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from an old Union Pacific railroad car. Buono drove well past her, pulled over, and stopped. “I’ll go around the block and get her,” Buono said. “You wait over there across the street.”
    Bianchi got out, crossed Sunset, and sat down on a bus bench to wait. He was at the corner of Sunset and Sweetzer, just down from the Golden Crest Hotel, its marquee proclaiming: “Retirement Living at Its Finest. Most Luxurious Residence in L.A.” He could see the girl across the street still standing in the driveway of the railroad diner, obviously hooking.
    A minute later he caught sight of the Cadillac coming up Sunset again. Angelo drove slowly past the girl and turned left, heading around the block once more. He was making it look, Bianchi figured, as though he had just spotted her. He would have made eye contact with her, continuing on as if he had not yet decided. Then he would return.
    This time Buono pulled into Carney’s driveway. The girl came up to his window, and they talked. Then the girl went around to the passenger side and got in next to Angelo. They sat chatting for a bit until the traffic thinned. Angelo backed out onto Sunset, made a U-turn, passed the bench where Bianchi waited, and turned right on Sweetzer, rolling slowly down the side street. Bianchi, sensing that Angelo did not want to work the scam where there was so much traffic, followed on foot.
    Sweetzer ran down a steep hill, the lights of the city glimmering to the south. At the next corner Angelo turned right and pulled over.

    In seconds Bianchi was there. He opened the front door on the girl’s side, leaned in, and said, “You’re under arrest,” showing the badge.
    “Oh, no, not again,” the girl said.
    “Could you please step out of the car?” She did.
    “Just get in the back, please,” Bianchi said, taking her arm. He opened the rear door. “Okay, now you’re going to have to go for a ride.” He guided her into the seat and climbed in after her. Angelo reached over and closed the right front door, Bianchi closed the rear door, and Angelo pushed a button that locked all the doors: a safety device for children. “All right,” Bianchi said, “I’ve got to put handcuffs on you. Would you lean forward, please?” He handcuffed her, palms outward. She had to sit on her fingers.
    As Angelo drove off, he said: “There was a guy standing in that parking lot. You got a pimp?”
    “No,” the girl said.
    “There was a guy,” Angelo said. “Might be a problem.” He headed back up to Sunset and glanced into the parking lot of the railroad diner. Nobody there. He headed east, not rushing, obeying the traffic laws.
    “Are we going to the Hollywood Division?” the girl asked.
    “No,” Angelo said, looking at her through the rearview mirror. “We’re going to a special unit.”
    The girl was silent as they drove back through Hollywood, turning east on Franklin to Western, north on Western to Los Feliz, east on their way to Glendale. Finally she asked why she was being arrested.
    “I haven’t done nothing wrong.”
    “You’re being arrested for soliciting,” Bianchi said. “Have you ever been arrested before?”
    “No. Picked up for questioning is all. I never done nothing.”
    Bianchi studied her. She was tiny. She was wearing a light blouse and slacks and a dirty suede jacket. Her small leather purse sat in her lap. The handcuffs made her lean forward, herstraight brown hair obscuring her face. She looked fourteen, sixteen at the outside. She wouldn’t give much trouble.
    She said nothing more until Angelo pulled all the way into his driveway, under the metal awning that joined the house and the shop. The Orange Grove Apartments overlooked the shop and the house from the rear, but peering down from a second- or third-floor apartment, Angelo knew, no one could see anything except the roofs and the metal awning. There was no way for anyone to get curious. And on the east side of the house and shop was a car wash, on the west