I left my vintage VW in the parking lot behind the office and walked over to the Tip Top Cab Company on Delgado. The business office is located in a narrow strip of stores best noted for their liquidation sales: a constant round of discount shoes, car stereos, lunch counters, and motorcycle shops with an occasional beauty salon or a "fast-foto" establishment. It is not a desirable location. The one-way street runs the wrong way.

The parking lot is too small and apparently the owner of the building, while not exacting outrageous rents, is also content to let the premises languish under worn paint and tatty carpeting.

Tip Top was jammed between a Humane Society Thrift Shop and a Big N' Tall Men's Shop with a suit in the window designed for the steroid enthusiast. The office itself was long and narrow, partitioned across the middle with a plywood wall with a door cut into it. The place was furnished like some kid's hideout, complete with two broken-down couches and a table with one short leg. There were drawings and hand-lettered signs Scotch-taped to the walls, trash piled up in one corner, dog-eared copies of Road and Track magazine in an irregular tier by the front door. The bucket seat from a car was propped against the far wall, tan upholstery slashed in one spot and mended with old Band-Aids covered with stars. The dispatcher was perched on a stool, leaning one elbow on a counter as littered as a workbench. He was probably twenty-five with curly black hair and a small dark mustache. He wore chinos, a pale blue T-shirt with a faded decal of the Grateful Dead, and a visor that made his hair stick up on the sides. The shortwave radio squawked incomprehensibly and he took up the mike.

"Seven-oh," eh said, his eyes immediately focusing on the map of the city affixed to the wall above the counter. I saw a butt-filled ashtray, an aspirin bottle, a cardboard calendar from Our Lady of Sorrows Church, a fan belt, plastic packets of ketchup, and a big penciled note that read "Has Anybody Seen My Red Flash Lite?" Tacked to the wall there was a list of addresses for customers who'd passed bad checks and those in the habit of calling more than one cab to see who could get there first.

There was a short burst of squawking and the dispatcher moved a round magnet from one part of the map to another. It looked like he was playing a board game all by himself.

He rotated toward me on the stool. "Yes ma'am."

I held out my hand. "I'm Kinsey Millhone," I said. He seemed slightly disconcerted at the notion of shaking hands, but he covered himself and gamely obliged.

"Ron Coachello."

I took out my wallet and showed him my identification. "I wonder if you could check some records for me."