She sipped the red drink and I considered my position. I wasn’t used to people offering to help me without the use of subterfuge on my part. Most often I had to cajole them with some circuitous chitchat for a good while before they let up on what I wanted to know.

“I’m looking for a man, or the girlfriend of a man named Alonzo.”

For the first time Montana had to consider her words before replying.

“Um,” she said, the answer in mind but still wondering if it should come out of her mouth. “What’s the girlfriend’s name?”

“Don’t know.”

“Is this Alonzo a black man?”

I nodded and sipped on my orange juice.

“I don’t know if it’s the man you’re looking for but there’s a guy named Alonzo that’s kinda like a talent scout for the Eye. The waitresses have a pretty big turnover rate.”

“And this Alonzo reps women?”

“Yeah, you could put it like that. I didn’t get here through him but a lotta my girlfriends did.”

“He have long straightened hair?”

She had to think a minute. It didn’t look like she was stalling.

Montana shook her head and uttered, “No. Just normal. A short Afro.”

One of the most questionable things in my line of business is an easy answer with nothing at stake. I considered that truth a second too long.

“What’s wrong?” asked the blond woman who studied men up close and often.

“I walked into this place expecting to spend the rest of the night asking my question. And here, the first person I meet has the answer tied up with a bow.”

When she wasn’t thinking about it, Montana’s pretty smile turned beautiful.

“I like you, Easy. You pay attention. Most men I meet expect the world to bend over for them. They ask a question and think you have to tell them the truth. You ask the question and know there’s no one answer. I like that.”

She was the kind of woman you wanted to like you. But I was on the job.

She smiled again and touched my wrist. “Ask anybody who works here, Easy. They all, or almost all, know Alonzo.”

“But this one doesn’t have straightened hair,” I added.

“Not the last time I saw him.”

“And when was that?”

“A couple of weeks. He usually comes in in the daytime and talks to the floor manager.”

“And who’s that?”

“Another drink?” That was Cunningham, doing his job.

“Put three rounds on my tab,” I said, glancing at him.

“Be back after a while,” was his reply.

“You’ve been to clubs like this before,” Montana observed.

“Management here tonight?”

“Upstairs. One floor past the dining room.”

I was considering my next move. Montana studied my contemplation.

“What now?” she asked.