A sudden turn took him north to Arden Boulevard, where he covered a block, stopped, parked in front of a mini-Tara.

Silent, dark street. Wide-open landscaping and a gap where a street tree had succumbed.

The Toyota ’s brake lights remained on. Ten seconds later, it pulled away, continued another block north, and parked again, this time facing a Georgian masterpiece nearly obscured by three monumental deodar cedars.

An equally massive sycamore on the parkway umbrellaed the car.

The lights went off.

The Toyota remained in place for ten minutes, then started up again and returned to Gordito’s Tacos.

Mancusi idled at the curb as the blonde got out. She fooled with the waistband of her hot pants, leaned in, said something through the passenger window. Whipped out a cigarette and smoked as the Toyota drove away.

Milo jogged across the street, flashed the badge. The blonde punched her thigh. Milo spoke. The blonde laughed the way she had when approaching Mancusi. Milo pointed to her cigarette. She stubbed it out. He patted her down, took her purse.

Holding her by the elbow, he guided her across Highland and straight to the Camaro.

No expression on his face. Her eyes were wide with curiosity.

Milo pulled a steel-handled straight razor out of the hooker’s purse.

“Hands on the car.”

“That’s for protection, sir.” Husky voice.

“On the car.” Pocketing the knife, he stashed the purse in the trunk, put the hooker in back of the car, squeezed in next to her.

“Your turn to drive, pard.”

I slid behind the wheel.

The hooker said, “I love company.”

Next to Milo, she looked small and frail. Mid-to late thirties, hair stiff and shagged, platinum at the roots, copper at the tips. A hatchet face oatmealed by pimples gleamed through bronze pancake. Pert nose, plump lips, glitter-flecked cleavage, big hoop earrings.

Cobalt eyes under gritty half-inch lashes struggled not to bounce.

Below all that, a muscular neck. Pronounced Adam’s apple.

She saw me looking at oversized hands and slipped them out of view.

Milo said, “This is Tasha LaBelle.”

“Hi, Tasha.”

“The pleasure’s all mine, sir.”

“Let’s get moving,” said Milo.

Tasha said, “Where we going?”

“Nowhere in particular.”

“A few hours, Disneyland ’s gonna open.”

“Fantasyland your thing?” said Milo.

No answer.

I pulled onto Highland, hit a pothole that rattled the car’s suspension.

Tasha said, “Ouch. Such a teeny car for such big men.”

Gliding past Sunset and Hollywood Boulevard, I headed east on Franklin, drove past darkened apartment buildings, antique foliage. No people on the street. A solitary dog rooted near some hedges.

Tasha said, “What I done, you taking me for a ride?”

Milo said, “We like company. When we run your prints, what name’s gonna come up?”

“Prints? I didn’t do nothing.” Tension kicked the voice a few frets higher.

“Your name for the record.”

“Record of what?” A tinge of aggression lowered the timbre. Now I was hearing a nasal street guy, cornered and ready for fight or flight.

“Our investigation. There’s also the issue of your little nail file.”

“That’s a antique, sir. Got it on eBay.”

“What name were you born with?”

Sniffle. “I’m me.”

Milo said, “No doubt about that. Let’s not make this a bigger deal than it needs to be.”

“You don’t understand, sir.”

“I do. The past is the past,” said Milo. “Right?”

Hushed “yessir.”

“But sometimes history is important.”

“What’d I do, you take me in this car?”

“Besides the blade, you were witnessed engaging in solicitation and prostitution. But you can be back at Gordito’s in fifteen minutes instead of in lockup. Up to you.”

“What’re you investigating, sir?”

Milo ’s pen clicked. “First your given name. Not one of the monikers you use when you get busted.”

“Sir, I have not been arrested in… thirty… eight – seven days. And that was in Burbank. And it was just shoplifting. And charges were dropped.”

“Charges against who?”

Pause. “Mary Ellen Smithfield.”

Milo said, “Like the ham.”

“Huh?”

“What’s on your birth certificate, Tasha?”

“You’re not gonna arrest me?”

“That’s up to you.”

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?”

“Six months?” said Tasha. “Could be five? I talked to Tony but I went home with a lawyer. That was a house, all the way in Oxnard, by the water, to get there we drove and drove and the air smelled all salty. I won’t give you his name no matter what you do because he was sweet. Sweet and old and lonely, his wife was sick in the hospital. Next morning he cooked waffles with fresh bananas and I watched the sun come up over the water.”