She lowered her lavender lenses. "You're not just testing
me?" Her eyes glimmered with a half-dozen more tears ready
with the slightest justification to leap free. "You really
aren't interested?"
I guessed her age at 16. Maybe younger. She hadn't been on the
street long. Crying one moment, laughing the next, subject to
the wicked sway of hormones that emotionally cripple most teenagers
- the wolves on the street would sniff her out soon enough. She
didn't have a clue and even less of a chance. I sucked down the
last of my coffee and stood. "You got it right, little sister.
It was a test. You passed."
The Rottweiler stood on his hind legs and barked when we stepped
from the café. I let him jump his paws to my shoulders
then pushed him down and untied the leash from the no-parking
sign. I felt bad about tying him up but the city sanitary codes
discriminate against dogs. Can't take one into a restaurant, no
matter how well behaved the dog or badly behaved the waiters.
"Aren't you afraid it'll bite somebody?" The girl asked.
I dropped the leash. The Rott leaped the door frame into the
old Cadillac convertible I drove, settling behind the wheel like
he thought I was going to let him steer. "He's only bit two
people in the three months I've owned him," I said.
The girl stood at the passenger door, afraid to open it.
"He bites?"
I pointed to the back seat. The Rott got the message and jumped
over the headrest. "Get in," I said. "If he bites
it won't hurt much."
The girl slid into the passenger seat, her eyes never leaving
the Rott. "A dog that big, it could take your head off."
"He could," I admitted. "If he had any teeth."
I started the engine and pulled into traffic. Café Anastasia
wasn't far from the beach. With luck Stonewell would be a fast
eater and I could grab his photo and be gone within the hour.
I asked, "Where you from?"
"Around here," she said.
I stared at her over the top of my shades, let her see I was
serious. I said, "Don't lie to me. I hate lies."
"Indiana."
Her face burned red. I proved I was tough enough to intimidate
a teenaged runaway, if nothing else.
"How many days you been in L.A.?"
"A couple."
"You sleeping rough?"
She leaned against the passenger door, as far away from me and
the dog as possible while remaining inside the car. Her survival
instincts weren't completely dead. "Somebody's taking care
of me," she said.
"Doesn't look like they're doing that great a job."
"That's none of your business, is it?"
I nodded. It wasn't. I curbed the Cadillac at the narrow strip
of green that forms Palisades Park, pointed to the public toilets
across the grass. "Wait for me there. When I've taken the
photo or at least confirmed your tip, I'll drop by to pay you."
I dipped into the side pocket of my leather jacket. "Here's
a twenty on advance."
She took the money and climbed out of the car.
Before she shut the door I said, "In case you're scamming
me and I never see you again, some advice. Be careful who you
trust, and never let a man talk you into sleeping with someone
for money."
She crossed her arms over her chest, looked away. "I'm not
scamming you."
"Good to hear it," I said. "But the advice holds
true anyway."
Only one parking valet worked the curb at the restaurant where
the girl said I'd find Stonewell and he didn't look overwhelmed
by traffic that late in the afternoon. I hopped out of my car
brandishing a cheap folding map, like a lost tourist. An unwritten
set of rules governs the paparazzi biz and one of the most important
is never to embarrass informants. Most of my tips come from waiters,
waitresses and parking valets. If I charge into a restaurant,
flash attachment firing, I burn my contacts. As I approached the
stand I flashed a twenty-dollar bill in my opposite hand, asked,
"Can you help me with directions?"
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