“Nothing doing. Suppose you found yourself in an opium den?”
“There are no opium dens around Fairfax and Third.”
“Then maybe a gangster. All the gangsters are coming west, and you know how tourists flock to Farmers’ Market.”
Laurel said no more, but her heart felt soggy. Between her and the traffic hung a green alligator.
She parked in the area nearest Gilmore Stadium. Early as they were, the paved acres were jammed with cars.
“Flow are you going to work this?” asked Crowe, shortening his stride as she hurried along.
“There’s nothing much to it. Their designs are exclusive, they make everything on the premises, and they have no other outlets. I’ll simply ask to see some men’s wallets, work my way around to alligator, then to green alligator―”
“And then what?” he asked dryly.
“Why... I’ll find out who’s bought one recently. They certainly can’t sell many green alligator wallets with gold trimming. Mac, what’s the idea? Let go!”
They were outside The Button Box. Leatherland, Inc., was nearby, a double-windowed shop with a ranchhouse and corral fence décor, bannered with multicolored hides and served by a bevy of well-developed cowgirls.