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to the drive. The German shepherd was gone. So was Allie. The other two were still on their backs. I said, “Allie get bored?”
    The one with the radio said, “She said she was hot. She went in to cool off.”
    The one with the little round glasses said, “What took you so long?”
    “Pit stop.” Elvis Cole, Man of a Thousand Lies. “You guys know Mark’s friend, Jennifer?”
    “Sure.”
    “She come around lately?”
    “Not for a couple of weeks, but she used to.”
    The one with the glasses said, “She’s so flat. I don’t know what he sees in her.”
    The one with the radio said, “Puh-lease, Brittany.” Brittany. Whatever happened to the women’s movement?
    I said, “Mark said he’s got another friend. Have you met her?”
    The one with the radio said, “We haven’t seen her.”
    Brittany sat up and wrapped her arms around her knees. “You mean he’s available?”
    I shrugged.
    Michael Bolton started singing about how much being in love hurt and the one with the radio turned it up. Brittany lay back and stretched, making a thing out of lifting her ribs and showing her body. She looked thoughtful. Making plans, no doubt Devising strategies.
    The one with the radio said, “Let me get Allie. She wanted to say good-bye.” Then she got up and wentinto the house. Brittany was mumbling to herself and Allie was probably mumbling, too. I left before they got back.
    Women in heat are frightening to behold.

CHAPTER
4
    I let myself out through the little gate, walked back to my car, and drove two blocks to a 7-Eleven where I used their pay phone to call a friend of mine who works in the credit department of Bank of America. I gave her Mark Thurman’s name, social security number, and account numbers from both his Visa and MasterCard. I told her that I wanted to know if the charge totals for the month exceeded two thousand dollars and, if they did, how many separate purchases exceeded five hundred dollars and where and when they had been made. I also told her that I wanted to know if Thurman had applied for or received any additional credit cards during the past year. She asked me who the hell did I think I was, calling up out of the blue and asking for all of that? I told her that I was the guy who was going to take her to see Sting at the Greek Theater, then take her to dinner at Chinois on Main afterwards. She asked if tomorrow was okay, or did I want the information later tonight? She called me Chickie when she said it.
    I drove back to the 405, then went south, back across the floor of the valley, then through the Sepulveda Pass and into the basin, heading towardVenice and Rusty Swetaggen’s place. I left the freeway at Wilshire and turned west to San Vicente Boulevard in Brentwood. It would’ve been faster to stay on the 405, but San Vicente was nicer, with interesting shops and elegant cafes and palatial homes that somehow seemed attainable, as if the people within them got there by working hard, and were still the type of folks who would give you a smile if you passed them on the sidewalk. Sort of like the Cleavers or the Ricardos.
    Bike paths bordered the east- and westbound lanes, and an expansive center island with a row of mature coral trees divided the traffic. Bicyclists and joggers and power walkers flock to San Vicente for its pleasant surroundings and two-mile straightaway from Brentwood to the ocean. Even at midday, the bike paths were crowded and runners pounded along the center island. A man who might’ve been Pakistani ran with a dust mask, and a red-haired woman with a Rottweiler stopped to let the dog piddle on a coral tree. The woman kept her legs pumping as she waited for the dog. Both of them looked impatient.
    Brentwood became Santa Monica and the nice homes became nice apartment buildings, and pretty soon you could smell the ocean and pretty soon after that you could see it. Santa Monica has rent control, and many of the apartment buildings had little signs fastened to their