Thursday
"Did you meet Fernando? He´s from Brazil!" The elderly lady with the golden hair asked me and pointed at the Valet. This really was an old school joint, I could tell. But I was squeezed for time and didn´t have time to chitchat. The heat was closing in, I could smell it. I needed a break fast, or my days as an investigator would end before they´d even started. This broad was like something out of a Joan Collins novel only with a few rolls of flab and a receding hairline.
"Listen I said", with as much intimidation as I could muster. "I need to find Mickey Cohens missing H. And I need to do as of right freckin now". My heart was pounding.
"My daughter never did heroin, you know" the lady answered, narrowing down the large field of suspects only slightly.
"Thanks, I said". This interrogation was going nowhere.
"My daughter is Paris Hilton, you know". I didn´t but wasn´t in the least surprised.
"You need to run a tighter ship mam. That daughter of yours is a mess. She needs straightening out she does." I needed to retain authority.
"No, Paris is a good girl. She works really hard you know." The lady, who introduced herself as Kathy took another long drag at her Marlboro Red.
"She is out of control. You have to step in. You´re here mother for Petes sake." I figured if I´d lean on her long enough she´d give in.
Instead I was approached by an elderly man with a tanned handsome face and a glowing set of hair straight out of an episode of Loveboat.
"I´m Rick, he said", his firm gaze suggesting that he meant it.
"Nice to meet you Rick."
I had already laid eyes on Janice Dickson, the train wreck ex model. By the look of her eyes and shaky posture, she most likely had a much better idea of where to find the sunset kingpins stolen goods. I prayed to god I could break her.
Inga kommentarer:
Skicka en kommentar