“Anytime,” she said. “I like handsome men—even when they are suspicious of my best friends.”
“I’ll remember,” I told her. I left her apartment, escorted by her perfume, which kept pulling me back. It was one of the many times I’ve regretted working for a living.
The Cantwell Import Company was on Fifth Street in downtown Los Angeles. It was a street of warehouses and offices, a block away from the busy main street and a block away from the equally busy Skid Row. I parked the Cadillac on the street and walked into the Cantwell offices. I told the receptionist what I wanted, and I was shortly shown into an office. It was occupied by a small man with a receding hairline and a thin mustache. He sat behind a large desk as though he didn’t feel he belonged there.
“This is Mr. Patman,” the rec
