“Yeah.”
“The car’s registered in the name of Jonathan Salzer, The Sanatorium, Foothill Boulevard. That what you want to know?”
I kept the excitement out of my voice. “Maybe. Who’s Salzer? Know anything about him?”
“Not much. He runs a crank’s home. If you have a pain in your belly he fills you up with fruit juices and lets you ferment. He does all right.”
“Nothing crooked on the side?”
“For crying out loud! He doesn’t need to be crooked. He’s making a hell of a lot of dough.”
“Well, thanks, Tim.”
“You’re sure about that horse?”
“Of course I’m sure,” I said, and winked at Kerman. “Put your shirt on it.”
“Well, I’ll spring five bucks, but no more.” I hung up.