“Edward Gunn,” he said. “He was a regular, right?”
“He came in a lot.”
McCaleb nodded. Her acknowledgment confirmed Bosch’s tip.
“You work New Year’s Eve?”
She nodded.
“You know if he came in that night?”
She shook her head.
“I can’t remember. A lot of people were in here New Year’s Eve. We had a party. I don’t know if he was here or not. It wouldn’t surprise me, though. People came and went.”
McCaleb nodded toward the other bartender. A Latino who also wore a black vest with no shirt beneath.
“What about him? Think he’d remember?”
“No, ’cause he only started last week. I’m breaking him in.”
A thin smile played on her face. McCaleb ignored it. “Twisting the Night Away” began playing. The Rod Stewart version.
“How well did you know Gunn?”
She let out a short burst of laughter.
“Honey, this is the kind of place where people don’t exactly like to let on who they are or what they are. How well did I know him? I knew him, okay? Like I said, he came in. But I didn’t even know his name until he was dead and people started talking about him. Somebody said Eddie Gunn got himself killed and I said, ‘Who the fuck is Eddie Gunn?’ They had to describe him. The whiskey rocks who always had the paint in his hair. Then I knew who Eddie Gunn was.”
McCaleb nodded. He reached inside his coat pocket and brought out a folded piece of newspaper. He slid it across the bartop. She leaned down to look, showing another view of her breasts. McCaleb thought it was intentional.
“This is that cop, the one from the trial, right?”
McCaleb didn’t answer the question. The newspaper had been folded to a photo of Harry Bosch that had run that morning in the Los Angeles Times as an advance on the testimony expected to begin in the Storey trial. It was a candid shot of Bosch standing outside the courtroom door. He probably didn’t even know it had been taken.
“You seen him in here?”
“Yeah, he comes in. Why are you asking about him?”
McCaleb felt a charge go up the back of his neck.
“When does he come in?”
“I don’t know, from time to time. I wouldn’t call him a regular. But he’d come in. And he wouldn’t stay long. A one-timer – one drink and out. He’s…”
She pointed a finger up and cocked her head to the side as she rifled through her interior files. She then slashed her finger down as if making a notch.
“Got it. Bottled beer. Asks for Anchor Steam every time because he always forgets we don’t carry it – too expensive, we’d never sell it. He then settles for the old thirty-three.”
McCaleb was about to ask what that was when she answered his unspoken question.
“Rolling Rock.”
He nodded.
“Was he in here New Year’s Eve?”
She shook her head.
“Same answer. I don’t remember. Too many people, too many drinks, too many days since then.”
McCaleb nodded and pulled the newspaper back across the bar and put it in his pocket.
“He in some kind of trouble, that cop?”
McCaleb shook his head. One of the women at the end of the bar tapped the corner of her empty glass on the bartop and called to the bartender.
“Hey, Miranda, you got payin’ customers over here.”
The bartender looked around for her partner. He was gone, apparently in the back room or the bathroom.
“Gotta go to work,” she said.
McCaleb watched her go to the end of the bar and make two fresh vodka rocks for the hookers. During a lull in the music, he overheard one of them tell her to stop talking to the cop so he would leave. As Miranda headed back toward McCaleb’s position one of the hookers called after her.
“And stop giving him the freebie or he’ll never leave.”
McCaleb acted like he didn’t hear it. Miranda exhaled like she was tired when she got to him.
“I don’t know where Javier went. I can’t be standing here talking to you all night.”
“Let me ask you one last thing,” he said. “You ever remember the cop being in here with Eddie Gunn at the same time – either together or apart?”
She thought a moment and leaned forward.
“Maybe, it could’ve happened. But I don’t remember.”
McCaleb nodded. He was pretty sure that was the best he could get out of her. He wondered if he should leave some money on the bar. He’d never been good at that sort of thing when he was an agent. He never knew when it would be appropriate and when it would be insulting.
“Can I ask you something now?” Miranda asked.
“What?”
“You like what you see?”
He felt his face immediately begin to color with embarrassment.
“I mean, you were looking enough. I just thought I’d ask.”
She glanced over at the hookers and shared a smile. They were all enjoying McCaleb’s embarrassment.
“They’re real nice,” he said as he stepped away from the bar, leaving a twenty-dollar bill for her. “I’m sure they keep people coming back. Probably kept Eddie Gunn comin’ in.”
He headed toward the door and she called after him, her words hitting him in the back all the way to the door.
“Then maybe you oughta come back and try ’em out some time, Officer!”
As he went through the door he heard the hookers whoop and slap hands in a high five.
McCaleb sat in the Cherokee in front of Nat’s and tried to shake off the embarrassment. He concentrated on the information he had gotten from the bartender. Gunn was a regular and might or might not have been in there on the last night of his life. Secondly, she was familiar with Bosch as a customer. He, too, might or might not have been in there on the last night of Gunn’s life. The fact that this information had indirectly come from Bosch was puzzling. Again, he wondered why Bosch – if he was Gunn’s killer – had given him a valid clue to follow. Was it arrogance, a belief that he would never be considered a suspect and therefore not be brought up during the questioning at the bar? Or could there be a deeper psychological motivation? McCaleb knew that many criminals make mistakes that ensure their apprehension because subconsciously they do not want to get away with their crimes. The big wheel theory, McCaleb thought. Maybe Bosch was subconsciously making sure the wheel turned for him as well.
He opened his cell phone and checked the signal. It was good. He called Jaye Winston’s home number. He checked his watch while the phone was ringing and thought that it was not too late to call. After five rings she finally picked up.
“It’s me. I’ve got some stuff.”
“So do I. But I’m still on the phone. Can I call you when I’m done?”
“Yeah, I’ll be here.”
He clicked off and sat in the car waiting and thinking about things. He watched through the windshield as the white hooker from the bar stepped through the door with a man in a baseball cap in tow. They both lit cigarettes and headed down the sidewalk toward a motel called the Skylark.
