He stormed out of the office. The room was eerily quiet—the stifling calm after the cessation of a freak tornado. Smithson cleared his throat.

“You’ll have to forgive Cameron,” he said sheepishly. “He gets a bit overexcited when he can’t make good on his word. He takes his work very seriously.”

Decker nodded. He was making excuses for his son. It sounded like something he was used to doing.

“I’ll have Mr. Pode call you,” Smithson said, trying not to appear nonplussed.

“That would be fine.”

“I hope I’ve been of service to you, Mr. Cohen.”

“You have,” answered Decker. “I’m glad I made it over here.”

The men rose. Smithson held out his hand and Decker took it.

There was more action outside the Golden Dreams Motel than inside. The proprietor, a middle-aged Armenian, complained animatedly to Decker that the prostitutes and pimps had driven away all his legit business. Decker listened with half an ear, and when the man paused for air, stuck in his question. Who, of the half dozen pimps outside, was Wilmington Johnson? The owner pointed out a tall, emaciated black with a full Afro, wearing purple stretch pants, a gold lamé V-neck shirt, and a black velvet jacket. Around his neck were plaits of gold chains and on his arms were two babes of fifteen or sixteen—both white.

The man had arrived.

He went up to Johnson and told the girls to beat it.

“Say what, white boy?” Johnson asked, staring out into the street.

“You Johnson?” Decker asked.

The black turned around and gave him a quick once-over.

“Well, that all depends on what you want, man.”

“Oh,” Decker said meekly. Then he spun around and gave the pimp a short, hard punch to the solar plexus. Johnson folded over like a loose strand of licorice and began panting, teary-eyed. His whores stared at the detective, one with animosity, the other with admiration.

“Jesus,” Decker said helping him up. “I’m so sorry. I just lost my balance for a second. Jesus.” He brushed off the pimp’s coat. “I’m so sorry.”

Johnson stared at him with evil eyes.

“I’m looking for Wilmington Johnson,” Decker said, smiling.

“Who the fuck are you?” Johnson spat.

Decker took out his badge.

“Police.”

Johnson muttered to himself. Pulling out a pair of glasses, he stared at the shield, then looked at Decker. “Yeah, you’re po-lice all right. What you want?” He was about to remove the spectacles, but Decker held his arm and showed him the picture of the Countess.

“Yeah,” Johnson nodded. “I seen the bitch.”

“Was she one of yours?”

Johnson laughed, showing off horse-sized teeth.

“No way. Ain’t got that kind of animal in my stable. Try a dude named Clementine.”

“Where does he hang out?”

“Here and there.”

Decker scowled at him.

“Where is ‘here and there’?”

“The Strip, the Boulevard, the back alleys,” said Johnson. “Catch him when you can.”