“The world. Like it is one place. I said, Dyale, trust me, the world is not one place, it is little boxes of people who hate each other and kill each other and no one likes anyone different. Do you want to go to Belarus and see why I left? He said, No, Sonny, I mean the great cyities. Paris, London, Rome. I asked why he never went to the great cyities when he was cyaptain in Germany. He said the army kept him too busy. But maybe he wasn’t in Germany, eh?”

“That would be my guess,” I said.

“All lies,” she said. “Okay, so what else is new?”

“Do you have any pictures of him?”

“I don’t kyeep souvenirs.”

I asked for a physical description. The picture she painted — big, hefty, bald — matched everything Roland Korbutz had said.

“Brown eyes,” she added. “Soft eyes. Sometimes he wore glasses, sometimes contacts.”

“This may sound strange, but did he ever dress in women’s clothing?”

“Not on the street.”

“You’re not surprised by the question?”

“At Dark Nose, one of the gyirls — she played Systema — was big, size sixteen, eighteen. Once in a while Dyale would joke around.”

“About her size?”

“No, no, the clothes. He put it on, then a wig, talked in a high voice. Very funny.”

“Goofing around.”

“What, he is weird that way?”

I shrugged.

She said, “This is a weird sexy murder?”

“Hard to say what it is.”

“Oh, boy… I guess I am lucky. Dyale was always nice to me, but who knows, eh? I am tired, now, Ah-lex. Too much talk.”

She walked me to the door, leaned in, kissed my cheek in a cloud of vanilla.

I thanked her again.

“Why not?” she said. “Maybe one day I’ll see California.”

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER
25

“Did the chief get his money’s worth?” I asked Milo.

“I’ll let you know after I talk to him.”

“When’s that?”

“When the palace beckons.”

Five p.m., gloomy skies, heavy air in L.A. We were in a coffee shop on Santa Monica Boulevard renowned for omelets the size of manhole covers. Coffee for me, coffee and a plate of cinnamon crullers for him. Two hours ago, he’d finished a late lunch at Café Moghul. An interesting mix of cumin and his digestive cigarillo lingered on his clothing.

Before going to bed last night, I’d left him a message, summarizing what I’d learned in New York. Hadn’t heard back because he’d been surveilling Tony Mancusi until sunrise.

He rubbed his eyes. “Dale did the Safrans… okay, I got my money’s worth, let me pay for your uneaten hundred-dollar plate of lettuce.”

“Forty bucks,” I said. “Lettuce and scallops.”

“Whoopy doo.”