“Why don’t I locate the entire Ms. Paget?” Withers asked, “and let you take it from there?”

“That’s funny, Walt. I like that,” Scarpelli said, not laughing. Then he asked, “But what makes you think you can find her? Why should I hire you when I can buy the best private investigators in the world? Which-no offense-by the look of you, you ain’t.”

This is true, Withers thought. Needlessly offensive, but true. My suit is shiny and my eyes aren’t, I have those little broken blood vessels in my nose, and my tie is old. But it’s a tie, not a gold chain, you jumped-up little porno prince, and I bought it at Saks.

“I’m a genuine private investigator, Mr. Scarpelli,” Withers answered. “I have a license, a gun, vast experience, as well as a certain je ne sais quoi. Now, certainly you can engage one of the big agencies. They have a lot of personnel and most of them look better than I do. But none of them know where Polly Paget is.

“And you do,” Scarpelli said.

Actually, I don’t. But I know someone who does.

Withers set his water down on the glass-topped table and stood up.

“Thank you for your time and the water,” he said. “I’ll take my offer elsewhere. I think Ms. Paget would be quite charming in bunny ears.”

Speaking of speaking in an authoritative voice.

“Wait,” Scarpelli said quickly. “Sit down, please.”

“Please,” Ms. Haber echoed.

Withers sat down. He pulled his old Dunhill cigarette case from his jacket pocket. Ms. Haber quickly produced a lighter and an ashtray.

“I’ll pay her half a million dollars,” Scarpelli said.

Withers held out the case. Scarpelli shook his head and Ms. Haber leaned forward to light his cigarette.

“I will require a ten percent finder’s fee,” Withers said. “Plus expenses.”

“Where is she?” Scarpelli asked.

As if I would tell you, Withers thought. As if I knew.

“And I will need some up-front cash for her,” Withers continued, ignoring the question.