laughter, and a couple of girls were crying and laughing at the same time.
As I said, it was a hell of a party.
But some people were missing: Del Rio, Scotty, and Cruz were out working the hotel murder case. Justine had given Cody a cashmere sweater and begged off the festivities.
I wanted to be anyplace but here. But I owed it to Cody to give him a bash worthy of how much we all loved him. He’d stepped into his job after Colleen left six months ago, filling her place without a hitch. Like he was made for it. I’d always be thankful to him for that.
I clinked my glass with a fork, and the whooping only escalated.
“Cody,” I said. “Cody, we’re going to miss you.”
There was whistling and guys yelling Cody’s name. Mo-bot was beaming. Even Sci stood up and gave Cody some applause.
“We’re going to miss your clothing commentary,” I said to my former assistant, “and your impersonations of all of us, especially me.”
I did an impersonation of Cody doing an impersonation of me, running his hand through his hair, giving himself a serious look in the mirror, straightening his tie.
People roared.
I said that I had put a contract out on Ridley Scott for taking Cody away from us, but that I was grateful to Cody for finding Val.
Cody broke in to say, “Val, stand up, girlfriend.”
And she did, laughing too, and I’m pretty sure it wasn’t the magic mojitos. She was just having fun.
I said, “Cody, you’ve kept us on track and you’ve brought us a lot of happiness too. And if the acting thing disappoints you, I’m going on the record: You’ll always have a home at Private.”
I gave him the gift-wrapped camera and card from everyone at Private, and after the applause had abated, Cody wiped his eyes with a red napkin and used his foie gras lollipop as a microphone. “Jack, I want to thank you,” he said. “Seriously, this has been the best job of my life. You taught me more than this,” he said, grinning as he ran his hand through his hair. “You showed me honorable leadership in action. That’s what I’m going to remember most.”
I didn’t know thirty people could make so much noise with their hands.
CHAPTER 106
Del Rio eyed the King Eddy Saloon, a bar within an old bootlegging hotel by the same name on Skid Row, East Fifth and Los Angeles Streets. This was a bad section of town, but King Eddy’s attracted all types, from homeless drunks to young people with dreams who owned condos around the corner.
The building was gray with black trim, bars on the three windows around the door, a security gate attached to that, attesting to what could and often did happen in this neighborhood.
Del Rio went through the door, Cruz right behind him, like Samuel Jackson and John Travolta going into that diner in Pulp Fiction.
“Cold Cold Ground” was playing on the jukebox, and some people were singing along. The circular bar was jam-packed with local characters. A cheap wooden platform held the TVs, which were tuned to a basketball game. At that instant, the Lakers lost by a point.
Customers groaned.
Alongside the wall opposite the bar was a line of tables under decorative neon beer signs. At one of the tables a pair of trannies was getting crazy. From the pitch and volume of the screaming, Del Rio thought it was just a matter of moments before it got physical.
With luck, they’d be out of there before the trannies blew.
Del Rio had seen a picture of the guy they were looking for. It was a couple years old and the guy had been holding a number under his chin, but Del Rio was pretty sure he could recognize him inside his favorite hangout.
He searched the backs of heads and profiles, and then he saw the African American guy with a short beard sitting at the bar. He was eating a free doughnut and talking to the old barfly sitting next to him.
Del Rio got Cruz’s attention, tilted his chin toward the guy with the beard. Cruz squinted, then nodded, and Del Rio pulled his nine.
Del Rio walked over to the guy having his beer and doughnut, put the gun to his spine, and felt the guy stiffen. The guy stared into the mirror over the bar for a second, looked into the faces of the two men who weren’t joking, raised his hands, and held them up.
Del Rio said, “Mr. Keyes, walk with me.”
Keyes said, “I don’t want any trouble.”
“Then don’t do anything stupid.”
This was Tyson Keyes, the badass limo driver who was Karen Ricci’s first husband. According to her second husband, Paul Ricci, Keyes was the man who had tipped Carmelita Gomez that her john had been killed by a limo driver. Maybe he’d done more than that. Maybe Tyson Keyes had killed five businessmen who’d hired party girls for a couple of hours in their hotel rooms.
Keyes swiveled around, then got off the stool very carefully. “I’m not the guy you’re looking for, man.”
The barfly said to Keyes, “You through with your beer?”
“He’s through,” said Del Rio. “Let’s go.”
A couple of people looked up, then looked away real fast. They would say that they hadn’t seen anything.
With his hands still in the air, a former limousine driver named Tyson Keyes walked slowly through the crowd, escorted out the door by a former US Marine and the former California light-middleweight champion of 2005.
Tom Waits sang his signature song on the jukebox right behind them.
CHAPTER 107
A message from Justine was waiting for me when I got home.
“Jack. I want to stay at Private. That’s a definite yes. Also, if I was rude the other night, I’m sorry. I’m still feeling…bruised. See you tomorrow.”
I listened to the message a couple more times, strained it for subtext, listened for hidden meanings. All I got for sure was that Justine was staying at Private.
Was there still a chance we could reconcile?
Or were we done for good?
I heard her saying There is no “us,” Jack. I’m not sure there ever was.
I had showered and changed into jeans and a polo shirt when the intercom buzzed. I went to my new security system and checked the gate monitor.
Jinx was there with a tray in her hand, silver covers over the food.
She was right on time.
I buzzed her in, and when she came to the door, I took the tray and put it on the hall table.
Her face was sunny and beautiful, and her glasses were cute, the lenses a girly shade of pink. She was wearing jeans and a blue polo shirt.
Same color blue as her eyes.
Same color blue as the shirt I was wearing.
She said, “Hey, look at you.”
I said, “If you don’t mind, I’d rather look at you.”
“Okay,” she said.
We laughed and I wrapped her in my arms, gave her a long hug.
