Lost Light (32 page)

The players didn’t recognize him. Few people would now that he was down to just skin and bones. But that didn’t bother Sugar Ray. It didn’t diminish our evening by one note.

After the first set, I could see him starting to flag. It was after nine and time for him to sleep and dream. He’d told me once that he still could play in his dreams. I thought we should all be so lucky.

It was also time for me to look into the face of the man who had taken Angella Benton from this world. I had no badge and no official standing. But I knew things and believed that I still stood for her. I spoke for her. In the morning they could take it all away from me, make me sit down and watch from the sidelines. But I still had until then. And I knew I was not going home just yet. I was going to confront Linus Simonson and take his measure. I was going to let him know who put the bead on him. And I was going to give him the chance to answer for Angella Benton.

When we got back to the Splendid Age I left Sugar Ray dozing in the front seat while I went in to get the porter. Getting him into the Mercedes outside the Baked Potato by myself had been a chore.

I gently shook him awake and then we got him down onto the sidewalk. We walked him in and then down the hall to his room. Sitting on his bed, trying to shake off the sleep, he asked me where I’d been.

“I’ve been right here with you, Sugar Ray.”

“You’ve been practicing?”

“Every chance I get.”

I realized that he may have already forgotten our evening’s outing. He may have thought I was there for a lesson. I felt bad about him being robbed of the memory so soon.

“Sugar Ray, I’ve gotta go. I’ve got some work to do.”

“Okay, Henry.”

“It’s Harry.”

“That’s what I said.”

“Oh. You want me to turn on the box or are you going to go to sleep?”

“Nah, put the box on for me if you don’t mind. That’d be good.”

I turned on the television that was mounted on the wall. It was on CNN and Sugar Ray said to leave it there. I went over and squeezed his shoulder and then headed for the door.

“ ‘Lush Life,’ ” he said to my back.

I turned around to look at him. He was smiling. “Lush Life” was the last song of the set we had heard. He did remember.

“I love that song,” he said.

“Yeah, me too.”

I left him to his memories of a lush life while I headed out into the night to see a king about a stolen life. I was unarmed but unafraid. I was in a state of grace. I carried the last prayer of Angella Benton with me.

 

S
hortly after ten o’clock I approached the doorway to Nat’s on Cherokee, a half block south of Hollywood Boulevard. It was still early but there was no line of people waiting to get in. There was no velvet rope. There was no doorman selecting who got in and who didn’t. There was no collector of a cover charge. When I got inside, there also were almost no customers.

I had been in Nat’s on numerous occasions in its former incarnation as a dive bar populated by a clientele as devoted to alcohol as any other aspect of life. It wasn’t a pickup spot—unless you counted the prostitutes who cooled their heels at the bar. It wasn’t a celebrity-watching spot. It was a drinking spot and that was the sum of its entire purpose, and as such it had an honest character. As I walked in and saw all the polished brass and rich woods I realized that what it had now was glamour and that was never the same or as long-lasting as character. It didn’t matter how many people lined up on opening night. The place wasn’t going to go the distance. I knew that within fifteen seconds. The place was doomed before the first citron martini was poured shaken not stirred into its frosted glass and placed on a black napkin.

I went right to the bar where there were three patrons who looked like tourists in from Florida after a dose of much needed California Cool. The bartender was tall and thin and wore the requisite black jeans and tight body shirt that allowed her nipples to introduce themselves to the customers. She had a black-ink snake wrapped around one bicep, its forked red tongue licking the crook of her elbow, where the needle scars were evident. Her hair was shorter than mine and on the nape of her neck a bar code was tattooed. It made me think of how much I enjoyed discovering Eleanor Wish’s neck the night before.

“There’s a ten-dollar cover,” the bartender said. “What can I get you?”

I remembered from the magazine article that it used to be $20.

“What does it cover? This place is dead.”

“Stick around. That’s ten dollars.”

I made no move to give her the money. I leaned on the bar and spoke quietly.

