“I didn’t know you smoked.”

“I used to.” She ground it out angrily against the wall, scattering little red sparks.

“Find out anything?” I whispered with a nod toward the redhead.

Lupe shook her head. “A few new girls, but no Carmen. This used to be a hot spot for Mexican men working downtown. Now it’s full of Cubans. Filipinos. Looks like Jimmy’s moving up in the world, pulling a crowd with a little more money....”

“Seems like a swell place. How come you quit?”

“I got tired of being groped for buffalo heads, know what I mean?” She dropped her dance card on the floor and headed for the door.

Outside kids were still playing on the corner. Mothers sat on sagging porches with radios turned up. Rock and roll and latin dance music and the continuous sound from the freeway. Lupe stared for a moment at some small boys kicking a soccer ball back and forth.

I wondered how old Joey was.

“Let’s make it quick. I got to get going. I got a living to make,” she announced suddenly in a cold, flat voice as if I had dragged her along to the Club Tropical against her will.

I hadn’t asked her to go anywhere with me. I had told her I wanted to go alone, and she had insisted on coming. I didn’t feel like arguing with her anymore and I didn’t know why she was angry. Was it because she had identified with the dead woman, or was she angry because she thought I was slow and chickenshit? I didn’t ask. We got into the car and headed toward Hollywood.

Another Friday night in Hollywood. The moon hanging in the sky like a badly lit three-D postcard. Bright lights. Action. Motorcycle freaks. Punk rockers on acid. A small Salvation Army band. Half a dozen chicano car clubs. Several adults in skimpy clothing made of lurex raced by on roller skates. Tourists from Iowa stumbling down the street, studying the bronze stars of their favorite actors and actresses embedded in the pavement. I’ve read they charge the actor $3500 for the cost of installing the star. I started to ask Lupe if she knew this but decided to just keep my mouth shut.

I pulled up in front of my office but didn’t turn off the engine.

“You were right, Lupe. She was there at the Club Tropical and she was an American. I’m pretty sure I can find out about her now. Thanks. Can I give you a check?” I asked, fumbling in my purse.

“Do I look like a bank? You think I got my pussy insured by the FDIC? I want cash. I’ll be by your office for it.”

The car door slammed shut, and she was gone, striding toward the corner smoothing her skirt around her hips and straightening her wig.