Lady Yesterday by Loren D. Estleman Page A

that’s young man in Spanish. He’s twenty-four. How’d you come to step in that?”
    “He’s threatening a client.”
    “The lady with the bullet?”
    I said it was.
    “Hide her good. That little creep’s a stone killer.”
    “So far he’s just talking.”
    “Two years ago he was just another mule running kilos for the big boys. He’s got one prior for possession for sale, one-year probation. Six months ago Jackie Acardo disappeared, and here comes Sam Mozo out from behind a bush to pick up the pieces. Acardo was the last goombah hanging fire against the Colombians in the dope trade here. He didn’t just go on vacation. The Acardos would be moving on Mozo only he’s just one of a couple of dozen vest-pocket godfathers who have benefited from Jackie’s powder and this generation of mobsters likes to look before it breaks out the blowtorches.”
    I drank coffee and listened.
    “We had Mozo down here once for threatening an undercover officer. He took off his own thousand-dollar pink cashmere coat and cut it to ribbons with a jackknife in front of the cop, by way of showing how little anything means to him. He likes to destroy nice things.”
    “That’s him. Someone ought to take him down while he still has some possessions left. What’s his connection to the Park-a-Lot Garage on Griswold?”
    “He probably owns it. Parking garages and auto dealerships are how he launders his money. Also they pay almost as well as cocaine and heroin. You ever store a car in this town for any length of time?” She arranged a blank arrest form on the desk for a coaster and set down her cup and saucer. “The feds would like to take him down, or at least deport him, but he finagled citizenship somehow, and Immigration is a mess. Don’t laugh at him too hard. You’ll still be laughing when he slides a knife between your ribs.”
    I busied myself lighting a cigarette so as not to meet her gaze. I knew what was in it. She straightened with her fingers splayed on the desk.
    “You were pretty interested in that motel killing just now,” she said. “Do you figure Sam Mozo for it?”
    “An hour ago I never heard of Sam Mozo.”
    “Yes.” She went on looking at me. Her eyes were as hard as baby blue ever gets. “I just got a glimpse at how come you’re so short on friendly faces down here.”
    I got up and put my cup and saucer next to hers. “I’ll be available whenever those test results come in. Thanks again for running them.”
    She took her hands off the desk. “If it were my case I’d be turning you on the spit now.”
    “I bet you can turn it, too. But it’s Hornet’s barbecue and you don’t like him any more than I do.”
    “Don’t trade on that. Just because I’m female doesn’t mean I’m not in the brotherhood.”
    “I’ll remember.”
    “And watch out for Sam Mozo. He only looks ridiculous.”
    I took myself out. I had a column of ash growing and hers was the only floor in the place I didn’t feel comfortable using for a tray.

13
    “U MP,” SAID A TIRED male voice on the other end of the line.
    “Sorry?”
    “UMMP. What do you need?”
    There was no background noise in the Detroit office of United Musicians and Musical Performers. I pictured a clothes closet with a view of the air shaft and a bald man in rolled-up shirtsleeves sitting at a desk that had come over in steerage with Cortez. Aloud I said, “I’m booking a wedding reception. I need to find a trombonist named George Favor.”
    “Sounds like a real hip wedding. How about an accordion?”
    “No, I want Favor.”
    “What’s his card number?”
    “If I knew that I’d probably know his address.”
    He put down the receiver and I listened for a few minutes to a chair squawking and someone’s thumb flicking through cards in a file. I snapped a shred of pencil eraser off my blotter.
    “No George Favor,” said the voice. “I got a Partee Favor, that’s two e ’s in ‘Partee.’ Maybe you want her for the bachelor blowout the