“Where’s Linus?”

“He’s not here tonight.”

“Then where is he? I need to talk to him.”

“He’s probably at Chet’s. That’s where he keeps his office. He doesn’t usually start bopping around to the places until after midnight. Are you going to pay the ten?”

“I don’t think so. I’m leaving.”

She frowned.

“You’re a cop, aren’t you?”

I smiled proudly.

“Going on twenty-eight years.”

I left off the part about the twenty-eight years coming before I retired. I figured she’d get on the phone and send the word a cop was coming. That might work in my favor. I reached in my pocket and pulled out a ten. I tossed it onto the bar.

“That’s not the cover. That’s for you. Get a haircut.”

She put an exaggerated smile on her face, one that showed she had a nice set of dimples. She snatched the ten.

“Thanks, Dad.”

I smiled as I walked out.

It took me fifteen minutes to get over to Chet’s on Santa Monica near LaBrea. I had the address thanks to
Los Angeles Magazine,
which had conveniently put a listing of all of the Four Kings establishments in a box on the last page of the story.

Again there was no line and few customers. I was beginning to think that once you are declared cool in the tourist books and magazines, then you’re dead in the water. Chet’s was almost a carbon copy of Nat’s, right down to the sullen bartender with the not-so-subtle nipples and tattoos. The one thing I liked about the place was the music. Chet Baker’s “Cool Burnin’ ” was playing when I walked in and I thought maybe the kings might have some taste after all.

The bartender was déjà vu all over again—tall, thin and in black, except her bicep tattoo was Marilyn Monroe’s face circa “Happy Birthday, Mr. President.”

“You the cop?” she asked before I said a word.

“You’ve been talking to your sister. I guess she told you I don’t pay cover.”

“She said something about that.”

“Where’s Linus?”

“He’s in his office. I told him you were coming.”

“That was nice of you.”

I stepped away from the bar but pointed at her tattoo.

“Your mom?”

“Hey, come here, take a look.”

I leaned back over the bar. She bent her elbow and flexed her muscles repeatedly. Marilyn’s cheeks puffed up and then down as the bicep beneath expanded and contracted.

“Kind of looks like she’s giving a blow job, doesn’t it?” the bartender said.

“That’s real cute,” I said. “I bet you show that to all the boys.”

“Is it worth ten bucks?”

I almost told her I knew places where I could get the real thing for a ten but let it go. I left her there and found my way to a hallway behind the bar. There were doors for the rest rooms and then a door marked “Management Only.” I didn’t knock. I just went through and it only led to a continuation of the hallway and more doors. The third door down said “Linus” on it. I opened that one without knocking, too.

Linus Simonson was sitting behind a cluttered desk. I recognized him from the magazine photo. He had a bottle of Scotch whiskey and a snifter on the desk. There was a black leather couch in the office and on it sat a man I also recognized from the magazine as one of the partners. His name was James Oliphant. He had his feet up on a coffee table and looked like he wasn’t the least bit concerned by a visit from a man he’d been told was a cop.

“Hey, man, you the cop,” Simonson said as he waved me in. “Close the door.”

I stepped in and introduced myself. I didn’t say I was a cop.

“Well, I’m Linus and that there’s Jim. What’s up? What can we do for you?”

I held my hands out as though I had nothing to hide.

“I’m not sure what you can do for me. I just wanted to drop by and sort of introduce myself. I’m working on the Angella Benton case and of course that includes the BankLA case so . . . here I am.”

“Oh, man, BankLA. That’s some serious ancient history there.”

He looked at his partner and laughed.

“That was like another lifetime ago. I don’t want to go there, man. That’s a bad memory.”

“Yeah, well, not as bad for you as it was for Angella Benton.”

Simonson suddenly got serious and leaned forward on his desk.

“I don’t get this, man. What are you doing here? You’re not a cop. Cops come in twos. If you
are
a cop, then you aren’t legit. What do you want? Let me see a badge.”

