“ Dallas has a phone call,” I said.

“Take a message,” the short man said.

“It’s his mother. She really gets mad when Dallas doesn’t come to the phone,” I said.

“He’s a cop,” the driver of the Caddy said, removing his shades, pinching the glare out of his eyes.

The short man and the man in polyester sports clothes took my inventory. “You a cop?” the short man said, smiling for the first time.

“You never can tell,” I replied.

“Nice place to hang out,” he said.

“You bet. If you want a tab, I’ll talk to the bartender,” I said.

The short man laughed and accepted a stick of gum from the driver. Then he stepped close to Dallas and spoke to him in a whisper, one that caused the blood to drain out of Dallas ’s face.

After the three men had gotten back into their Caddy and driven away, I asked Dallas what the short man had said.

“Nothing. He’s a jerk. Forget it,” he said.

“Who’s Whitey?”

“Whitey Bruxal. He runs a book out of a pizza joint in Hallen-dale.”

“You’re into him for sixteen grand?”

“I got a handle on it. It’s not a problem.”

Inside the bar, he pushed aside his food and ordered a Scotch with milk. After three more of the same, the color came back into his cheeks. He blew out his breath and rested his forehead on the heel of his hand.

“Wow,” he said quietly, more to himself than to me.

“What did that dude say to you?” I asked.

“ One-one-five Coconut Palm Drive.”

“I don’t follow,” I said.

“I have a six-year-old daughter. She lives with her grandmother in the Grove. That’s her address,” he replied. He stared at me blankly, as though he could not assimilate his own words.