“Christmas Black dropped by my office today. He asked if I had been keepin’ up with you.”

“And what’d you say?”

“I said I’d rather chase a tornadah. I got the feelin’ that you and him were kinda mixed up in sumpin’.”

“I hope not.”

“Excuse me, mistah,” a strained voice said.

Standing outside the booth was an old black person. I wasn’t sure if it was a man or a woman. Whatever, they had their worldly belongings in a rusty supermarket cart.

“Talk to you later, Jackson.”

“You got a dollah, mistah?” the vagrant asked when I cradled the phone.

His or her skin was darker than mine and they were a full six inches shorter. The world had come down like a sledgehammer on the street drifter’s life. I recognized the damage because I’d been dodging that blow from the time I was a child.

After giving the urban nomad five bucks I called another night owl—Anatole McCourt.

The big, brawny, and beautiful Irishman was the special assistant to Melvin Suggs, who was, in turn, the real, if not the acknowledged, number two to the chief of police. Anatole stayed in the office late every night and then had his private line forwarded to his home phone after that.

“McCourt,” he answered on the first ring.

“Lieutenant.”

“Mr. Rawlins. I’ve been hearing a lot about you. Something about a stolen Rolls-Royce car.”

“You doin’ GTA now, man?”

Anatole didn’t like me very much. His early experiences as a uniform in South Central gave him the idea that the citizenry there were the enemy, in opposition to the invading army that he represented. But I don’t think he was racist. He just didn’t trust anyone who knew how to profit from flaws in the system. It was natural for him to feel that it was his job to block my progress.

“What can I do for you, Rawlins?”

“There’s a junkyard in Inglewood called Cafkin’s. I was out at the Dragon’s Eye in Hollywood and I heard somebody talkin’ ’bout how there’s a dead body out around there.”

“Murdered?”

“Dead is what they said.”

“Who said?”

“I don’t know, Lieutenant. Some white guys. I was out in the parking lot with one of the girls. We went into this little crevice she use and the men gathered round just outside and started talkin’. They didn’t see us and we waited till they were gone before coming out.”

“Did you hear a name?”

“Griggs. They said the name was Griggs.”

I liked the idea of shaking things up at the sex club/restaurant. Maybe that would help me later on. Also I wasn’t happy about leaving a murder victim moldering in his own juices.

The last call was to Asiette.

“Allô?” she said.

“Hey, baby. Did I wake you?”

“Where are you?”

“On my way home.”

“I’ll meet you at the funicular.”