Another day, another moron. And to think, some people have to work for a living.

CHAPTER 12

The Hangar was a small, bright hole-in-the-fence-type bar wedged between a place that sold balsa-wood rocket kits and another place that repaired appliances. They were doing a pretty good lunch business when I got there, selling chili tacos and grilled sausages to people swilling down schooners of beer. Both of the bartenders were women in their fifties, and neither of them knew a blond guy named Steve who worked for Shell. I didn't expect that they would, but you never know. The older of the two women called me'sweetie.' The younger of the two didn't like it very much. Jealous.

I bought a grilled sausage with kraut, a schooner of Miller, and asked if they'd mind letting me use their phone book. The older one didn't, but the younger one warned me not to walk out with it. I assured them that I wouldn't. The younger one told me to be careful not to spill anything on it. The older one asked the younger one why she always had to make such a big thing, and the younger one said what if I ruined it? I assured them that I'd buy them a new phone book if I ruined the loaner. The older one said, 'Oh, don't you give it another thought, sweetie,' and the younger one went down to the far end of the bar and sulked.

Half the schooner later I had addresses for the nine Shell service stations located in the El Monte,' Baldwin Park,' West Covina area. I finished the sausage, thanked the older one for her help, and made the round of the Shell stations. At each stop I spoke to the manager or assistant manager, identified myself, and asked if a tall blond guy named Steve had worked there anytime in the past six months. At the first four stations I visited, the answer was no, but at the fifth station the manager said, 'You mean Pritzik?'

'Who's Pritzik?'

'We had a fellow named Steve Pritzik.' The manager was a Persian gentleman named Mr Pavlavi. He was short and round and stood in the shade of his maintenance center with his arms crossed. His maintenance center, like the rest of his service station, was polished and gleaming.

I said, 'Was he tall?'

'Oh, yes. Very tall.'

'Was he blond?'

'Oh, yes. Very blond.'

I said, 'Mr Pavlavi, is he employed here now?' Just because a tall blond guy named Steve worked here didn't mean it was the same tall blond Steve. Maybe it was just a coincidence.

Pavlavi frowned. 'Not in a very long while. He quit, you know. One day here, the next day not, never to return.' He sighed as if such things are the stuff of life, to be expected and therefore no great cause for anxiety or resentment.

'About how long ago was that?'

'Well,' he said. 'Let us see.'

He led me into the air-conditioned office and took a ledger from his desk. The ledger was filled with page after page of handwriting that, like the service station, was immaculate. 'Pritzik was last here exactly one hundred two days ago.'

'Hm.' Steve Pritzik had last been in four days before Susan Martin's murder.

'I owe him forty-eight dollars and sixteen cents, but he has not been in to collect. I will keep it for exactly one year, then give it to charity.'

'Mr Pavlavi, would you have an address on Pritzik?'

He did, and he gave it to me.

Steve Pritzik lived in one of a cluster of six small duplex cottages in an older neighborhood at the base of the Puente Hills, not far from the Pomona Freeway. The duplexes were single-story stucco and clap-board buildings stepping up the side of the hill and overgrown with original planting fruit trees and ivy and climbing roses.

I parked at the curb, then made my way up broken cement steps, looking for Pritzik's address. The steps were narrow, and the heavy growth of ivy and roses made them feel still more narrow. Pritzik's apartment was the western half of the third duplex up from the street. Each side of the cottage had its own little porch, separated by a couple of ancient orange trees and a trellis of roses. The eastern.porch was neat and clean and decorated by a small cactus garden. Pritzik's porch was dirty and unadorned, and his mailbox was heavy with letters and flyers. I rang the bell and could hear it inside, but no one answered. I listened harder. Nothing. I went to the mailbox and fingered through gas and phone and electric bills. They weren't addressed to Steve Pritzik; they were addressed to a Mr Elton Richards. Hmm. I walked around the orange trees and up onto the adjoining porch and rang the bell. You could hear music inside. Alanis Morissette.

A woman in her late twenties opened the door. 'Yes?' She had long dark hair and great floppy bangs and she was wearing cutoff jeans under an oversized man's T-shirt. The T-shirt was blotched with small smears of color. So were her hands.

I gave her the card and introduced myself. 'I'm trying to find a guy named Steve Pritzik. I think he lives or used to live next door.'

She read the card and grinned. 'Are you really a private eye?'

'Pretty amazing, huh?'

She grinned wider and nodded. 'Cool.'

'You know Pritzik?'

She offered the card back, but I raised a hand, telling her to keep it. 'I don't think so. Elton lives next door.'

'Is Elton tall and blond?'

'Oh, no. He's short and kinda dark.' Ah. She rolled her eyes. 'He's such a creep. He's always hitting on me, so I try to avoid him.'

'I was just over there, and it looks like Elton hasn't been around.' I told her about the mail.

She pushed her hands in her pockets. 'You know, now that I think about it, I haven't seen him in a while. I haven't heard his TV or anything.'

'You think he might've moved?'

'I don't know.'

'Can you give me a guess how long he's been gone?'

She scrunched her face, thinking. 'Couple of months, maybe.'

'Between three and four months?'

She waffled her hand. 'He's just such a creep I try to duck him. Sorry.'

I said, 'You ever see a tall blond guy hanging around with him?'

She frowned.

'Maybe four months ago.'

She was swaying with Alanis, then she kind of cocked her head. 'You know, I think maybe there was a guy like that. Elton had such scuzzy friends.' She nodded, then, starting to see it. 'Yeah. There was this blond guy.' She nodded harder, the image pulling into focus. 'Oh, yuck, what an asshole. He sees me on the street and follows me up the walk one day. He asks me if I want to go inside and fuck, just like that. Oh, yuck. I think he worked at a gas station or something.'

I nodded.

'All of Elton's friends were like that. Real lowlifes.' She suddenly put out her hand. 'I'm Tyler, by the way.'

'Hi, Tyler.' We shook, and I gave her the big smile. 'Can I ask you something?'

'Sure.' She smiled back, anxious to hear what I was going to ask. Alanis was really tearing it up inside.

'I'm thinking about popping Elton's door and sneaking in to look around. You wouldn't call the police if I did that, would you?'

Her smiled grew wider as I said it. 'No way! Could I come, too?'

I shook my head. 'Then if we're caught, we're both in trouble, you see?'

She looked disappointed. Behind her, Alanis stopped singing and Tyler pulled a hand out of her pocket long enough to brush at the bangs. They were pretty incredible. 'You really know how to pick locks and stuff?'

I'm a full-service professional, Tyler.'

She stared at me for a few seconds and then she crossed her arms. She looked out from under her bangs at me. 'And just what kind of service do you provide?'

'I've got a girlfriend. Sorry.'

Tyler stared at me from under the bangs for another couple of seconds, then uncrossed her arms and looked at my card again. 'Yeah, well. If I ever need anything detected, maybe I'll call.'