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amused expression in the man’s eyes. He hadn’t changed; he still knew who he was, in control. A good-looking, no-age black man with straightened long hair glistening across his forehead, a full, curled-down moustache, a little bebop growth beneath his lower lip, and liquid, slow-moving eyes.
    Sportree said, very quietly, “Frank, how you doing? It’s been awhile.”
    Frank said, “I’d like you to meet my business associate, Ernest Stickley, Jr., man, if you can dig the name. Stick Stickley. And this is Sportree in the Zulu outfit, in case anybody doesn’t know he’s a jig.”
    Sportree didn’t change his expression. He said, “You come down to learn some new words? Don’t know whether you’re Elvis Presley or a downtown white nigger, do you?”
    â€œWell, you know,” Frank said, “it’s hard to keep up with all that jive shit living with honkies. Actually what we’re looking for is a cleaning lady.”
    Sportree’s expression held, then began to relax more, and he almost smiled. “A cleaning lady. Yeah, why don’t we go upstairs, be comfortable? Talk about it.”
    They went outside to the entrance and up a flight of stairs to the apartment over the Lounge. The good-looking young black girl with red hair was sitting on the couch smoking a homemade cigarette. Sportree said, “A bourbon and a Scotch, little water.” Stick could smell the cigarette. He watched the girl get up without a word and go into the kitchen: little ninety-six-pounder in a white halter top and white pants.
    As they sat down Sportree said, “You all want to smoke?”
    Frank said, “Hey, don’t start my partner on any bad habits. He’s straight and I want to keep him that way.”
    Stick didn’t say anything. He listened to Frank ask the black guy how the numbers business was, and the black said numbers, numbers was for little children. He was in the saloon business now. You mean in front, Frank said, with a pharmacy in the rear. The black guy said well, maybe a little coke and hash, some African speed, but no skag, uh-unh, he wouldn’t deal shit to a man he found in bed with his lady.
    The redheaded black girl brought the drinks in and left the room again, still without a word or change of expression.
    Stick listened to Frank talking about the car business, LA, smog, traffic on the Hollywood Freeway, how he’d worked in a bar in North Hollywood, screwed a starlet once, and finally, after thinking awhile, remembering the name of the picture she was murdered in, which Stick and the black guy had never heard of. Stick went out to the kitchen and made himself another drink. The redheaded black girl sitting at the table reading Cosmopolitan didn’t look up. He went back into the living room, which reminded him of a Miami Beach hotel, waited until Frank got through saying no, he wasn’t in jail out there, and said, “You having a nice visit?”
    Frank gave him a deadpan look. “Why, you in a hurry?”
    â€œI thought we were looking for a cleaning lady.”
    Sportree was watching them both with his lazy, amused expression. He said, “Yeah, I believe somebody mentioned that.” His eyes held on Frank. “Your business associate know what he’s doing?”
    â€œCars,” Frank said. “He’s very good with cars. Many, many years at it, one conviction.”
    â€œIf that’s your pleasure, what you need with a cleaning lady?”
    â€œThat’s his credentials. I’m saying we’re all friends,” Frank said. “Kindred spirits. Birds of a feather.”
    â€œMan,” Sportree said, “you do need some new words.”
    â€œI’ll take a side order,” Frank said, “but for the entree how about a nice cleaning lady with big brown eyes?”
    â€œYou going back in the business? It’s hard work, man. For young, strong boys with a