hadn’t put up much of a protest. He knew she might help put Harris at ease, if he knew who she was. Bosch knew it was important that Harris be willing to talk to them. He might be the only one to whom Howard Elias had confided the identity of Stacey Kincaid’s murderer.
“Overreacting as usual,” Bosch said. “One fire and they’re all there, showing the flames. You know what that does? That’s like throwing gasoline on it. It will spread now. People will see that in their living rooms and go outside to see what is happening. Groups will form, things will be said and people won’t be able to back down from their anger. One thing will lead to another and we’ll have our media-manufactured riot.”
“I give the people a little more credit than that,” Entrenkin responded. “They know not to trust the TV. Civil unrest occurs when the feelings of overwhelming powerlessness hit critical mass. It has nothing to do with television. It has to do with society not addressing the essential needs of overlooked people.”
Bosch noted that she called it civil unrest instead of rioting. He wondered if calling a riot a riot had become politically incorrect.
“It’s about hope, Detective,” she continued. “Most of the people in the minority communities of Los Angeles have no power, have no money, have no voice. They subsist on hope for these things. And Howard Elias was hope for many of them. A symbol of hope for a day when things will be equal, when their voice will be heard. Of a day when they need not fear the police officers in their community. When you take hope away it leaves a void. Some people fill that up with anger and with violence. To simply blame it on the media is wrong. It’s much deeper than that.”
Bosch nodded.
“I understand,” he said. “At least I think I do. But all I’m saying is the media don’t help any by exaggerating things.”
Entrenkin now nodded his point.
“Somebody once called the media the merchants of chaos.”
“Yeah, well, they got that right.”
“It was Spiro Agnew. Right before he resigned.”
Bosch had no answer for that and decided to drop the conversation. He got his cell phone out of the charger on the floor between the seats and called his home. There was no answer except for the machine and he left a message asking Eleanor to call him. He tried not to show outwardly that he was upset. He called information and got the number for the Hollywood Park poker room again. He called the number, asked for Jardine, the security man, and he was transferred through.
“This is Jardine.”
“This is Detective Bosch from last night. I – ”
“She never showed up, pal. At least not on my wa – ”
“You can save it, pal. She told me that you and she go back to the Flamingo. I understand what you did and it’s cool. But I know she’s back there now and I want you to give her a message. Tell her to call me on my cell phone as soon as she takes a break. Tell her it’s an emergency. You got that, Mister Jardine?”
Bosch stressed the word Mister so that maybe Jardine would realize he was making a mistake screwing with the LAPD.
“Yeah,” Jardine said. “I got it.”
“Good.”
Bosch clicked off.
“You know what I remember most about ’ninety-two?” Entrenkin said. “One image. A photo that was in the Times. The caption was something like ‘Father and Son Looters’ and the picture showed a man leading his four-or five-year-old son out of the smashed-in door of a Kmart or something. And you know what each one was carrying, what they had looted?”
“What?”
“Each one had taken one of those Thigh-Master things. You know, that ridiculous exercise contraption that some television star from the ’eighties sold late at night on TV.”
Bosch shook his head at the inanity of her image.
“They saw it on TV and so they thought it was valuable,” he said. “Like Howard Elias.”
She didn’t respond and he realized he had been out of line, even if he believed there was something valid in what he had said.
“Sorry…”
They drove in silence for a few minutes before Bosch spoke again.
“You know what my image is of ’ninety-two?”
“What?”
“I was assigned to Hollywood Boulevard. And, as you know, we weren’t really supposed to do anything unless we saw people in danger of physical harm. Essentially, this meant that if the looters were orderly about it, we basically weren’t going to stop them. It made no – anyway, I was on the boulevard and I remember a lot of weird things. The Scientologists surrounding their buildings, standing practically shoulder to shoulder and carrying broomsticks, ready to make a stand if needed. The guy who ran the Army surplus store near Highland was in full combat infantry dress and carrying a sniper rifle over his shoulder. He was marching back and forth in front of his store like he was at the gate at Benning… People get crazy, the good and the bad. It’s day of the locusts.”
“Well, aren’t you the well-read detective, Detective Bosch.”
“Not really. I once lived with a woman who taught junior lit at Grant High in the Valley. It was one of the books she taught. I read it then. Anyway, the image that sticks with me from ’ninety-two is Frederick’s of Hollywood.”
“The lingerie place?”
Bosch nodded.
“I pulled up there and the place was swarming. Multiracial, multiage, people who had just lost it. They cleaned that place out in about fifteen minutes. I mean, everything. When they were done I walked in there and there was nothing left. They even stole the manikins. Absolutely nothing but the hangers left on the floor and the chrome display racks… and the thing is, all it had been was underwear. Four cops get off for beating the shit out of Rodney King on video and people respond by going nuts and stealing underwear. It was so surreal that that’s what comes into my head when people bring up the riots. I remember walking around in that empty store.”
“It didn’t matter what they took. They were acting out frustrations. It’s like the Thigh-Masters. That father and son didn’t care what they took. The important thing was that they took something, that in some way they made a statement. They had no use for those things but by taking them they were showing The Man. That’s the lesson the father taught his son.”
“It still doesn’t make – ”
Bosch’s phone rang and he opened it. It was Eleanor.
“You winning?” he asked.
He said it with a happy inflection and then immediately realized he had said it in such a way so that his passenger might not surmise what was really going on with his marriage. At once he felt embarrassed and guilty that he would even let what Entrenkin thought or interpreted enter into his relationship with Eleanor.
“Not yet. I just got here.”
“Eleanor, I want you to go home.”
“Harry, we’re not going to talk about this now. I – ”
“No, I’m not talking about all of that. I think the city… have you watched the news?”
“No. I’ve been coming here.”
“Well, it doesn’t look good. The media’s lighting the match, Eleanor. And if something happens and the city goes, you’re not in a good place to be.”
Bosch took a furtive glance at Entrenkin. He knew he was acting out white paranoia in front of her. Hollywood Park was in Inglewood, a primarily black community. He wanted Eleanor back at their home in the hills where it was safe.
“Harry, I think you’re being paranoid. I’ll be fine.”
“Eleanor, why take the – ”
“Harry, I have to go. They’re holding my chair. I’ll call you later.”
She hung up then and Bosch said good-bye to a dead line. He dropped the phone onto his lap.
