Debbie Doesn't Do It Anymore (9780385538398) Read Online Free PDF Page A

party at a music producer’s home in Laurel Canyon. When I walked through the open front door I found myself in an audience of about thirty people. Everyone was black except for little naked white Jolie on her knees giving up-and-comer Fat Phil Harmonik a very energetic blow job.
    The men in the room were mostly leering while the women sneered uncomfortably. I waited until the job was finished before taking Jolie by the hand and leading her around until we found a bathroom with a lock on the door.
    I could tell by her eyes that she was only partly aware of where she was and what she was doing, so I laid her in the bathtub and turned on the cold water of the overhead shower. She was so high that it took five seconds or so for the chill to take effect. When she started shivering I held her in place for a few seconds more and then pulled her from the tub.
    â€œHelp me, miss,” she said as I was drying her off.
    â€œDo you know where you are?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œDid somebody bring you here?”
    â€œThey must have but I don’t remember.”
    Someone banged on the door.
    â€œShe’s throwing up!” I yelled.
    Then I took out my cell phone and hit a special code.
    â€œHello, beauty,” he said on the second ring.
    â€œI need help.”
    â€œGive me the address and I’ll be there as soon as I swap out this passenger.”
    Forty-five minutes later I had the half-conscious child wrapped in a bathrobe. We were sneaking as best we could through the back of the house. From there we made it to a small gateway and down to the canyon road.
    Short, dark, and unmistakably South American, the Brazilian Leonidas Asimante stood next to a black Lincoln Town Car waiting for us.
    Once we were driving away I told him that I needed to take the girl (I had yet to learn her name) someplace where she could sober up.
    â€œI have a client who keeps a house at the beach in Malibu,” the flawless English–speaking driver said. “I look after it for him when he’s out of town. You two can stay the night if you want.”
    I sat up with Jolie until the distant ocean glinted orange. She vomited bile and cried, thanked me over and over, toldme her life story, and then fell so soundly asleep that she seemed dead, more so than in the photograph that Lieutenant Mendelson was showing me.
    In the afternoon Leonidas came with clothes I had him buy. We dressed her and drove her to a rooming house I knew of down around Venice Beach.
    â€œI have no idea who she is,” I said, answering Perry Mendelson’s query.
    A look of concern creased the policeman’s already doubtful visage.
    Lana put a cup of black coffee down in front of the detective.
    â€œWhat?” I asked.
    â€œExcuse me,” Lana said as she climbed over my lap to sit on the other side.
    â€œIt’s just that I find it hard to believe,” Perry said, “that a woman would have no idea how to at least find out what her husband is up to.”
    â€œYou want Theon’s cell phone?” I asked. “He never finished high school and didn’t even know how to spell the word
computer
. But maybe there’s a phone book in there somewhere.”
    â€œThat won’t help me if I don’t know a name.”
    â€œYou could just call every name until somebody doesn’t answer,” Lana offered.
    â€œWe don’t have that kind of manpower,” Perry said, taking her seriously. “I mean if this was a murder or something,but right now the worst is that it’s an underage runaway that died.”
    â€œIf she was underage like you say,” I offered, “and she died having sex with a mature man like my husband … you could construe that as some kind of homicide.”
    â€œYeah. Maybe second-degree manslaughter, I guess. But the chief of police and the city prosecutor wouldn’t want to use public funds in that manner. You weren’t here and so there’s no