Sparse traffic meant Milo had to stay well behind the Toyota but it also turned Mancusi’s taillights into beacons. The signage of a big-box office supplies barn lit up a red-sauce stain blotching the corner of his mouth. Toss in the black hair and the gray skin and you had Dracula with a penchant for trans fat.

Mancusi caught a red light at Highland, backed up illegally, switched into the left-turn lane.

Milo muttered, “Tony, Tony,” and stayed half a block behind.

The green arrow flashed, Mancusi turned into a darkened parking lot on the east side of the avenue. Headlights off as he rolled to a halt near a shuttered food stand.

Milo doused the Camaro’s lights and watched from across Highland.

A huge painted sign on the roof of the stand starred an elated pig sporting a sombrero and a serape. Gordito’s Tacos.

Mancusi stayed in his car. Ninety seconds later, three women emerged from the shadows.

Big hair, micro-skirts, stilt-heels, purses on chains.

Loose-hipped and sashaying as they strolled over to Mancusi’s open driver’s window.

Huddled conversation, heads thrown back in laughter.

Two of the women left. The one who remained had a teased platinum do, a big shelf of bust, skinny legs. A red wife-beater exposed flat belly above a minuscule lipstick-pink skirt — no, hot pants, let’s hear it for tradition.

The blonde wiggled her way to the Toyota’s passenger side, fussed with her hair, tugged at her top, got in.

“Guess Tony’s not gay,” I said.

Milo smiled.

Mancusi drove faster, taking Highland south to Sixth Street, turning left and speeding past Hancock Park and into Windsor Square, with its ancient trees, broad lawns, and landmark mansions.

A sudden turn took him north to Arden Boulevard, where he covered a block, stopped, parked in front of a mini-Tara.

Silent, dark street. Wide-open landscaping and a gap where a street tree had succumbed.

The Toyota’s brake lights remained on. Ten seconds later, it pulled away, continued another block north, and parked again, this time facing a Georgian masterpiece nearly obscured by three monumental deodar cedars.

An equally massive sycamore on the parkway umbrellaed the car.

The lights went off.

The Toyota remained in place for ten minutes, then started up again and returned to Gordito’s Tacos.

Mancusi idled at the curb as the blonde got out. She fooled with the waistband of her hot pants, leaned in, said something through the passenger window. Whipped out a cigarette and smoked as the Toyota drove away.

Milo jogged across the street, flashed the badge. The blonde punched her thigh. Milo spoke. The blonde laughed the way she had when approaching Mancusi. Milo pointed to her cigarette. She stubbed it out. He patted her down, took her purse.

Holding her by the elbow, he guided her across Highland and straight to the Camaro.

No expression on his face. Her eyes were wide with curiosity.

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER
27