Frank didn’t want to hear any more. He was about to say something sharp, but Tony put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed gently, urging him to be patient.
“Look,” Garamalkis said, “I can understand not giving illegal aliens welfare and free medical care and like that. But I can’t see the sense in deporting them when they’re only doing jobs that no one else wants to do. It’s ridiculous. It’s a disgrace.” He sighed again, looked at the mug shots of Bobby Valdez that he was holding, and said, “Yeah, I know this guy.”
“We heard he used to work here.”
“That’s right.”
“When?”
“Beginning of the summer, I think. May. Part of June.”
“After he skipped out on his parole officer,” Frank said to Tony.
“I don’t know anything about that,” Garamalkis said.
“What name did he give you?” Tony asked.
“Juan.”
“Last name?”
“I don’t remember. He was only here six weeks or so. But it’ll still be in the files.”
Garamalkis stepped down from the platform and led them back across the big room, through the steam and the smell of detergent and the suspicious glances of the employees. In the front office he asked the secretary to check the files, and she found the right pay record in a minute. Bobby had used the name Juan Mazquezza. He had given an address on La Brea Avenue.
“Did he really live at this apartment?” Frank asked.
Garamalkis shrugged. “It wasn’t the sort of important job that required a background credit check.”
“Did he say why he was quitting?”
“No.”
“Did he tell you where he was going?”
“I’m not his mother.”
“I mean, did he mention another job?”
“No. He just cut out.”
“If we don’t find Mazquezza at this address,” Tony said, “we’d like to come back and talk to your employees. Maybe one of them got to know him. Maybe somebody here’s still friends with him.”
“You can come back if you want,” Garamalkis said. “But you’ll have some trouble talking to my people.”
“Why’s that?”
Grinning, he said, “A lot of them don’t speak English.”
Tony grinned back at him and said, “Yo leo, escribo y hablo español.”
“Ah,” Garamalkis said, impressed.
The secretary made a copy of the pay record for them, and Tony thanked Garamalkis for his cooperation.
In the car, as Frank pulled into traffic and headed toward La Brea Avenue, he said, “I’ve got to hand it to you.”
Tony said, “What’s that?”
“You got more out of him quicker than I could have.”
Tony was surprised by the compliment. For the first time in their three-month association, Frank had admitted that his partner’s techniques were effective.
“I wish I had a little bit of your style,” Frank said. “Not all of it, you understand. I still think my way’s best most of the time. But now and then we run across someone who’d never open up to me in a million years, but he’d pour out his guts to you in about a minute flat. Yeah, I wish I had a little of your smoothness.”
“You can do it.”
“Not me. No way.”
“Of course, you can.”
“You’ve got a way with people,” Frank said. “I don’t.”
“You can learn it.”
“Nah. It works out well enough the way it is. We’ve got the classic mean-cop-nice-cop routine, except we aren’t playing at it. With us, it just sort of naturally works out that way.”
“You’re not a mean cop.”
Frank didn’t respond to that. As they stopped at a red light, he said, “There’s something else I’ve got to say, and you probably won’t like it.”
“Try me,” Tony said.
“It’s about that woman last night.”
“Hilary Thomas?”
“Yeah. You liked her, didn’t you?”
“Well … sure. She seemed nice enough.”
“That’s not what I mean. I mean, you liked her. You had the hots for her.”
“Oh, no. She was good looking, but I didn’t–”
“Don’t play innocent with me. I saw the way you looked at her.”
The traffic light changed.
They rode in silence for a block.
Finally, Tony said, “You’re right. I don’t get all hot and bothered by every pretty girl I see. You know that.”