The Big Enchilada

information.”
    “How about somebody who works at the club?”
    “Great! Can he provide anything to support the story?”
    “Photos of the famous enjoying the club’s facilities.”
    “No shit?”
    “No shit. But you’ll have to come up with some money. A fair amount considering what this will do to your circulation.” I had a couple of reasons for doing this. Newspapers, like everyone else, place a greater value on what they have to pay a lot for than on what they get for nothing. Also, though I knew I could get Faro to cooperate, I wanted him to be at least willing. His game at the Black Knight was almost played out, and if I could give him a stake so he could get out of town, he might be more helpful.
    Ace thought the request was reasonable but said he’d have to get authorization from the higher-ups. I told him to get on with it and to keep the next afternoon free. I’d make the necessary arrangements, and we would get together with the source at that time.
    I hung up. I could feel that my lips were twisted into a grin. There were some people that might not find it a comforting expression.
    I called the cop shop and asked for Watkins. Instead, I got Burroughs, his partner. Burroughs didn’t know where Watkins was. Charlie was taking a couple of days off—said he was onto something that might be big, but he wanted to check it out on his own, that he needed to come up with something to compensate for his screw-ups. Burroughs said he tried to get more information, but Watkins just acted mysterious. Did I know what it was about? Why should I? I said. Burroughs said that Watkins had mentioned my name. Fucking Charlie, that was all I needed!
    I told Burroughs I’d call later. He didn’t sound enthusiastic. He didn’t much care for me. It happens.
    There was no answer at Watkins’s home. Damn.
    I looked at my watch. There was still some shit I wanted to stir up before the afternoon ended.
    I told Maria to buy some more things, only this time to get some clothes that weren’t so prudish. We were going to Mexico, not fucking Buckingham Palace. I said it looked like we might be leaving pretty soon. Her eyes gleamed.

FIFTEEN

    My first shit-kicking stop was a crummy, windowless warehouse off of Santa Monica. The sign on the door said Mound of Venus Films, Starr Monroe, Producer. I had been there once before looking for Linda Perdue. I hadn’t gotten anything from Monroe then, but that time I hadn’t realized there was a connection between Venus Films and the Black Knight. Maybe this time would be better.
    You stepped through the front door into a ten-by-ten cubicle that had been partitioned off from the rest of the warehouse with two-by-fours and plasterboard. They hadn’t even bothered to paint the plasterboard, and the manufacturer’s name, repeated at intervals, was the only decoration in the room. Impressive.
    There were a pair of flimsy metal folding chairs that didn’t look very trustworthy and a cheap, phony wood desk. Behind the desk sat a plump, gray-haired woman reading a copy of Variety. She wore a balloony, floral print dress from the ’40s that was partially covered by a faded gingham apron. She looked like everybody’s grandmother until you noticed the hard glint in her eye. The thin cigarillo that dangled from her lips didn’t help much either.
    “I want to see Monroe,” I said, standing in front of the desk.
    She looked up appraisingly. “Are you the new beef?”
    “No.”
    “Too bad. You look like you might have potential. Are you well hung?”
    “I’m not here for a job. I want to see Monroe.”
    “Can’t. Starr’s busy. Shove off, toots.” She turned back to the copy of Variety.
    I leaned over the desk. “What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?”
    “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    “I just wondered.”
    “I like to help out. I’m Starr’s mother.” It figured. “Starr and me are going places. Right to the top.” Christ!
    “I’ll give you some advice. If you don’t want to spend your golden years in the slammer, dump the son of a bitch.”
    “Who the fuck do you think you are, asshole?” She glared at me.
    “I’m the guy that’s going to put him there unless he cooperates. Now, I’ll go and see him.”
    I was past the desk and through the rear door before she could say more than “Hey!”
    The warehouse was large and wrapped in darkness except for a circle of bright lights off to one side. I crossed to this, being careful not