"Yippie I oh chi yea," I said.

She finished her last touch and closed her compact mirror and looked at me.

"Yes, Cowboy?"

"I'm easily excited," I said.

"How nice for you," she said.

"Married, too," I said.

"How nice for you," she said.

"Thanks. My name is Marlowe. I called about one of your models, Sondra Lee?"

"Ah, the detective." She looked me over the way a fish examines a worm. "Well, you've certainly got the shoulders for it," she said.

"Can you tell me how to get in touch with Miss Lee?" I said.

"Sure," the blonde said. "I called her. She said you can come see her at her place."

The blonde handed me a piece of paper with an address on it.

"It's off Beverly Glen," the blonde said. "Near the top."

I thanked her and turned to leave.

"If the marriage doesn't work…" she said.

I turned, gave her the gunman's salute with my thumb and forefinger, and left.

I picked up Beverly Glen off of Wilshire. North of Sunset it started to climb. The foliage pressed in close on it and the hills rose on either side waiting for the first heavy rain to wash the houses that rode their flanks down into the roadway. Sondra Lee's place would be one of the first to go. Its back end rested on two 15-foot lally columns that stood on concrete footings in the hillside. The driveway curved around the house and stopped to form a circle in front. There was no yard but the area in front of the house was full of flowering shrubs, and hummingbirds danced and spiraled over them as I pulled the car to a stop near the front door.

A Mexican woman answered my ring.