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Millie, went to the garage, and backed his three-year-old Ford LTD station wagon into the quiet street.
    He drove directly to a record shop on Hollywood Boulevard. He got a parking space a short distance from the shocking-pink-façaded mecca for punk and hard-rock fanatics.
    Ralph Rosen, his cousin and football pal from high school, was the owner. Rosen had copped the cocaine for Crane that had him fullbacking through startled pedestrians in his rush to relieve himself.
    Crane trotted into the garish interior of the shop, where Rosen was spinning a deafening record for a group of androgynous rock freaks.
    Crane dashed behind the counter. He gave gigantic Rosen the heel of his hand to a shoulder as he galloped to the john behind a curtain at the rear of the joint.
    Rosen was alone when Crane emerged. Rosen’s bearded face was concerned. “Hey, buddy, you sick?” Rosen asked in his pipsqueak voice.
    “You’re goddamn right I am. That alleged coke you copped has me crapping every hour. Do me a favor, Ralph, and—”
    Crane was cut off by one of several horse players who entered the shop in succession to lay bets.
    At the last departure, Crane said, “As I was saying, do me a favor and cop from another dealer. I can score fucking laxative myself over the counter.”
    Rosen nervously shuffled his feet under Crane’s hard gray eyes. “I’m sorry, Leo, I’ll find another dealer. It may take a few days to score for high-grade stuff.”
    Crane leaned into Rosen’s face. “I’ll appreciate it…How is your book doing?”
    Rosen’s tongue flashed across his red lips. “Pretty good, but it’s been better. You in trouble?”
    Crane smiled. “Yeah, old buddy. I need eight bills for a couple of months, to keep the bank from stealing my house.”
    Rosen went behind the curtain and returned, palming a wad of bills. They shook hands.
    “Thanks, Ralph. See ya,” Crane said as he turned away for the street. He drove east on Hollywood Boulevard, looking for hookers who might be working early in the day. As Rucker’s replacement, he drove himself to work longer hours than his boss to keep Hollywood free of street hookers. If he got fatigued, he’d go to one of the cots in the squad’s briefing room to catnap.
    He thought of Millie. He remembered that, five years before, he had developed a passion for young hookers. His sex life with straitlaced Millie had waned and soured.
    Hollywood Boulevard was hooker-free. He worked in his own vehicle, with a department gas allowance. He believed that driving a station wagon would enhance his trick image for hookers.
    He stopped at his bank to pay the overdue house notes. He cruised sun-splashed Sunset Boulevard. He hawkeyed the crowded sidewalks. He stomped his brake pedal. He’d come within inches of rear-ending a vehicle ahead of him. His eyes had been the captive of a snow blonde. Petra!
    At first stare, he didn’t make her as a hooker. She had a starlet’s image in her short but chic ice-blue dress and off-white bag, with baby-doll heels. But after his trance, he saw her spin and dart too quickly into a drugstore with just a subtle hooker’s look of apprehension on her patrician face.
    He glanced at his rearview mirror. He saw a black-and-white squad car several cars behind him to confirm his suspicion. She was the sexiest, most gorgeous hooker he’d ever seen. She was any magazine’s candidate for centerfold, he thought.
    He turned into a side street. He came back to park diagonally across the street from the drugstore.
    Petra came out of the store. Within seconds, he saw her get into a vintage Lincoln. It was driven by an elderly white man.
    Crane shook his head and wondered how such a creature could become a hooker. He knew the odds were she wouldn’t turn the old john in his car in bright daylight. He couldn’t U-turn in the heavy traffic to follow and bust her in the act if she was that reckless. He’d wait to pick her up and bust her later.
    He drove two blocks away