That sent a charge through her. She snapped her fingers toward one of the lion tamers without taking her eyes off of mine. “Do you see a likeness?"

  "I see a lot that I likeness."

  She seemed confused for a moment, then cooed and picked up one of the twin double shots of whiskey that had magically appeared at her elbow. I reached in close to pick up mine. Her breath swept over my neck like the first hot gusts that the Santa Anas send as a warning.

  I tossed back the double shot. It hadn't come from the top shelf. My throat burned. I smiled through it with a sneer.

  Lana tossed hers back, leaving off both the smile and the sneer. “Thanks. How ‘bout another?"

  I felt warm inside. “Sure.” She started to snap her fingers again, but I covered her hand with mine. The move took me in close. She looked alarmed, but not panicked. “First I have a question for you. If you answer it right, you get that drink."

  She nodded, her lips apart, her breath coming a little faster, the Santa Anas building.

  "I'm looking for a friend. An old war buddy from the Sixth Armored by the name of Tommy Parrish. Know him?"

  Her eyes darted toward the far corner of the section of booths, then came back to mine cold and distant. The Santa Anas had died out. She pulled her hand away from mine. “Never heard of him."

  I stared hard at her. She stared back.

  The silence got to her. “Besides,” she said, doing her version of the icy Lana in The Postman Always Rings Twice, “one drink is my limit."

  I could have pressed her for more information, but I'd always liked the Santa Anas and the sense of unease and excitement that followed in their wake. I wanted them to blow again.

  "Thanks, Lana.” I grabbed her hand again and wrapped her fingers around a ten-spot. “Keep the change."

  Her lips parted in Lana-like surprise, but no words came out.

  I left her there, her fingers weighing the scratch in her hands, her eyes weighing the darkness that lingered in the corner of one of the Palms’ simmering booths.

  * * * *

  Like a bookie collects bets, the alley behind the Palms collected loneliness. Even though a few stray vagrants drifted by as I waited, I never felt the presence of life. The only palpable presence among the trash cans and broken glass was a late-night heat and humidity that compressed the lingering stale air into an invisible solid. Air that nearly had to be swallowed. Beyond the alley, lightning flashed soundlessly in the towering gray clouds that could be seen above the black, jagged silhouette of skid-row rooftops. A rat scrambled over my foot. The first sign of life.

  I'd been staking out the alley, buried in the shadows of a secondstory fire escape, since I'd left the Palms. Lana had confirmed with her eyes that Tommy Parrish was in a booth. But I didn't go over to him, because he would have known that Lana had given him up. People pay a hard price for giving someone up. I didn't have the heart to do that to her. But I also figured she'd tell him that I was looking for him. And I knew he wouldn't want to be found. It was for just such a situation that bars had back doors.

  Maybe twenty minutes had passed when the back door to the Palms pushed open and a man stepped out, his posture strong but wary. He took his time surveying the alley. He wore dark pants and a dark long-sleeved shirt. His hair was short, wavy, and dark, and his face was shadowed by a couple of days’ stubble. As his head turned my way, I was close enough to see even in the dim light that it was Parrish. Time had done nothing to straighten the crook in his nose.

  He moved quickly but carefully past me, keeping close to the brick walls, never thinking to look up. Each step he took was a blend of confidence and wariness. He reminded me of a G.I. going house to house in Anzio.

  Once he turned the corner of the alley, I swung over the railing and climbed down the ladder to where I could manage a short drop. I reenacted my own memories of Anzio, moving with cautious speed down the alley to the sidewalk.

  Out on the streets, Tommy gained the full measure of his confidence. He strode with his shoulders square in a way that seemed to invite trouble. I followed him down Washington Avenue until he stopped at an unmarked door. I ducked into a recessed storefront as he looked both ways before pulling the door open. It was on a heavy spring and slammed shut behind him.

  There are times, as a P.I., when you are confronted with two choices: wait for the prey to come back out, or follow the prey into an unfamiliar, potentially dangerous building. One makes perfect sense, the other doesn't. Most people would choose the former. P.I.s, by necessity, choose the latter. If we didn't go in, the only things we'd discover by waiting outside would be that every building has a back door and that the prey is long gone. The only thing that can keep us out is a lock. And even that's more of a detour than a barrier.

