No pool table- no tables of any kind. Just a long, pressed-wood bar with a black vinyl bumper and matching stools, some of them patched with duct tape. Up against the facing wall were a cigarette machine and a pocket comb dispenser. The floor was grubby concrete.
The man working the bar was thirtyish, fair, balding, stubbled. He wore tinted eyeglasses and one of his ears was double pierced, hosting a tiny gold stud and a white metal hoop. He had on a soiled white apron over a black T-shirt, and his chest was flabby. His arms were soft looking, too, white and tattooed. He wasn't doing much when I came in, and he continued along those lines. Two men sat at the bar, far from each other. More tattoos. They didn't move either. It looked like a poster for National Brain Death Week.
I took a stool between the men and ordered a beer.
'Draft or bottle?'
'Draft.'
The bartender took a long time to fill a mug, and as I waited I snuck glances at my companions. Both wore billed caps, T-shirts, jeans, and work shoes. One was skinny, the other muscular. Their hands were dirty. They smoked and drank and had tired faces.
My beer came and I took a swallow. Not much head and not great, but not as bad as I'd expected.
'Any idea when Roddy'll be back?' I said.
'Who?' said the bartender.
'Rodriguez- the masonry guy next door. He's supposed to be doing a retaining wall for me and he didn't show up.'
He shrugged.
'Place is closed,' I said.
No answer.
'Great,' I said. 'Guy's got my goddamned deposit.'
The bartender began soaking glasses in a gray plastic tub.
I drank some more.
ZZ gave way to a disc jockey's voice, hawking car insurance for people with bad driving records. Then a series of commercials for ambulance-chasing lawyers polluted the air some more.
'When's the last time you've seen him around?' I said.
The bartender turned around. 'Who?'
'Rodriguez.'
Shrug.
'Has his place been closed for a while?'
Another shrug. He returned to soaking.
'Great,' I said.
He looked over his shoulder. 'He never comes in here, I got nothing to do with him, okay?'
'Not much of a drinker?'
Shrug.
'Fucking asshole,' said the man on my right.
The skinny one. Sallow and pimpled, barely above drinking age. His cigarette was dead in the ashtray. One of his index fingers played with the ashes.
I said, 'Who? Rodriguez?'
He gave a depressed nod. 'Fucking greaser don't pay.'
'You worked for him?'
'Fucking A, digging his fucking ditches. Then the roach coach comes by for lunch and I wanna advance so's to get a burrito. He says sorry, amigo, not till payday. So I'm adios, amigo, man.'
He shook his head, still pained by the rejection.
'Asshole,' he said, and returned to his beer.
'So he shafted you, too,' I said.
'Fucking A, man.'
'Any idea where I can find him?'
'Maybe Mexico, man.'
'Mexico?'
'Yeah, all a them beaners got second homes there, got they extra wives and they little taco-tico kids, send all they money there.'
I heard a metallic click to the left, looked over, and saw the muscular man light up a cigarette. Late twenties or early thirties, two-day growth of heavy beard, thick, black Fu Manchu mustache. His cap was black and said CAT. He blew smoke toward the bar.
I said, 'You know Rodriguez, too?'
He gave a long, slow headshake and held out his mug.
The bartender filled it, then extended his own hand. The mustachioed man jostled the pack until a cigarette slid forward. The bartender took it, nodded, and lit up.
Guns 'n Roses came on the radio.
The bartender looked at my half-empty mug. 'Anything else?'
I shook my head, put money down on the bar, and left.
'Asshole,' said the skinny man, raising his voice to be heard over the music.
• • •
I drove back to the Rodriguez house. Still dark and empty. A woman across the street was holding a broom, and she began looking at me suspiciously.
I called over: 'Any idea when they'll be back?'
She went inside her house. I drove away and got back on the freeway, exiting on Sunset and heading north on Beverly Glen. I realized my error just as I completed the turn, but continued on to my house anyway, pulling up in front of the carport. Looking over my shoulder with paranoid fervor, I decided it was safe to get out of the car.
I walked around my property, looking, remembering. Though it made no sense, the house already looked sad.
I took a quick look at the pond. The fish were still there. They swam up to greet me and I obliged with food.
'See you guys,' I said, and left, wondering how many would survive.
11
I made it to Benedict a few minutes later.
The black van and the unmarked were gone. Two of the three garage doors were open and I saw Robin inside, wearing work clothes and goggles, standing behind her lathe.
She saw me coming and turned off the machine. A gold BMW coupe was parked in the third garage. The rest of the space was a near duplicate of the Venice shop.
'Looks like you're all set up,' I said.
She pushed her goggles up on her forehead. 'This isn't too bad, actually, as long as I leave the door open for ventilation. How come you're back so soon?'
'No one home.'
'Flake out on you?'
'It looks like they're gone for a while.'
'Moved out?'
'Must be the week for it.'
'How could you tell?'
'Two days' mail in the box and her husband's business was padlocked.'
'Considerate of her to let you know.'
