The Murder Book

Sangre de Leon. Lion's Blood. Appetizing. He wouldn't take bets on this one enduring longer than a bout of indigestion.

He found a dark spot across Robertson, parked diagonal to the restaurant, turned off his headlights. The rest of the decor was windowless gray stucco and sprigs of tall, bearded grass that looked like nothing other than dry weeds. An army of pink-jacketed valets- all good-looking and female- hovered at the mouth of the lot. Stingy lot; the seven Mercedes parked there filled it.

The Town Car's chauffeur- a big, thick bouncer type nearly as large as Georgie Nemerov's hunters- jumped out and sprang a rear door. A chesty, puffy-faced guy in his forties with sparse, curly hair got out first. His face looked as if it had been used as a waffle iron. Milo recognized Garvey Cossack right away. The guy had put on weight since his most recent newspaper photo, but not much else about him had changed. Next came a taller, soft-looking character with a shaved bullet head and a Frank Zappa mustache that drooped to his chin- little brother Bobo, minus his slicked-back hairdo. Middle-aged sap doing the youth-culture thing? Cranial skin as a proud badge of rebellion? Either way, the guy enjoyed mirror time.

Garvey Cossack wore a dark sport coat with padded shoulders over a black turtleneck, black slacks. Below the slacks, white running shoes- now there was a touch of elegance.

Bobo had on a too-small black leather bomber jacket, too-tight black jeans and black T-shirt, too-high black boots. Black-lensed shades, too. Call the paramedics, we've got an emergency overdose of cool.

A third man exited the Lincoln, and the big chauffeur let him close his own door.

Number Three was dressed the way businessmen used to dress in L.A. Dark suit, white shirt, undistinguished tie, normal shoes. Shorter than the Cossack brothers, he had narrow shoulders and a subservient stoop. Saggy, wrinkled face, though he didn't appear any older than the Cossacks. Miniscule oval eyeglasses and long, blond hair that shagged over his collar fought the Joe-Corporate image. The top of his scalp was mostly bald spot.

Mini-Specs hung back as the Cossacks entered the restaurant, Garvey in a flat-footed waddle, Bobo swaggering and bopping his head in time to some private melody. The chauffeur returned to the car and began backing out, and Specs walked past the pink ladies' expectant smiles. The Town Car turned south on Robertson, drove a block, pulled to the curb, went dark.

Specs remained out in the lot for a few seconds, looking around- but at nothing in particular. Facing the Taurus, but Milo caught no sign the guy saw anything that bothered him. No, this one was just full of random nervous energy- hands flexing, neck rotating, mouth turned down, the tiny lenses of his glasses darting and catching street light, a pair of reflective eggs.

Guy made him think of a crooked accountant on audit day. Finally, Specs ran his finger under his collar, rotated his shoulders, and made his way to the pleasures of leonine hemoglobin.

No additional diners materialized during the thirty-seven minutes Milo sat there. When one of the untipped valets looked at her watch, stepped out to the sidewalk, and lit up a cigarette, he got out of the Taurus and loped across the street.

The girl was a gorgeous, little red-haired thing with blue-blue eyes so vivid the color made its way through the night. Maybe twenty. She noticed Milo approaching, kept smoking. The cigarette was wrapped in black paper and had a gold tip. Shermans? Did they still make those?

She looked up when he was three feet away and smiled through the cloud of nicotine that swirled in the warm night air.

Smiling because Milo had his latest bribe visible. Two twenties folded between his index and tall fingers, backed by a freelance journalist cover story. Forty bucks was double what he'd paid the Pakistani POB clerk but the valet- her tag said Val- was a helluva lot cuter than the clerk. And as it turned out, a lot easier to deal with.

Ten minutes later he was back in the Taurus, cruising past the Town Car. Mt. Chauffeur was snoozing with his mouth open. A shaved-head Latino guy. The redhead had supplied Mini-Spec's ID.

'Oh, that's Brad. He works with Mr. Cossack and his brother.'

'Mister Cossack?'

'Mr. Garvey Cossack. And his brother.' Blue-eyed glance back at the restaurant. 'He co-owns this place, along with…' A string of celebrity names followed. Milo pretended to be impressed.

'Must be a jumping place.'

'It was when it opened.'

'No more, huh?'

'You know,' she said, rolling her eyes.

'How's the food?'

The parking cutie smiled and smoked and shook her head. 'How would I know? It's like a hundred bucks a plate. Maybe when I get my first big part.'

Her laugh was derisive. She added: 'Maybe when pigs fly.' So young, so cynical.

'Hollywood,' said Milo.

'Yeah.' Val looked back again. All the other girls were loafing, and a few were smoking. Probably keeping their weight down, thought Milo. Any of them could've modeled.

Val lowered her voice to a whisper: 'Tell the truth, I hear the food sucks.'

'The name can't help. Lion's Blood.'

'Ick. Isn't that gross?'

'What kind of cuisine is it?'

'Ethiopian, I think. Or something African. Maybe also Latino, I dunno- Cuban, maybe? Sometimes they've got a band and from out here it sounds kind of Cuban.' Her hips pistoned, and she snapped her fingers. 'I hear it's on its way out.'

'Cuban music?'

'No, silly. This place.'

'Time for a new job?' said Milo.

'No prob, there's always bar mitzvahs.' Stubbing out her cigarette, she said, 'You don't happen to ever work for Variety, do you? Or The Hollywood Reporter?'

'Mostly I do wire service stuff.'

'Someone's interested in the restaurant?'

Milo shrugged. 'I drive around. You've got to dig if you wanna find oil.'

She looked at the Taurus and her next smile was ripe with sympathy. Another L.A. loser. 'Well, if you ever do Variety, remember this name: Chataqua Dale.'

Milo repeated it. 'Nice. But so is Val.'

A cloud of doubt washed over the blue eyes. 'You really think so? 'Cause I was wondering if Chataqua was maybe, you know, over the top.'

'No,' said Milo. 'It's great.'

'Thanks.' She touched his arm, let the cigarette drop to the pavement, ground out the butt, got a dreamy look in her eyes. Audition fever. 'Well, gotta go.'

'Thanks for your time,' said Milo, reaching into his pocket and slipping her another twenty.

'You are soooo nice,' she said.

'Not usually.'

'Oh, I bet you are- let me ask you, you meet people, right? Know any decent agents? 'Cause mine is an asshole.'

'Only agents of destruction,' he said.

Puzzlement lent the beautiful young face temporary complexity. Then her actor's instincts cut in: Still not comprehending, but recognizing a cue, she smiled and touched his arm again. 'Right. See you around.'

'Bye,' said Milo. 'By the way, what does Brad do?'

'Walks around with them,' she said.

'A walking-around guy.'

'You got it- they all need them.'

'Hollywood types?'

'Rich types with gross bodies.'

'Know Brad's last name?'