At least I'd found a talker, I thought. If I asked her for directions to the stadium, she'd probably throw in the baseball club's lineup and last season's record.
Trudy plastered herself against me. She was a big girl, a beauty parlor blonde, and there was a lot of her to plaster. Her nipples prodded my chest like bullets.
"What happened to your face, honey?" She touched the cut at the edge of my lip, the stitches the doctor had put in the side of my head. "You look as if you fell into cement mixer."
"I had an accident*
"I'm sorry." Her hand seized hold of me again. "My, you're a real man, aren't you?"
She probably told that to all her customers, but she sounded as if she meant it. I backpedaled hastily and worked at my zipper, knowing that if Hawk could see me now, he'd burst out laughing.
"I want to ask you about Moose. When did you see him last?"
"I really don't remember. Is that what you came here for, to find out where Moose is?"
"You're a smart girl. You saw through me right away, didn't you?" I laid the flattery on as thick as I could. "I am looking for the big clown. We kind of lost touch, you know what I mean?"
She edged closer to me and slid her left arm around my waist. Her right hand found my zipper again. She was faster than a pickpocket. "Since you're here, you might as well enjoy the visit. What turns you on?"
I caught hold of her groping hand and turned it palm up. I pressed three twenties into her curled fingers. "Tell me about Moose."
Her friendliness tapered off sharply. She folded the bills neatly and stuffed them into my belt "I sell sex, not information."
"Moose and I are old friends. But we lost touch, like I said. Look, he gave me your number, didn't he?"
"You could be lying about that. Anyway, I don't remember when I saw Moose last and I don't know where he is. Even if he's your long-lost brother, I don't want to talk about him."
I took out two more twenties, folded all five together and stuck them into her low-cut blouse. "Are you sure?"
"I'm absolutely sure. Moose likes to knock people around, and he does a good job of it. Nobody talks about him to strangers."
"Give me an old address, a telephone number even. I won't tell where I got it."
Trudy fished between her large breasts and pulled the bills out. She stroked the wrinkles out of them. "I haven't seen him in several months, maybe even a year. Honest. And I never knew any address. He came around here from time to time, that's all."
"He had a name, didn't he?"
"I thought you were a pal of his. Pals know each others names." She threw the bills at me and they fluttered to the floor. "You don't even look like a friend of his. You look too honest. Pick up your bribe and beat it."
Negotiation having failed, I tried a more direct approach. I pushed back my coat so that she could see the Luger nestled in its leather sheath. "I want a name, Trudy."
She licked her lower lip. "You a cop?"
"No, just a man looking for Moose."
"Jones is his name." She laughed nervously. "You probably don't believe me, but it's the honest-to-God truth. His name is Edward Jones. And that's all I can tell you."
"Thanks," I said as I walked to the door. "You can keep the bribe."
I waited outside the house for three hours, slumped down in the car seat and trying to look inconspicuous. I was about ready to flunk myself on character analysis when Trudy finally appeared and flagged a taxi.
Carter, I thought, it's a good thing you aren't a trusting soul.
I took off behind the cab, which led me across town to a cheap apartment house. I followed Trudy inside in time to spot her darting up a flight of stairs. At the end of a long hallway, the busty blonde knocked on a door. When she got no reply, she knocked harder. Then she turned and saw me and her eyes widened in astonishment.
"Your story didn't have the ring of truth," I told her, "but I got my money's worth. You led me here."
"Clever as hell, aren't you?" she spat.
I tried the door. "Apparently Moose isn't home. What do you suggest we do about that?"
She ran for the next flight of stairs. I pursued her to the roof and cornered her. She fought and scratched my face, tried to knee me in the groin, and called me some names I hadn't heard in years. Considering my widely varied travels, that was saying quite a lot for her vocabulary.
I pulled her wrists behind her and forced her over to the edge of the roof. "Now let's hear the truth about Moose."
"You won't push me off. He would, but you won't."
"Don't count on it, Trudy. Moose killed a friend of mine and beat a girl to death. I'm going to find him and I don't care what I have to do along the way."
She was panting. "Is that true, about the girl? Are you on the level?"
"The girl's name was Sheila. Did you ever hear Moose mention her?"
"Never. And I haven't seen him lately. He lived in that apartment when I knew him. I thought he'd like to know you were looking for him. That's the only reason I came. I swear it is."
"Does he call himself Edward Jones, or did you make that up?"
"He used the name when I knew him. He's probably used a dozen more. If you don't believe me, go back to the house and quiz the other girls. They'll tell you the same. He's a heist man. He boasted about having pulled some big capers."
I turned her loose. "All right."
"Can I go now?"
"Take off," I said.
Trudy looked back when she reached the stairway.
"He beat her to death?"
"Yeah," I said. My voice was hoarse.
I found the cheap lock on the apartment door easy to spring. The rooms were vacant and dust lay on the furniture. The last occupant had been gone for quite a while. I glanced around me disgustedly. I had hoped for more.
Company was waiting for me at the foot of the stairs. I tried not to show my surprise when I saw her.
"What you said put me to thinking," Trudy said.
"Did it?"
"About the girl, I mean. Was she your girl?"
"No," I said. "But she didn't deserve to die that way."
"I can't tell you any more about Moose than I already have. But I can give you another name. Are you clued in on the way heist men operate? If they have a big caper lined up and they need money to make the arrangements, they go to someone in the Mob or to a guy who finances heists for a cut of the loot. There's a man named Haskell in L.A. He's loaded with dough and lives like a solid citizen, but I heard Moose boast that he put up the money for some heists."
"Thanks, Trudy."
"Forget it. And I mean just that. Forget I told you."
The sign on Haskell's door said he was in real estate. The thick carpeting in the outer office indicated he made money at it, or at his moonlighting. His voluptuous secretary gave me a smile that was all teeth and no sincerity and told me Mr. Haskell saw no one without an appointment.
"How does one get an appointment?"
She showed her teeth again. She should have been advertising toothpaste. "If one doesn't know Mr. Haskell, one rarely does."
"I know Edward Jones," I said. "Will that do?"
She gathered up some papers and went in to drop the name to her boss in privacy. When she returned, she said Mr. Haskell was very busy today and as it happened, he'd never heard of Edward Jones.
"In other words, I should get lost."
The smile bloomed again, twenty-four karat this time. "You got it, buster."
A black Cadillac was sitting at the curb when I walked out of the building into the California sunshine. Behind the wheel was a uniformed chauffeur with a face like a second-story man.
I leaned down to speak to him when I passed the Caddy. "You shouldn't wear a tailored uniform. It makes the bulge under your arm stand out like a bump on a tire."