  I tried the knob of the nameless door. No detour would be necessary.

  A long, narrow stairway led up to another unmarked door on the second floor. It was locked. Next to the jamb hung a round buzzer. I gave it the finger and heard a short ring beyond the door.

  A wooden chair scraped on a wooden floor and a rectangle slid open on the door at eye level. Whatever goon had opened the peephole had a thick brow and eyes that were as blank as the wooden block he had removed. He regarded me as if I were overripe fruit.

  "Beat it. We're closed."

  "Then why answer the door?"

  Brutus hadn't expected such a puzzler, and it was obvious that his toughness made up for his lack of intelligence.

  "I think your watch stopped,” I said. Then I held up a ten-spot. “Get it fixed."

  His dull black eyes flicked down at the lettuce between my fingers, then back up at me. He had some heavy thinking to do. Did I look like trouble? Would the boss have a conniption if I was let in? Could I cost him his job? Was ten bucks worth the risk?

  It was.

  He held his fingers up to the peephole. I fed them.

  The lock snapped and the door backed open. His office was a vestibule of peeling green wallpaper, a battered wood floor, a wooden chair wearing his suit coat, and a silver smoking stand stuffed with butts. Brutus was bending over, stuffing the money into his sock. When he stood up, he had a buzzcut and the thick neck and battered face of a former boxer gone to seed. His white dress shirt, black tie, and black slacks were wrinkled and all a size too small, but the .45 in a shoulder holster under his arm looked smooth as silk and larger than life.

  I started toward the third unmarked door of the night, toward whatever illicit activity required three doors, one of them locked, an armed doorman, and a bribe to get in, but Brutus grabbed my arm and gave it a viselike squeeze. “Don't do nothing to make me regret this."

  "Don't worry,” I said. “You'll respect me in the morning."

  He let go and I opened the door to a large room that made me feel like a corpuscle: red carpet, red velvet chairs, red walls, and wall sconces draped with red scarves. Half a dozen dealers wearing red suits and ties stood at red felt-covered gaming tables, dealing to maybe two dozen desperate gamblers who, under the crimson light, looked covered in blood. I glanced down at my gray suit. It looked bloody too.

  Smoky music, cracked in places, drifted over the busy room. It took me a second to recognize the singer: Billie Holiday. Pain whittled down to a voice. A sleepless soul lost in the loneliness of “Lover Man."

  Tommy Parrish had found an open stool at a table in the middle of the room and was sneering at the dealer. Three other men at the table hid in the safety that came with keeping their eyes on their chips. I wandered over to within earshot. The dealer, whose face was a collection of sharp angles that ended in a V-shaped chin and who still carried signs of acne both old and new, was explaining something Parrish didn't want explained.

  "I cannot give you any chips. You need to see Mr. St. Clair."

  Parrish rose and leaned toward the dealer.

  "You'll need to see Mr. St. Clair.” The dealer's voice was beginning to shake.

  "Then get him over here where I can see him."

  "He works behind that window.” He pointed a shaky finger toward a caged window cut into a red wall at the back. The word “Cashier” written in elegant neon script hung over it like an arched eyebrow.

  Parrish grabbed the dealer by the knot of the dealer's red tie. “You get him."

  There was no need. St. Clair was already halfway to the table. He had a face that looked like it had been carved from butter, thick and pale and slightly marbled. His hair was slicked back and his red suit was adorned with a white rose that looked pink in this light. He carried with him a frustrated manager's smile that fought the urge to turn mean. “Hands off the dealer, Parrish."

  Parrish looked at St. Clair but didn't let go. “This pinhead won't give me any chips."

  St. Clair stopped a good five feet from Parrish. One hand was deep in the pocket of his red suit jacket. “Mr. Baird gives out the cards. I give out the chips. You know that."

  Parrish smiled without any help from his eyes, which made it a threat. “But I don't have to like it."

  "Show me the cash and I'll give you your chips."

  Parrish let go of Baird's tie and squared up to St. Clair. “Ever heard of credit?"

