the trailers.
Underman approached Little Hands, his floppy hat in his hand. Little Hands squinted at him.
'Mr. Underman,' he said with surprise. 'Fancy seeing you out here. Looking for a little action?'
'You and I need to talk,' Underman said under his breath.
Little Hands pulled a sleeveless T-shirt on over his sweaty, bulging torso. 'I got my own trailer; nobody will bother us.'
'In my car,' Underman said.
'I'm not supposed to leave the premises. I'm locked up in here, just like the whores.'
'Can you get a pass?'
Picking up a towel, Little Hands wiped the sweat from his little hands. Underman tried not to stare, knowing how it would set his client into a rampage.
'What's this all about, Mr. Underman?'
Underman got right up next to him. 'Guess who ripped off the Acropolis the other night.'
'I dunno. Who?'
'Sonny Fontana.'
'Come on, Mr. Underman. You and I both know that ain't so. I snuffed that greaseball up in Lake
