The western part of the boulevard was breaking through, probably like Times Square had done a dozen or so years ago. The city planners were smart enough to face-lift its known quantities, like the famous movie houses—Mann’s Chinese Theatre, Egyptian, and El Capitan—as well as the sideshow carnival attractions like Ripley’s Believe It or Not and the Hollywood Wax Museum. In addition, the renovated sector now boasted several eye-catching shopping galleries and a spanking-new gold-and-black-granite live theater built by Kodak. These landmarks drew lots of tourists, those hoping to be touched by magic or, at the very least, bask in its afterglow.

It was the night that brought out the predators, individuals who thrived on marginal life. The eastern portion of Hollywood was the domain of tattoo parlors and bail bondsmen, of cheap retail shops, several no-tell motels and fast-food joints.

The Tango sat on the border between the bright lights of old glamour and the slums of decay. As economic revival crept eastward, some of the neon spilled over, but not nearly enough to illuminate the hidden cracks and crevices. I didn’t have to walk too far before I found someone. She sat on the sidewalk, her back against the painted glass window advertising 50 percent off bargain-basement clothing. Her knees were pressed against her chest, and a thin blanket was thrown over her body and tucked under her chin. Her age was indeterminate—anywhere from twenty to fifty. Her hair was matted and dirty, her complexion so pancaked with grime that it could have held membership to any race. Black pupils peered out through vacant red-rimmed orbs, her mouth a slash mark with skin stretched tightly over a bony framework. By her side were a coin cup, several paper bags, and a tattered backpack.

I dropped a dollar in the cup. She nodded but didn’t make eye contact. I sat beside her and she stiffened. She stank of sweat and misery, but right now I didn’t smell too wonderful myself.

“What happened to you?” she pronounced in a raspy voice.

I raised my eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“Your clothes need a cleanin’, Officer.”

“Oh … that. I went rooting through the garbage tonight.”

“Then we’s got somethin’ in common.”

I smiled. “I don’t think we’ve ever met.”

She looked down at her covered knees. “You’re Officer Cindy.”

I let out a laugh. “Beg your pardon. The mistake is mine.”

“It was raining. You gave me a ride. … Brang me to a shelter.”

I squinted, taking in her face. “Alice Anne?”

A hint of a smile appeared on her lips.

I made a face. “You promised me you’d stop hitting the sauce.”

“I kept my promise.”

“For how long? Twenty-four hours?”

“A little longer.”

“Tsk, tsk, girl.”

This time, she took in my face. “What happened to you?”

“Funny you should ask. I found a baby at the bottom of a Dumpster.”

“Ugh!” Alice Anne exclaimed. “That be terrible! Is it okay?”

“The baby is fine.”

“Hard enough bein’ an a-dult out here.” She spat. “Ain’t no place for a baby.”