Long sigh. Near whisper: “Robert Gillaloy.”

I heard Milo’s pen scratching. “How old are you, Tasha?”

“Twenty-two.”

Milo cleared his throat.

“Twenty-nine, sir.” Breathy laughter. “And that’s my final offer.”

“Address?”

“Kenmore Avenue but it’s temporary.”

“Until?”

“I get my mansion in Bel Air.”

“How long have you been in L.A.?”

“I’m a native Californian, sir.”

“From where?”

“Fontana. My parents worked in chickens.” Giggle. “Literally. I got tired of the feathers and the smell.”

“When?”

“Something like thirteen years ago, sir.”

I pictured a confused teenager making his way from the farmlands of San Bernardino County to Hollywood.

Milo said, “Phone number?”

“I’m in between numbers.”

“You use prepaids?”

No answer.

“How do people reach you, Tasha?”

“Friends know where to find me.”

“Friends like Tony Mancusi.”

Silence.

“Tell us about Tony, Tasha.”

“This is about Tony Not-Roma?”

“What d’you mean?”

“He don’t look Eyetalian. More like pudding — that egg stuff — tapoca.”

“He a regular, Tasha?”

“You’re saying Tony’s a badman?” A new vibrato twanged the voice. Back to girly and scared.

“Would that surprise you?”

“He’s never a badman to me.”

“But?”

“But nothing,” said Tasha.

“How often do you see him?”

“No schedule,” said Tasha. “Not a regular — a unregular.”

“Tony circulates?”

“No, he likes me or he don’t party. The issue is show me le money, honey.”

“Tony’s short on dough.”

“He says.”

“Complains about it a lot.”

“Ain’t complaining what men do, sir? The wife, the prostrate, the weather.” Laughter. “The Dodgers. With Tony it’s also his discus.”

“His what?”

“The back discus. This hurts, that hurts. I’m like, poor baby. But no massage, these French tips are fragile.”

“Putting up with all that bitching,” said Milo, “you might as well get a husband.”

“You’re a nice, funny man, sir. What do you complain about?”

“Bad guys getting away,” said Milo. “Where’d you meet Tony? And don’t say ‘around.’”

“Around. Hee hee — okay, okay, don’t give me that evil look, I met him at a party. Wannaboo party up in the hills.”

“What’s a wannaboo?”

“A gentleman who pretends he’s pretending.”

“To be a girl,” said Milo. “As opposed to your homegirls at Gordito’s.”

“My homegirls are girls no matter what the government say. My homegirls are la femme in the brain, where it counts.”

“Wannaboos—”

“Wannaboos don’t even try. For them the thing is ugly. Ugly wigs, ugly dresses, ugly ugly shaving bumps, square shoes. They don’t got the bones. The deli-ca-cy. For the wannaboos it’s Halloween Parade then back to the suit and tie on Monday.”

“A costume party,” said Milo.

“Not even, sir. They don’t even try.”

“Where in the hills was this party?”

“Some place near the Hollywood sign.”

“Above Beachwood?”

“I don’t know streets. It was a long time ago.”

“How long?”