Potshot

We shook hands and he gestured me to a seat. "Karl Adams," he said. "You're looking for Jerome Jefferson."

Adams was about my height, and lean. He looked like retired military.

"I am," I said.

"We are too," Adams said. "He owes us six months' rent. What's your interest?"

"I'm trying to see what his co

My card was lying on Adams's desk. He glanced down at it.

"In Boston?" he said.

"Town called Potshot," I said. "In the desert."

"Long way from home," Adams said.

"Anywhere I hang my hat."

"Yeah sure," he said.

He paused and was thoughtful for a small time. Then he said, "Don't see why not."

"Me either."

"I'll tell you what I know," Adams said. "And if you were to find him, I'd appreciate a jingle."

"Seems fair to me," I said.

"After he skipped out of the place on Las Palmas, we figure he moved in with his girlfriend on Franklin Avenue. So we went up there but she says she's broken up with him and hasn't seen him and never wants to see him again."

"You believe her?"

"No. So we put somebody up there for a couple days but there was no sign of him."

"Round the clock?" I said.

"Hell no. We don't have the manpower for real surveillance."

"So if he didn't come and go between nine and five you wouldn't know if he was there."

"Correct."

"You got much experience skip tracing?"

"Financial compliance," Adams said. "Says so on my door."

"Sure," I said.

"I'm retired Navy," Adams said. "Intelligence. I got a lower budget here."

"You got a name and address for the girlfriend?" I said.

"Yeah."

He took one of his business cards out of a small container on his desk and wrote on the back.

"Here you go," he said. "You need directions?"

"No," I said. "I've screwed up cases out here before."

Chapter 29

THE GIRLFRIEND'S NAME Was Carlotta Hopewell. She had a small clapboard house with an overhanging roof on the front porch. The house was in Hollywood, where it crouched among the apartment buildings on Franklin Avenue between Gower and Vine. The yard needed work, and some of the white paint was peeling from the clapboards. As I walked up the front walk, a woman who must have been watching out the window opened the door and stepped out onto the front steps. She had a glass of white wine in her hand and she smelled strongly of it.

"May I help you?" she said.

Her lips were pouty and her face was puffy. She had loud blond hair and not much muscle tone. She was wearing shorts and a short tank top that stopped several inches above her navel. Her body was pale and soft-looking.

"Carlotta Hopewell?"

"Yes?"

"I'm looking for a man named Jerome Jefferson:"

"I'm not him."

"Good," I said. "That's helpful. It narrows the search."

"Hey you're kind of fu

"But I have a serious side. Is Jerome staying with you?"

"Naw."

She swirled her wine a little.

"But you know him," I said.

"Maybe. You want some wine?"

"Yes, thank you," I said.

She opened the screen door and we went in. Ah, memories of things past. There was a rough woven orange rug on the floor of her living room, and a huge picture of Prince covering most of the wall above a brown suede couch. There was a brown beanbag chair, and an angular black metal chair with a white canvas sling to sit in. A hall went off to my left, and through an open archway beyond the suede couch I could see the kitchen.

"Please have a seat," she said. "I'll get you some wine."

She was gone for a minute and when she came back she was carrying a big jug of white wine and a glass. There was a marble-top coffee table in front of the couch, the marble marked with a large number of circular stains where glasses had been set down without coasters. She set my glass and hers on the coffee table and poured me some wine, and some for herself, holding the jug in both hands. There was no air-conditioning and the bottle was already begi

"Good times," she said.

"So," I said, "tell me about Jerome."

"Why?"

I didn't want to appear unsociable; I drank a little more of the jug wine. My shirt was already begi

"He and I are supposed to do a little, ah, business."

I smiled what I hoped was a cryptic smile. Susan had told me that sometimes my cryptic smile shaded off into a leer, which had shaken my confidence in it. But this time it seemed to work.

"Business?" she said.

"Yes. Him and Tino. They told me to come here."

"You know Tino?"

"Sure."

She had finished her wine already and was pouring another large, clumsy dose from the jug. When she leaned forward I could see that she wore no bra, which was much more information than I really wanted.

"Tino and Jerome and I were supposed to do a piece of business," I said, "for Jerome's boss, what'sisname?"

Carlotta was looking at me speculatively over her wine glass. Sweat added sheen to her forehead and glimmered faintly on her upper lip.

"Mister Ta

"Yeah, Ta

"Anyone ever tell you that you're a cutie?" Carlotta said.

"Jerome and Tino just said that last night."

She smiled automatically and drank some wine. "Well you are, and don't you just know it."

"When do you expect Jerome back?" I said.

"He went to the beach for a few days," she said. "You ever fool around?"

"No. I always mean it," I said.

"Maybe you oughta," she said.

I would have been more flattered if I had the sense that she didn't proposition everyone she met. And if she wasn't drunk. And, the ugly sexist truth of the matter, if her thighs weren't flabby.

"You know where Mr. Ta

"Lives? How the hell would I know where he lives? You think he invites me and Jerome over for cocktails? I never even met him."

"But he's in L.A. someplace," I said.

She drank some wine and nodded.

"Me and Jerome never get invited anyplace. We eat cheap, we drink cheap, we live in this dump and Jerome don't even pay the rent."

She began to tear up.

"Wasn't for my alimony check we couldn't even live like we do," she said.

Her wine glass was empty. She did another twohanded pour from the jug and spilled some of it on the coffee table and began to cry.

"You wa

"Anyone would," I said. "But I can't."

"Why not?"

I made a cryptic gesture and smiled a cryptic smile and stood up. When I did I could see myself in the oval mirror that hung over the gas log fireplace on the far wall. My cryptic smile was not very convincing. It looked a little panicky. My face was sweaty. If I did not know and admire the owner, it was not a face I'd like very much.