sniffing the muffins as they went by, and when the scent moved out of range they returned their stare to us.
“Well,” Susan said, “I could come over to your place and stay with them at night. But during the day, I have patients.”
I nodded. We both looked at Hawk. Hawk looked at the dogs.
They stared back at him.
“What happens during the day?” Hawk said.
“They need to be walked.”
“How often?”
“Three, four times,” I said.
“Every day?”
“Yuh.”
Hawk looked at me. He looked at Susan and then back at the dogs.
“Shit,” he said.
“That’s a part of it,” I said.
“I meant shit, as in oh shit!” Hawk said.
“You and Susan can work it out in detail between you,” I said. “My plane leaves in an hour.”
Hawk was looking at me with a gaze that one less optimistic than I might interpret as hatred. I patted the dogs. Susan stood and we hugged and I kissed her. Hawk was still gazing at me. I put my hand out, palm up. He slapped it lightly.
“Thanks, bro,” I said.
“Honkies suck,” he said.
I took a cab to the airport. The plane took off on time, and I flew high above the fruited plain for six hours, cheered by the image of Hawk walking the three dogs.
Chapter 36
DEL Rio had her in a hotel on Sunset in West Hollywood, a big one with a great view of the L.A. Basin. She was in one bedroom of a two-bedroom suite. The Indian in the Italian suit who had first taken me to see del Rio was in there, in the living room, reading the L.A. Times with his feet up on the coffee table. He had on a white cotton pullover today, and I could see the outline of a gun stuck in the waistband of his tight pocketless gray slacks. He glanced up once when Chollo brought me in, then went back to the paper.
“Vic in with her?” Chollo said.
The Indian nodded. Chollo nodded at one of the chairs.
“Sit,” he said.
I sat. The room was large and square with the wall of picture windows facing south and the brownish haze above the basin, slightly below eye level, stretching to some higher ground in the distant south. To the left I could see the black towers of downtown poking up above the smog and to the right the coastline, fusing with the smog line in a sort of indiscriminate variation. The room itself was aggressively modern with bars of primary color painted on various portions of it and round-edged chrome structured furniture. The air conditioning was silent but effective. The room was nearly cold. Chollo leaned on the wall near one of the bedroom doors and gazed at nothing. His lips were pursed as if he were whistling silently to himself. His arms were folded comfortably across his chest. He was wearing a blue blazer over a white polo shirt. The collar of the shirt was turned up. I crossed one leg over the other and watched my toe bob. When I got bored I could cross my legs the other way.
I stared at the view.
After about ten minutes del Rio came out of the bedroom and closed the door behind him. He looked at me and nodded once. Then he looked at the Indian.
“Bobby, wait outside.”
The Indian got up, folded the newspaper over, and went out of the hotel suite. He closed the door behind him. Del Rio went to the bar in one corner of, the room. There were three stools at the bar. He sat on one of them. Chollo peeled off the wall and went past him and behind the bar. He mixed a tall scotch and soda, added ice, and handed it to del Rio. Del Rio looked at me and gestured with the glass.
“Sure,” I said. “Same thing. Lots of ice.”
Chollo made me a drink, and then poured out a short one and tossed it off himself, put the glass back on the bar, leaned back against the mirrored wall behind the bar, and waited. Del Rio sampled his drink, smiled.
“It’s blended,” he said.
“Want I should call down for a single malt?” Chollo said.
Del Rio shook his head. “Won’t be here that long, I hope.”
I tasted my drink. I couldn’t tell, not with the soda and ice. Del Rio took another sip.
“Nice to see you again, Spenser.”
“Sure,” I said. “When do I see Jill?”
“Pretty soon. I think we better talk first.”
I waited. Chollo refolded his arms behind the bar and his gaze fixed on something in the middle distance. Del
