Dana pulled out her notebook and did just that, and then she said, “Now I’d like the best description of him that you can give me. You think he might be Hispanic, and he’s nineteen years old, right? How tall is he?”
“Not tall,” Naomi said. “I’m five foot six, and he’s only a couple inches taller.”
“How much does he weigh? Take a guess.”
“He’s thin. So how much would that be?”
“About a hundred and forty or so. Any tattoos?”
“Not that I could see.”
“How about the color of his hair and eyes?”
“Real pretty brown eyes with long lashes,” Naomi said. “And real dark curly hair, almost black.”
Dana made notes and then said, “Long hair, short hair?”
“Just a regular guy’s haircut,” Naomi said, “except it was thick and curly. It curled over his ears. Most girls would die for hair like that.”
And then Dana Vaughn’s demeanor changed, and Naomi thought her questions seemed a bit more urgent.
Dana looked at her notes and back at Naomi and said, “When was the first time you saw Clark?”
“Last week,” Naomi said. “I forget what day. Maybe Friday?”
“What was he wearing then?”
“He wore a T-shirt and jeans and tennis shoes,” Naomi said.
“What color was the T-shirt?”
“Blue. Light blue.”
And now Naomi saw even more of a change in the officer when she leaned forward and said, “When you were having your burger yesterday, where were you?”
“At Mel’s Drive-In on the Strip,” Naomi said. “It was pretty expensive, I think.”
“Did you notice anything different about him yesterday? Anything about his face or other parts of his body?”
“Like what?”
“Any fresh scratches or bruises anywhere?”
“Just skinned-up knuckles on both hands. And a little bruise under his eye. He said he beat up a couple of guys at his job that were bullies. I didn’t really believe that either.”
And now there was no question in Naomi’s mind: This police officer was super-interested in Clark Jones. In fact, the officer looked as though she wanted to call out something to her partner, who was waiting twenty yards away on the sidewalk.
“Anything else?” Dana asked.
Naomi said, “I think Clark is kind of a bragger who makes up things. Like about his Persian mother and his French father. I didn’t believe that either. We talked about guys like him in class. They have a mental problem, maybe because of drugs or something. It makes them behave… grandy-something.”
“Grandiose?”
“Yeah, that’s it,” Naomi said. “He talks, like, way grandiose.”
“If Clark phones you again, I want you to call me immediately,” Dana said. “I’m not sure yet, but he may be involved in some very serious crimes against women.”
“Now I’m really scared,” Naomi said.
“Don’t be afraid,” Dana said. “I’m taking your information straight to my station and phoning detectives with it. I think Clark will be behind bars very soon. Would you like us to drop you at your house now?”
“I think you better,” Naomi said. “I don’t wanna walk alone. But I’d like to tell my mom about it myself. She might phone you later.”
“That’s fine,” Dana said. “I’ll be available.”
After they dropped off Naomi at her house on Ogden Drive, Dana said to Hollywood Nate, who as yet knew nothing about Naomi’s information, “Well, if the Oracle was right about doing good police work, we’re about to have ourselves lots of fun, honey.”
When Malcolm finished his steak, he said it was the tastiest he’d ever had. Eunice smiled tenderly and said, “Would you like another soda?”
“I don’t think so. Thanks, anyways.”
“Did you save room for dessert?” she asked.
“Sure,” Malcolm said with his high-wattage smile.
“That smile of yours could light up the Vegas Strip,” Eunice said, making Malcolm drop his eyes in discomfort.
Dewey, who hadn’t eaten more than a few bites of his swordfish, signaled to a waiter for a recitation of the desserts. The waiter nodded but continued with other customers. It didn’t faze Dewey, who especially liked the waiters at Musso & Frank, most of whom were aging brusque Mexicans dressed formally in black tie. They knew their stuff and didn’t waste time or words stroking customers, unless the customers were Hollywood relics, those faded stars and almost-stars who still came to the old places for the fantasy of retaining continuity with a Hollywood that was no more.
“Do you like this place, Clark?” Eunice asked, tapping on the table with one of her newly lacquered nails, and Dewey knew she was dying to run outside for a smoke.
“Yeah, it’s really nice,” Malcolm said.
Eunice looked around, trying to see the place as the boy saw it. Musso & Frank was one of the old restaurants that didn’t so much resist changes in style and decor. They simply ignored them.
“Have you ever been to a nice restaurant before?” she asked.
“No, not really,” he said. “But like I was telling you, my dad was a French chef. He told me about the restaurants he worked at in New York and Paris, France, and London, England. He’s dead now.”
“A French chef?” Eunice said. “How about that. Is your mom still alive?”
“No, she passed away too. She was a Persian who was a distant relative of the royal family over there. I was raised by my dad’s cousin, who was married to a man in East L.A. I didn’t belong there, but there was nothing I could do about it. Now I live alone in Hollywood in an apartment. It’s pretty expensive. That’s why I’m so anxious to go to work for you and make some real money.”
Dewey glanced at Eunice and knew that she didn’t believe this kid’s bullshit any more than he did, but by the way she smiled at the boy-and it wasn’t maternally-he knew she didn’t give a damn what he said. Eunice was utterly taken. Thank God for midlife crises, Dewey Gleason thought, and he looked at his watch.
Jerzy Szarpowicz, sweating in the oppressive darkness of the metal-and-concrete storage room, turned on his flashlight and also looked at his watch.
“It don’t make the time pass no faster by lookin’ at your watch every two minutes,” Tristan said. They were sitting on top of cardboard crates containing large plasma TV sets that they fully intended to take away and sell when this was over.
“I’m burnin’ up in here!” Jerzy said. “I wish I had a quarter of Go Fast. I even wish I had a dime bag of smoke.”
“Get on the floor,” Tristan said. “Heat rises.”
“It’s jist as hot down there,” Jerzy grumbled. “This gag ain’t gonna work. That motherfucker’s gamin’ us like he games everybody else.”
“It might work, it might not work,” Tristan said. “If they don’t show up, we’ll load all his merchandise in the van and take it outta here and sell it. Then we’ll have more negotiations to conduct with Mr. Bernie Graham.”
“If he ain’t already outta Dodge,” Jerzy said.
“He ain’t,” Tristan said. “He’s locked into this gag. You can see it all in the man’s eyes.”
“See what?”
“Greed,” Tristan said. “Like I see in your eyes.”
“And how ’bout you? You ain’t greedy?”
“Oh, yeah, dawg,” Tristan said. “But somehow I don’t think I’m desperate greedy like you and Bernie. I got my limits.”
“You think too much,” Jerzy said.
Tristan looked at his partner and said, “Wood, it jist occurred to me that I ain’t never seen you in anything but a black T-shirt, jeans, and boots. Don’t you have no other threads?”
“I got duplicates of these,” Jerzy said testily.
“Your bitch must find you very easy to buy for,” Tristan observed.
All pout, Jerzy looked at his wristwatch again.
Six-X-Seventy-six was back in the officers’ report room at Hollywood Station. Dana had called to leave information for the sex crimes detectives, a job that had recently been taken away from Hollywood Detectives and given to West Bureau. She made a request that when the detectives got the warrant the next day, she be kept in the loop as to their arrest plans.