“Is that smart, Brother Easy?”

“Is it smart to stand up against four men because they insulted a woman in your presence?”

Fearless laughed and said, “But I knew I could beat them.”

It was midafternoon by the time we reached the Summer Sands, a gated apartment complex at the northern end of Palm Springs. The compound had high adobe walls and a big iron gate with an armed guard lounging under the shade of a huge metal umbrella that was painted orange.

“Can I help you?” the big-bellied, fifty-something white man asked Fearless.

Mr. Jones turned to me and asked, “Who is it you said?”

“Lola Thigman-Kilian,” I called out.

“Does she expect you?”

“Yep.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Coming to see Lola Thigman-Kilian.”

“But what’s your business with her?”

Staring the sweating white man in the eye I said, “I’m her florist.”

He didn’t like me, I didn’t like him, and Fearless just didn’t care.

“Can we come in?” my friend asked.

The guardian sighed and said, “Unit twenty-two.”

He went to a cubbyhole in the wall and reached in. A moment later the iron gate slid to the left.

“Who ya lookin’ fah?” a woman called out in a shrill voice. Her accent was from New York like my friend Izzy Abromovitz. I fought next to Izzy from Italy, through France, and into Germany—where Izzy died.

Fearless had parked out in front of unit twenty-two, a dark red door in a long pink building. No one answered our knock.

“Lola,” I said, answering the nosy New Yorker.

“Oh.” The woman seemed a little disappointed, or maybe jealous. “She’s down by the pool. That’s where she is every day in her swimsuit. Never swims. Just lolls around drinkin’ martinis.”

“Which way is that?” I asked.

“That way.” She waved her hand like batting at a fly but I got the idea.

There was a broad swath of impossibly white tile between the main building and the blue pool. Two or three dozen sunbathers sat and reclined on the chaise lounges sipping on drinks and chatting, sleeping, or pretending to sleep. There was even one man reading a newspaper.

Lola was installed next to the water, laid back and completely relaxed. No one was swimming and the water looked somehow synthetic.

Lola’s bathing suit was navy and her skin an ivory hue. You could see in her curves, and how she moved them, how some men get lost on their way home.

“Mr. Rawlins,” she exclaimed when my friend and I walked up.

“Lola.”

“And who is this?” she asked, getting an eyeful of Fearless.

“Fearless Jones,” I said. “An associate of mine.”

“Come, join me.” Sitting up to make space on the lounger, she offered Fearless the spot next to her. I grabbed a nearby aluminum-and-green nylon chair.

“Do you have news for me?” she asked when we were all settled.