I nodded, “Yes, I do.”
“How did you find out who I am and where I work?” she asked with irritation.
“A mutual friend of Rose’s and mine at the Cherokee Club. Tiffany Cross.”
“That figures,” she said. I didn’t understand that remark. This dame was acting weird.
“I’m tired of doing this,” she said as she handed me a card with a suite number at the Beverly Wilshire Hotel.
“Uh, thank you,” I confusingly said as I took the card.
As I walked out the young man placing books in the display window said, “Have a nice day, sir.”