“I didn’t tell anybody I had a badge. I was a cop, but not now. In fact, I thought maybe you’d recognize me from that other lifetime you were talking about.”

Simonson looked at Oliphant and smirked.

“Recognize you from what?”

“I was there that day you took it in the ass. I’m talking about the bullet. But then again, you were rolling around and screaming so much you probably didn’t have time to look at me.”

But Simonson’s eyes widened in recognition. Maybe not physical recognition but recognition of who I was and what I had done.

“Shit, you’re the guy. You’re the cop that was there. You’re the one who shot —”

He stopped himself from saying a name. He looked at Oliphant.

“He’s the one who hit one of the robbers.”

I looked at Oliphant and I saw recognition—physical recognition—and maybe something like hate or anger in his eyes.

“That’s not known for sure because we never got the robber. But, yeah, I think I hit him. That was me.”

I said it with a smile of pride. I kept it on my face as I turned back to Simonson.

“Who are you working for?” Simonson asked.

“Me? I’m working for somebody who isn’t going to stop, who isn’t going to let up. Not for a minute. He’s going to find out who put Angella Benton down on the tile and he’ll go at it until he either dies or he knows.”

Simonson smirked again arrogantly.

“Well, good luck to you and him, Mr. Bosch. I think you ought to go now. We’re kind of busy here.”

I nodded to him and then looked at Oliphant, giving him the best deadeye in my repertoire.

“Then I guess I’ll see you boys around.”

I went through the door and down the hallway back to the bar. Chet Baker was now singing “My Funny Valentine.” As I headed for the main door I noticed the bartender flexing her bicep for two men sitting at the bar where I had stood. They were laughing. I recognized them as the remaining two kings from the magazine photo.

They stopped laughing when they saw me and I felt their eyes on me all the way out the door.

 

O
n the way home I stopped at the twenty-four-hour Ralph’s on Sunset and bought a bag of coffee. I didn’t expect that I’d be getting much sleep between the night and the multi-agency confab the following morning.

On the drive up the hill to my house there are too many curves to use the rearview mirror to check for a tail. But there is one sweeping curve halfway up that allows you to look to your right out the passenger window and across the drop-off to the road you just covered. It’s always been my habit to slow at this spot and check for a trailer.

This night I slowed more than usual and watched a little longer. I didn’t expect my visit to Chet’s to be taken as anything other than a threat and I wasn’t wrong. As I looked across the drop-off I saw a car with no lights on round the hill and move into the sweeping curve. I eased the gas pedal down and slowly picked up speed again. After the next curve I punched it and put a little more distance between us. I pulled all the way into the carport next to my house and quickly got out with the bag from the store. I moved into the darkest corner of the carport and waited. I heard the trail car before I saw it. Then I watched it glide by. A long Jaguar. Someone was lighting a cigarette in the backseat, and in the glow from the flame I saw the car was full. The four kings were coming for me.

After the Jag had gone by I saw the bushes across the street glow red and I knew they were stopping just past my house. I moved to the door that led into the kitchen and went inside, making sure to lock the door afterward.

This was the moment when people without badges called the police for help. It’s when they desperately whispered,
“Hurry, please! They are coming!”
But badge or no badge, I knew that was not an option for me now. This was my play and I didn’t care in that moment about what authority I had or didn’t have.

I had not carried a gun since the night I left my badge and service pistol in a drawer at Hollywood Division and walked out. But I had a weapon. I’d bought a Glock P7 for personal protection. It was wrapped in an oil rag and in a box on the shelf of the walk-in closet in the bedroom. I put the bag from Ralph’s down on the counter and moved into the hallway and down to the bedroom without turning on any lights.

When I opened the closet door I was suddenly shoved backwards with great force by a man who had been waiting in there for me. I hit the opposite wall and slid to the floor. He was on me immediately, straddling and pushing the barrel of a pistol up under my jaw. I managed to look up and in the pale light coming in through the French door leading to the deck I could see who it was.