“He’s not here tonight.”
“Then where is he? I need to talk to him.”
“He’s probably at Chet’s. That’s where he keeps his office. He doesn’t usually start bopping around to the places until after midnight. Are you going to pay the ten?”
“I don’t think so. I’m leaving.”
She frowned.
“You’re a cop, aren’t you?”
I smiled proudly.
“Going on twenty-eight years.”
I left off the part about the twenty-eight years coming before I retired. I figured she’d get on the phone and send the word a cop was coming. That might work in my favor. I reached in my pocket and pulled out a ten. I tossed it onto the bar.
“That’s not the cover. That’s for you. Get a haircut.”
She put an exaggerated smile on her face, one that showed she had a nice set of dimples. She snatched the ten.
“Thanks, Dad.”
I smiled as I walked out.
It took me fifteen minutes to get over to Chet’s on Santa Monica near LaBrea. I had the address thanks to Los Angeles Magazine, which had conveniently put a listing of all of the Four Kings establishments in a box on the last page of the story.
Again there was no line and few customers. I was beginning to think that once you are declared cool in the tourist books and magazines, then you’re dead in the water. Chet’s was almost a carbon copy of Nat’s, right down to the sullen bartender with the not-so-subtle nipples and tattoos. The one thing I liked about the place was the music. Chet Baker’s “Cool Burnin’” was playing when I walked in and I thought maybe the kings might have some taste after all.
The bartender was deja vu all over again-tall, thin and in black, except her bicep tattoo was Marilyn Monroe’s face circa “Happy Birthday, Mr. President.”
“You the cop?” she asked before I said a word.
“You’ve been talking to your sister. I guess she told you I don’t pay cover.”
“She said something about that.”
“Where’s Linus?”
“He’s in his office. I told him you were coming.”
“That was nice of you.”
I stepped away from the bar but pointed at her tattoo.
“Your mom?”
“Hey, come here, take a look.”
I leaned back over the bar. She bent her elbow and flexed her muscles repeatedly. Marilyn’s cheeks puffed up and then down as the bicep beneath expanded and contracted.
“Kind of looks like she’s giving a blow job, doesn’t it?” the bartender said.
“That’s real cute,” I said. “I bet you show that to all the boys.”
“Is it worth ten bucks?”
I almost told her I knew places where I could get the real thing for a ten but let it go. I left her there and found my way to a hallway behind the bar. There were doors for the rest rooms and then a door marked “Management Only.” I didn’t knock. I just went through and it only led to a continuation of the hallway and more doors. The third door down said “Linus” on it. I opened that one without knocking, too.
Linus Simonson was sitting behind a cluttered desk. I recognized him from the magazine photo. He had a bottle of Scotch whiskey and a snifter on the desk. There was a black leather couch in the office and on it sat a man I also recognized from the magazine as one of the partners. His name was James Oliphant. He had his feet up on a coffee table and looked like he wasn’t the least bit concerned by a visit from a man he’d been told was a cop.
“Hey, man, you the cop,” Simonson said as he waved me in. “Close the door.”
I stepped in and introduced myself. I didn’t say I was a cop.
“Well, I’m Linus and that there’s Jim. What’s up? What can we do for you?”
I held my hands out as though I had nothing to hide.
“I’m not sure what you can do for me. I just wanted to drop by and sort of introduce myself. I’m working on the Angella Benton case and of course that includes the BankLA case so… here I am.”
“Oh, man, BankLA. That’s some serious ancient history there.”
He looked at his partner and laughed.
“That was like another lifetime ago. I don’t want to go there, man. That’s a bad memory.”
“Yeah, well, not as bad for you as it was for Angella Benton.”
Simonson suddenly got serious and leaned forward on his desk.
“I don’t get this, man. What are you doing here? You’re not a cop. Cops come in twos. If you are a cop, then you aren’t legit. What do you want? Let me see a badge.”
“I didn’t tell anybody I had a badge. I was a cop, but not now. In fact, I thought maybe you’d recognize me from that other lifetime you were talking about.”
Simonson looked at Oliphant and smirked.
“Recognize you from what?”
“I was there that day you took it in the ass. I’m talking about the bullet. But then again, you were rolling around and screaming so much you probably didn’t have time to look at me.”
But Simonson’s eyes widened in recognition. Maybe not physical recognition but recognition of who I was and what I had done.
“Shit, you’re the guy. You’re the cop that was there. You’re the one who shot -”
He stopped himself from saying a name. He looked at Oliphant.
“He’s the one who hit one of the robbers.”
I looked at Oliphant and I saw recognition-physical recognition-and maybe something like hate or anger in his eyes.
“That’s not known for sure because we never got the robber. But, yeah, I think I hit him. That was me.”
I said it with a smile of pride. I kept it on my face as I turned back to Simonson.
“Who are you working for?” Simonson asked.
“Me? I’m working for somebody who isn’t going to stop, who isn’t going to let up. Not for a minute. He’s going to find out who put Angella Benton down on the tile and he’ll go at it until he either dies or he knows.”
Simonson smirked again arrogantly.
“Well, good luck to you and him, Mr. Bosch. I think you ought to go now. We’re kind of busy here.”
I nodded to him and then looked at Oliphant, giving him the best deadeye in my repertoire.
“Then I guess I’ll see you boys around.”
I went through the door and down the hallway back to the bar. Chet Baker was now singing “My Funny Valentine.” As I headed for the main door I noticed the bartender flexing her bicep for two men sitting at the bar where I had stood. They were laughing. I recognized them as the remaining two kings from the magazine photo.
They stopped laughing when they saw me and I felt their eyes on me all the way out the door.
39
On the way home I stopped at the twenty-four-hour Ralph’s on Sunset and bought a bag of coffee. I didn’t expect that I’d be getting much sleep between the night and the multi-agency confab the following morning.
On the drive up the hill to my house there are too many curves to use the rearview mirror to check for a tail. But there is one sweeping curve halfway up that allows you to look to your right out the passenger window and