  "Not since you walked in the door."

  I saw Parrish inflate like a cornered animal. He clenched a fist and raised it just enough to be noticed. “Want me to show you what it looks like?"

  St. Clair's arm tensed, the one that ended in his sagging coat pocket.

  "I'll cover it,” I said as I pulled out my wallet and withdrew a twenty. I looked at Parrish. “That enough?"

  Parrish looked at me as if I'd interrupted his punch line. This was the first time I got a look at the dead eyes the Pope had described. Whatever part of him had looked scared in the old photograph I had of him was no longer visible. All that came through now was unmasked contempt. His gaze rolled over me with all the compassion of a German Panzer, finally settling on the double sawbuck in my hand. “Forty."

  I pulled out three more twenties and handed all of it to St. Clair. “Forty for both of us."

  St. Clair held his stiff pose for a moment, then weakened. He tried to hide it, but I spotted the relief that snuck across his face. “Forty each. Yes, sir."

  Parrish dropped back onto his red stool. His wavy black hair looked greasy but unruffled.

  St. Clair looked at the man sitting next to Parrish. “Carl, you've been here long enough. Go home."

  Carl, who looked like a well-dressed, churchgoing politician with a predilection for sin, gladly gathered his handful of chips and headed for the caged window. The two others at the table followed suit.

  St. Clair pointed at the now vacant stools and smiled at me. “A table has opened up for you, sir."

  I nodded and took my place next to Parrish. His eyes were focused on the red felt table as if he were staring into a pool of his own blood. He rested his forearms on the edge. The cuffs of his dark shirt were frayed. “What do you want from me?"

  I stared into my own blood on the table. “Nothing."

  "A man wants something when he throws around money like it's trash and asks after somebody who doesn't want to be found."

  "It's not me that wants something. It's your old man."

  Parrish didn't move.

  St. Clair brought out a rack of chips to Baird, who was using a handkerchief to wipe off his forehead and his palms. The dealer then stacked two equal towers of chips in front of each of us. I wasn't sure Parrish had heard me.

  "It's your old man,” I said.

  "I ain't deaf,” he snapped. “Deal."

  Baird tried to control the shakes that seemed to have become permanent, but failed. His hand shook as he picked up a pearlhandled letter opener and tried to cut the seal on a new deck of cards. He nearly slit his own wrists. When he finally tried to deal blackjack to us, both of Parrish's cards landed faceup. He had a pair of jacks.

  Parrish rose from his stool. “Goddamn it, you sonofabitch. You just cost me money.” He reached across and slapped Baird full on the cheek. Baird stumbled sideways from the force of the blow and whimpered. His knees nearly buckled. “Next time I'm gonna use a fist."

  "We can play it out,” I said.

  "No.” He brushed the cards back at Baird and sat down.

  We waited for Baird to compose himself and the cards.

  "He's dying,” I said.

  Parrish's jaw pulsed as he stared at the dealer.

  Baird fumbled the cards, sending some towards us and others to the floor. This time Parrish rose and used his fist. Baird went over like a tree and hit the floor hard as blood spurted from his nose. He tried to push it back in with his hands but it oozed out between his fingers. A wet, spreading stain began to darken his crotch.

  St. Clair rushed from his cage and tended to Baird. He glared at Parrish but said nothing. Apparently the Pope was the only skid-row proprietor with enough sand to kick Tommy Parrish out.

  Parrish sat down. “Dying of what?"

  "I don't know. Dan didn't say."

  "Dan.” He said it with surprise and disgust, as if his brother was someone he'd disliked but had forgotten about until now.

  "Dan's a hell of a cop,” I said.

  Parrish actually chuckled, most of it through his nose.

  "I'm sure he is."

  Up close to Parrish I could see the bags under his eyes. The dark circles. The shadows that lived inside his skin. They gave me an idea of how to reach him, of what we had in common.

  "I was in the war, too. Third Battalion, 157th Regiment, U.S. 45th. I saw Anzio and Dachau.” I let that hang out there for a minute.

  I knew he wouldn't talk about it. I didn't want to talk about it either. But I knew I had to. Not because I had a job to do. My reasons went far beyond that.

