“Florence Pratt will write down the message and either wait for me to call or, if it’s trouble, she’ll call me.”

Another car fired up and drove off. No young woman walked past us that time. Maybe it was real love for those passengers.

“She calls herself Donata Delphine but her real name is Roxanna Coors from San Diego,” Montana said. “She the kinda whore don’t mind how mean a man like Alonzo could get.”

“He beat her?” I asked.

“Like a three-egg omelet.”

“She have any other boyfriends?”

“Girls like us aren’t there for friendship. No man wanna girl that look like we do to be their buddy. A friend’ll tell you the truth now and then; we just say what you wanna hear. I mean, would you ask a friend to get down on her knees and spread her ass?”

That image conjured a door through which one could imagine the pain a life on your own offered. I understood what she meant too well to dally on her question.

“Donata have any regular customers that wanted her to compliment them?”

“Not that I could tell. A lotta men pass through here. Some become regulars but not the way you’re talkin’ about—not really.”

“When was the last time you saw her?”

After pondering a few moments she said, “Must be at least four weeks.”

“Anything special happen around then?”

“Not that I know. You got a cigarette?”

I handed over a Lucky and lit it for her. She took a deep draw and exhaled the smoke against my chest.

When the mist evaporated I asked, “You know where I might find her?”

“You sure this number will work?” she asked, indicating my business card.

“I am. Don’t you believe me?”

“I don’t know. A man like you could lie in his sleep.”

“And a girl like you would be lying right there next to me.”

A real laugh escaped her lips.

“She talks about Chateau Marmont sometimes,” Montana admitted. “Says that she likes the bar up there because sometimes famous actors pick her up. She told me they know her at the front desk and they only take ten percent.”

That was all I could ask for, but neither one of us wanted to leave right then.

“You ever hear the names Craig Kilian, Kirkland Larker, or Mona Strael?”

“Uh-uh. No. They got some answers too?”

“Time’ll tell.”

“You can give me that kiss now, Easy Rawlins.”

31

31

Mouse and Agosto were sitting outside the sentry’s hut playing dominoes under the weak light emanating from the doorway. It was three minutes shy of 5:00 a.m.

“Who’s winning?” I asked.

“No scores. Just tiles,” the son of Sicily replied. “We play through the box twice. Your friend said he wanted to wait.”

“I thought I was gonna call you, Ray.”