them. It was close to six by the third time I called the network. This time no one answered.
Instead of implying Ike had been unsuccessful in reaching the network man, it might mean they’d talked and Crevolin hadn’t given him what he wanted.
But why had Ike believed Crevolin would he helpful?
A New Left veteran. And author.
Perhaps Ike had gotten hold of Crevolin’s book and found something interesting.
I looked at my watch. An hour until I was supposed to pick up Linda.
I called a bookstore in Westwood Village. The clerk checked
“Any idea where I might get hold of it?”
“What’s it about?”
“The New Left, the sixties.”
“Vagabond Books has a big sixties section.”
I knew Vagabond- Westwood Boulevard just above Olympic. Right on the way to Linda’s. A warm, cluttered place with the dusty, easy-browsing feel of a campus-area bookstore, the kind of place L.A. campuses rarely have. I’d bought a few Chandler and MacDonald and Leonard first editions there, some art and psych and poetry books. I looked up the number, called, waited ten rings and was about to hang up when a man answered:
“Vagabond.”
I told him what I was looking for.
“Yup, we have it.”
“Great. I’ll come by right now and pick it up.”
“Sorry, we’re closed.”
“What time do you open tomorrow?”
“Eleven.”
“Okay. See you at eleven.”
“It’s pretty important to you?”
“Yes, it is.”
“You a writer?”
“Researcher.”
“Tell you what: come around through the back, I’ll give it to you for ten bucks.”
I thanked him, did a quick change, and left, picking up Westwood Boulevard at Wilshire and taking it south. I reached the back entrance to the bookstore by 6:25. The door was bolted. After a couple of hard raps, I heard the bolt slide back. A tall lean man in his thirties, with a boyishly handsome face framed by long wavy hair parted in the middle, stood holding a grimy-looking paperback book in one hand. The book’s cover was gray and unmarked. The man wore sneakers and cords and a Harvard sweat shirt. A tenor sax hung from a string around his neck.
He gave a warm smile and said, “I looked for a cleaner one, but this was all we had.”
I said, “No problem. I appreciate your doing this.”
He handed me the book. “Happy research.”
I held out a ten.
“Make it five,” he said, reaching into his pocket and giving me change. “I recognize you now. You’re a good customer, and it’s a ratty copy. Besides, it’s not exactly one of our fast-movers.”
“Bad writing?”
He laughed and fingered some buttons on the sax. “That doesn’t start to describe it. It’s self-published dreck.
I opened the book. The title was
“As in
He raised the sax to his lips, expelled a few blue notes and bent them.
I thanked him again.
He continued to play, blowing harder, raised his eyebrows, and closed the door.
I tossed the book into the trunk of the Seville and drove to Linda’s.
We went to a place in the Los Feliz district that I’d gotten to know during my days at Western Pediatric. Small, Italian, deli case in front, tables in back. Ripe with Romano cheese and garlic sausage, olive loaf and prosciutto, a beautiful brine smell wafting up from open vats of olives.
I ordered a bottle of Chianti Classico that cost more than our dinners combined. Each of us finished a glass before the food came.
I asked how the children were handling Massengil’s murder.
She said, “Pretty well, actually. Most of them didn’t seem to have that clear a picture of who he was. It seems like a pretty remote experience for them. I dealt with the cause and effect thing. Thanks for getting me on the right track.”
She filled my glass, then hers. “Catch the six o’clock news?”
“No.”
“You were right about Massengil- they’re turning him into a saint.
“Latch?”
“Oh, yeah, center stage. Delivering a eulogy in Council chambers. Going on about how he and
“Beloved leader,” I said.
“Everyone loves him now. Even the guy Massengil punched out- DiMarco- had nice things to say.”
“Nothing like death to enhance the old public image.”
“If his corpse were up for reelection, he’d probably win.”
I raised my glass. “What a concept. Suicide as a campaign tactic. The possibilities are fascinating- like adding the post of Official Exhumer to the cabinet.”
Both of us laughed. She said, “Lord, this is grisly. But I’m sorry, I just can’t start liking him because he’s dead. I remember how he used us. And what he liked to do with that call girl. Ugh.”
I said, “Any mention of Dobbs through all of this?”
“Respected psychologist, consultant, et cetera.”
“No mention of his working at the school?”
She nodded. “That was the respected psychologist part. They made it sound as if he’d been treating the kids all along- so much for an informed press. There were also a few questions about a possible connection to the sniping, but Frisk brushed them off with doubletalk: every contingency being investigated, top secret, et cetera, et cetera. Not that any cops’ve been down to talk to us.”
She licked her lips. “Then Latch goes out in front of City Hall, rolls up his sleeves, and lowers the flag to half- mast himself, looking real solemn. Twenty years ago he was probably burning it.”
“People have short memories,” I said. “He proved that by getting elected. He’s gotten his foothold; now he’s angling for respectability. The Great Conciliator. Combine that with the DeJon concert and the fact that it was his man who saved the day, and he’ll probably go down as the hero in this whole thing.”
She shook her head. “All the stuff they don’t teach you in civics class. When you get down to it, they’re all the same, aren’t they? One big power trip, no matter what they claim they stand for.”
She said, “What is it, Alex?”
“What’s what?”