  "I hate sleep,” I said as I rubbed my suddenly tired eyes. “I hate it because I never sleep alone. It's those goddamned faces. Coming at me every night. Like a carnival sideshow. Emaciated, hollow faces.” My voice began to shake. “Bodies contorted. People I never knew. Faces without names. Each one different. Each one. The same."

  I had to stop. My hands had started to tremble. Parrish noticed but said nothing. His hands were clasped together, fingers interlaced, knuckles white with the strain.

  For a minute we both just tried to breathe.

  "He's dying. He wants to see you."

  Parrish turned on me, leaned in close. His whiskers looked prickly and his breath smelled of stale cigarettes. His black eyes barely contained a contempt that bordered on rage. I suddenly understood how Baird could wet himself. “Just because someone knocks, doesn't mean I have to answer the door. Now leave me alone."

  He stood up and moved to the cashier's window. I followed. After he collected my forty bucks and stuffed it in his pants pocket, he turned and poked a finger into my chest. “Get the hell away from me.” He started to leave but stopped. He kept his eyes on the door. “Just get the hell away from me.” Then he shook his head and left.

  I cashed out and followed him, but by the time I reached the street he had disappeared. As I stood on the sidewalk, Baird burst through the door, holding his bloody nose with a bloody hand, spluttering and gasping as he pushed past me and ran down Washington Avenue. His feet slapped at the pavement as he plunged deeper into the heart of skid row. I wondered where he'd end up, just how deep into the heart of skid row all that rage and fear and humiliation would take him.

  * * * *

  I found Lana as she was leaving the Palms. She didn't act happy to see me.

  "Go away, Nash.” She wouldn't look at me. Her eyes stayed focused on the street. It was the seasoned look of the hunted, like a rabbit just out of the woods surveying an open field.

  "You remembered my name.” I tried to make it sound like a good thing.

  "It's not hard.” She gave me an up-from-under look. “Every time I see you I GNASH my teeth."

  I answered her with a verbal rimshot. She softened with a reluctant smile.

  The silent lightning I'd seen from the alley as I'd waited for Parrish to leave the Palms had found its voice. The thunder came and went at varying decibels, as if someone was fiddling with the volume control. The wind had picked up and carried with it the cool, metallic omen of rain. Flashes lit up the surrounding buildings and pavement of skid row. I thought of God trying to get a picture for his own Lost Wall, not of vagrants but of whole streets. Whole neighborhoods. Lana glanced up at the looming clouds with the same wariness she showed for the street.

  "How was the third show?"

  She flicked the back of her hand toward the Palms. “They're just a bunch of animals.” She gave me a sideways glance. Like all her gestures and glances, it was straight out of a Lana Turner picture. “What do you want, Nash?"

  "I talked to Parrish."

  Her eyebrows arched. “And you're still alive? You must be a real sweet-talker."

  "No.” I thought about saying more, but I couldn't think of anything to say. Anything she'd really understand.

  "So what do you want from me?"

  "His address."

  "You were talking to him. Why didn't you ask him yourself?"

  "I didn't get the chance."

  She propped her hands on her hips and eyed me like I was a sidewalk preacher hawking redemption. “Why should I trust you?"

  I nodded toward the Palms. “Because I'm not like those other animals."

  She thought about that for a moment. I felt a small ripple of pride that she didn't laugh in my face.

  "The Minnesotan.” She used a quick tilt of her head to indicate a brown brick hotel looming over the far corner across the street. It fronted on Washington Avenue with twin five-story wings in the shape of a U and columns of windows bracketed by beige pilasters. An enormous neon sign stood high above the roof blazing out in red letters: THE MINNESOTAN HOTEL. And below that, glowing in cool green, maybe its biggest—and least verifiable—selling point: FIREPROOF. A marquee sign over the single-floor lobby that linked the two wings advertised the “Panther Room” in red. Among the dozens of wooden, three-story firetraps masquerading as flophouses, The Minnesotan was a step up, but I wasn't sure by how much.

  "Room three-sixteen,” she said as she fiddled with an earring. “It ain't no secret."