The Big Enchilada

would be a lot harder.
    I shoved the picture in his face. “You still don’t remember?”
    “Oh, her.” He was nervous, but he was disguising it pretty well. “Is that the one? I didn’t recognize her from the picture you showed me. She had clothes on. Anyway, I can’t remember every cheap hooker who comes through here. What difference does it make?”
    “It might make a difference to some people if you use minors in sex films.”
    “Would it?” He laughed. “Besides, she told me she was eighteen.”
    “And you believed her?”
    “Why not? Who’s got time to check? I got movies to make. There’s a big demand for my pictures. What am I supposed to do, ask to see a birth certificate? All I want to see is a pair of tits and a cunt.”
    “That’s an attitude that’s going to get you in trouble. Haven’t you heard? They’re coming down on kiddy porn.”
    “Yeah? I’m not worried,” he said. “It’s all taken care of. It’s all fixed, and you won’t be able to unfix it.”
    “Maybe not, but I bet I could provide a few embarrassing moments for you and your friends—and your friends wouldn’t like it.”
    He thought for a minute. “Okay. The girl was here. She made a couple of pictures. She left. That’s a wrap.”
    “Where’d she go?”
    “How do I know? You think I keep track of all the meat that comes through here? Does the butcher know where every steak he handles goes?”
    “You passed her on to the Black Knight.”
    He jingled his chains. “I told you, I never heard of it. You got that place on the brain.”
    “What do you do, pimp for the club? You see good talent coming through here, you send it along? I know you’re connected to the club.”
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Rattle, rattle, rattle.
    “Who do you work for at the club? Who runs this operation?”
    “I run it.” Jingle, jingle.
    “You couldn’t run an electric train. No, you’re tied to the club, but the club doesn’t run it. Of course! There’s the same guy behind both operations.”
    “You’re crazy, man.” Rattle, jingle, rattle.
    I took a shot: “You tell Domingo I’m going to send all of you down the tubes.”
    At the mention of Domingo, the hand stopped playing with the chains, and Monroe’s eyes opened wide. I’ve got to hand it to him, he recovered pretty quickly, but the instant of recognition was there. “Who’s Domingo?”
    “No one.”
    I could have pushed further, but it was liable to be counter-productive. I made a couple of good guesses, and Monroe thought I knew more than I did. If I carried on, I probably wouldn’t get anything more out of him, but he might find out I was bluffing. No, I’d leave it. He was jumpy, and the word would go up the line pretty quickly.
    I walked out of the office and through the warehouse. Muscles still hadn’t moved.
    Mother Monroe glared at me from her desk. I saw the light flash on that showed one of the telephone lines was in use. Monroe didn’t waste any time. I considered picking up the phone and saying something cute, but somehow I didn’t want to wrestle the old woman for it. It looked like she’d fight dirty.

SIXTEEN

    As I drove across town I tried to think things through.
    The puzzle was starting to come together. The picture wasn’t clear, but I was beginning to get some idea of the pieces that were there.
    Domingo was the man behind Mound of Venus Films and the Black Knight Club, and there were other links between the two that I knew about—Linda Perdue and Faro to start with. Mountain had worked at the Black Knight. Did he now work for Domingo? Seemed likely. Domingo used the club to set up marks for blackmail. Acker was a member of the club. Was he being blackmailed? What did Domingo have on him? What was the price? Was he in fact even involved? And where did Linda fit in—if she fit in—and what happened to her?
    I began to see how I had gotten into all this. I was looking for the girl and touched on Venus Films in the process. At about the same time, Acker finds out I’m looking at him. They both lead back to Domingo, and Domingo starts to get nervous. Coincidence, sure, but lots of things are set off by meaningless coincidence. It made sense... and it didn’t. Considering what I had done, the warning I received seemed to be a real overreaction, and Domingo, whoever he was, didn’t seem like the kind to overreact. There obviously were still things I didn’t know about—that I’d overlooked or hadn’t