Beige was obviously not in her vocabulary. She had on a black leather miniskirt, a screaming pink stretch top that bared her midriff, several large rhinestone bracelets and a pair of white go-go boots. I myself am the dress for success type. Gray suits, navy blue skirts, sensible shoes. I’ve never worried about looking like I was in corporate drag because I’ve got a nice face and great hair. My hair is blond and wavy, and I have it cut in a chin-length bob. Simply put, a look that says classic but contemporary. Her look said cheerleader gone bad.

What is that supposed to convey? That cheerleaders do it with everyone? To feed some fantasy that men have about doing it with nubile juveniles? Under other circumstances I would have wanted to know these things. We would probably have had a rewarding conversation on this subject. We could have gotten into some consciousness raising, but I just wanted to find Monica Fullbright and get to the bank.

“Did you see her or not?”

She shrugged, still watching the traffic.

“Sorry to take up your time. I can see you’re real busy here.” I turned on my heel and walked to the end of the block by the drugstore, where I looked up and down Wilton. Monica Fulbright wasn’t anywhere. I was going to ask the drunk on the bus bench, but he was already asleep.

Traffic burned by, commuters impatient to get home after work. I decided to call it a day and head home myself. I still live in the same place I had while I was in law school. It’s a hot stucco cube in Sherman Oaks, that part of the Valley squeezed between Ventura Boulevard and the Hollywood Hills. In August and September it’s like being trapped in an oven. There’s no air conditioning, and they’ve started to let kids move in.

I gave the hooker a wide berth on my return. Chewing her gum lazily, she watched me while pretending not to. No wonder I was getting such shitty cases, stuck in this hole, this low-budget Babylon. Next, I’d be getting some lunatic who wanted me to write a will in favor of his dog.

“Hey,” she called after me. “It was a beat-up, old black Lincoln. VZF 194. You’re really not very good at this, are you?”

I turned back to thank her, but she was already climbing into the cab of a little white pickup that had stopped at the curb.

CHAPTER TWO