“Good-sized guy, beefy, bald.”

“Clean-shaven?”

“Cue ball, no hair, period.”

I fished out my copy of Ansell Bright’s California license.

Polito’s good eye squinted. “All that fur, you could make a coat… guess it could be the same guy, but I couldn’t swear to it.”

“Maybe that’s the point,” I said.

“A shape-shifter?”

“Was he gay?”

“He wasn’t swishy. Your guy’s like that?”

“Some people say he is.”

“Some people… you’re saying he fakes everything?”

I told him about the cowboy getup, the plaid-capped old man, a possible cross-dressing link, stolen luxury cars.

“Black cars,” he said. “Maybe like a symbol of death.” He pushed his plate away, touched his chest.

“You okay?”

“Reflux. This guy turns out to be the perp, I had him right there and he moved on to more bad things? Not a nice thought.”

I said, “He could turn out clean.”

“You thought he was clean, you wouldn’t be here.” He examined the photo some more, handed it back. “Nope, couldn’t say it’s him or not. And the Dale Bright I talked to acted normal. Absolutely nothing hinky about him.”

He finished his wine. “I gotta say, Doc, talking to you is making me realize how much I’d rather be on the lake. So let me give you the rest of what I got and be on my way. First off, I went by Korvutz’s apartment this morning — that was the appointment I mentioned. Schmoozed with the doorman, who happens to be ex-patrol. Don’t you bother him, it gets out he’s talking about the residents, he’s screwed. What he told me is Korvutz is quiet, no problems, married with a little kid, tips good at Christmas. Has dinner by himself twice a week when the missus is out with her gal pals and lucky for you, tonight’s one of those. Creature of habit, goes to the same place, likes Italiano.”

“La Bella,” I said. “It’s on my list.”

Polito smiled. “Who do you think made up the list? Anyway, Korvutz eats early, is likely to be there six, six thirty. The chance of him offering to share a plate of pasta is not a high probability, but you can fly back to L.A., say you tried.”

“Does he use bodyguards?”

“We’re not talking Trump or Macklowe. This guy’s small-time. Relatively speaking, I mean. He still gets to live in a ten-room co-op in a prewar on Park, bought in years ago.”

“What does he develop nowadays?”

“He doesn’t. Collects rent checks.”

“Retired? How come?”

“Maybe ’cause he wants to be, or maybe ’cause he has to be.”

“What do you mean?”

“To play in the city nowadays, you got to have big-time dough. Starting with a B, not an M.”

“Gotcha,” I said. “What does he look like?”