Roscoe let out all his breath and closed his eyes, taking a few steps down the lane and watching the ball glide and float to the pins, taking out all but two. A little negro at the end of the lane cleared off the downed pins as Roscoe hunted for another ball out of the dozens shining and gleaming on a brass rack.

“Ma, how ’bout another sundae?”

She shook her head, the spoon still in her mouth.

He smiled over at the pair, finally ditching the depressing black they’d worn in the police court and now dressed like normal folks. Minta in a green-and-white print dress and Ma still in her housecoat she’d worn since running the servants from the kitchen and cooking a skilletful of bacon and eggs.

Roscoe chose a red ball, eyeing the two pins, and stood at the line. Holding the ball up, he took a single step before hearing the warning bark from Luke, and he stopped to see Frank Dominguez coming down the curved wrought-iron staircase into the basement.

He was alone, still dressed in his black suit and red scarf, a fat leather satchel at his side.

Luke continued to bark and jut in and out at Dominguez’s feet without ever really taking a bite. Dominguez coolly smiled and threw down a biscuit the butler had given him, and Luke wandered off to a corner.

Dominguez said hello to Minta and Ma and then took a seat at the parlor bar.

Roscoe put down the ball and walked behind the bar and started to make Dominguez a sundae without him asking. He made a hell of a one with three different scoops of ice cream and three different sauces with chopped nuts and fresh whipping cream. A few cherries to boot.

“When did you put this in?”

“Last year,” Roscoe said. “You want to bowl a game?”

He slid the sundae before Dominguez at the bar. Dominguez rested his satchel on the barstool next to him. He smiled to Roscoe, a really tired, worn-out-looking smile, as Roscoe cleaned out a couple dirty glasses in some sudsy water, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows.

“Any word from Fishback or Sherman?”

Roscoe shook his head.

“You’ve called them?”

“A million times,” Roscoe said. “Lowell’s still in New York. God knows what happened to Freddie. I even wrote the son of a bitch a letter when I was in jail.”

“The Pinkertons can’t find him either. They believe he skipped Los Angeles right after you were arrested.”

“Some friends.”

“We need ’em.”

“They’ll come around,” Roscoe said. “Hey, how’s that sundae?”

It remained untouched.

“Freddie Fishback was in that room right after the girl took ill. He could testify that the girl was too far gone to be making any dying accusation. He also moved her into the bath and could account for those bruises on her arms and legs.”

“People think I got the leprosy.”

“You’ll be back on the lot before the year’s out.”

“All my pictures have been yanked, Zukor has stopped paying me till further notice, and when I got back from Frisco I found most of my furniture had been repossessed. Did you see upstairs? We don’t have a place to sit. Lucky the bastards didn’t come down here or they woulda taken every last pin.”

“Let me handle Zukor,” Dominguez said. “We have a contract.”

“A million a year only if I work. How am I supposed to work if they won’t let me on the lot? They pulled Gasoline Gus and it had only been out five days. No wonder the picture didn’t show a profit. Those goddamn bastards.”

Dominguez looked down at his sundae and then up at Roscoe.

“You got anything stronger?”

“What’s eating you?”

Roscoe dipped his hand into the cooler and came out with a bottle of jackass brandy. He poured a generous amount into a coffee mug.

“They want to replace me.”

Roscoe laughed. “Who?”

“Zukor. Lasky. Paramount wants you to go with a bigger name. I think they’ve been going behind my back with that big swinging dick in Frisco. He’s the one who took on the Jack Dempsey mess.”

“’ Cause of that shimmy girl, Bee Whosis, who shacked up with him?”

“Yeah.”

“That was just a dumb case,” Roscoe said. “The girl’s beau sued Dempsey for theft of love.”

“But the newsboys like him and he’s local. Might make a difference with the jury.”

“You still sore at how that son of a bitch U’Ren kept calling you Señor Dominguez?”

“I’m just saying this fella, McNab, is local. You should do some thinking on this, Roscoe. Don’t get all loyal and stupid on me.”

Dominguez finished the brandy, picked up his satchel, and told Minta and Ma good day.

Roscoe followed Dominguez with his eyes as he twirled around the iron staircase and disappeared up into the mansion. Roscoe set Dominguez’s untouched sundae on the floor and whistled for Luke.

“Roscoe, you’re going to make him fatter than he already is,” Minta said.

Roscoe took a seat on the steps down to the bowling lane, eyeing those last two pins, and rolled a cigarette. He massaged Luke’s nub ears as the dog licked the glass clean and asked him, “What about you, boy? Can you see the future?”

THE ADDRESS WAS A BUST.

Sam read out another.

The cabbie U-turned and headed west on Sunset, away from the city, along the long, barren road, and then cut up toward the cool, dark hills and zigzagged up a rough-cut path.

The house was in the old Mission style, a big, fat adobe number built up a steep drive and surrounded by high shrubs and palms. The early-afternoon shadows showed a set of twin hills, and the air smelled of citrus.

The cab parked at the curb. Sam walked to the gate and stared up at the mansion. The day was cool, sky blue, and down below a bunch of men in overalls were digging a trough through an orange grove. Up a long, curving driveway, a butler washed a long Packard touring car.

Sam whistled to him from the gate.

The man didn’t hear him. Or pretended he didn’t.

Sam whistled again and the man stuck the brush back in a suds bucket and wandered down to the gate.

“Like to see Mr. Lehrman.”

“He ain’t here.”

“Tell him I’m a detective from San Francisco.”

“I don’t care if you’re the Emperor of Japan, he still ain’t here.”

“When will he be back?”

“Next week,” the man said. “Leave a card.”

Sam left a card and walked back down to the cab and told the cabbie to wait. On foot, he followed the wall of shrubs until there was a break and he found a wrought-iron gate.

The gate was unlocked.

Sam let himself inside and walked down a winding path through some exotic trees and bushes. There was hibiscus and lime. Lemon trees and palm. Flowers planted along a spindled alabaster wall and up a little staircase to behind the mansion.

Sam found three people sitting by a little round pool with a fountain in the center. Two men and a woman.

All were very naked.

Sam smiled and took off his hat.

“I guess I’m a bit overdressed.”

A man with tight slicked hair and a tiny mustache got to his feet. He was tall and bony and hairless and made no attempt to cover himself. He just wanted to know how the hell Sam had gotten into the garden.

“Let myself in,” Sam said. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Lehrman.”

“Please leave.”

“I came all the way from San Francisco.”

“Are you with the police?”

“I’m a detective,” Sam said.

“Please sit,” Henry Lehrman said, sweeping his hand to a small lacquered table bordered by four silk pillows. “Would you like some tea?”

“Sure.”

“I hope our nudity does not shock you,” Lehrman said. “We find it to be quite natural and nothing to be ashamed of. This is my home and we have our own customs.”

“I heard I was born that way.”

The woman remained seated by the pool, eating an apple. She was young, maybe not twenty, redheaded and freckled, her skin flushed with sun. Sam made a note of her form as she was introduced as Miss Leigh. She smiled at Sam and Sam smiled back, liking the smile and shape.