"We deserve no less," I said.
"We deserve a lot less," Hawk said. "But I won't insist on it."
Captain Samuelson had his office in the Parker Center. I left Hawk outside on Los Angeles Street with the car. It saved parking, and I figured Sonny Karnofsky wouldn't make a run at me inside LAPD Headquarters.
Samuelson's office was on the third floor in the Robbery Homicide Division, in a section marked Homicide Special Section I. Samuelson came out of his office in his shirt sleeves. He was fully bald now, his head clean shaven, and he'd gotten rid of his mustache. But he still wore tinted aviator glasses, and he was still one of my great fans.
"The hot dog from Boston," he said, standing in his office doorway.
"I thought I'd swing by," I said. "Help you straighten out the Rampart Division."
"Not possible," Samuelson said. "Besides, I'm out of town, fishing in Baja, won't be back until you've left town."
"You can run," I said, "but you can't hide."
Samuelson jerked his head and stood aside, and I went into his office. I walked in and sat and looked around.
"Slick," I said.
"I'm a fucking Captain," Samuelson said. "Section commander. Of course I have a slick office. Whaddya want?"
"Coyote, don't know his real name," I said. "Formerly of San Diego. Black, about sixty. Maybe done time. Maybe for possession with intent."
"You think I know every two-bit dope slug in the city?" Samuelson said.
"Yes."
Samuelson took out a package of Juicy Fruit gum, unwrapped two sticks, and folded them into his mouth. He held the package out toward me. I shook my head.
"Every time I chew gum," I said, "I bite the inside of my cheek."
"Clumsy bastard," Samuelson said.
"Have trouble walking, too," I said.
Samuelson nodded and swung his swivel chair around to a computer on a table at a right angle to his desk. "See what I can pull up," he said.
He played with the computer for a couple minutes. "Okay," he said, reading off the screen. "Holton, Leon James, AKA Coyote. Born in Culver City, February tenth, 1940. First arrest in San Diego, August eleventh, 1953, for assault, dismissed because the plaintiff never showed. October I960, in San Diego, suspicion of armed robbery, lack of evidence. List goes on. I'll print it out for you." Samuelson tapped the keyboard.
"He did time in 1966 for armed robbery," Samuelson said, still reading. "And in 1980 for dope."
"Long dry spell," I said.
"Both those collars were in San Diego, too," Samuelson said.
"Anything else interesting?"
"You first," Samuelson said.
Seemed fair. I told him what I knew about Emily and Daryl and Barry and Leon.
"Ah, yes," Samuelson said and leaned back in his chair. "Flower power. That sounds like our Leon, doesn't it?"
"Lot of drugs around," I said.
"Liberated," Samuelson said. "Lot of pussy, too."
"Now you tell me," I said.
Samuelson was looking at the screen as we talked.
"This is kind of interesting," he said. "Had a couple of FBI inquiries on Leon. Late 74, early 75. Local SAC requested any information we had."
"What did you give him?"
"I'm using the term 'we' loosely. I wasn't even around here then."
"Sorry, I just assume you know everything. How about any of these names?"
"Yeah, sure. Why don't you try your pal del Rio. He knows a lot about crime in Southern California."
"Being the source of much of it," I said. "He's in Switzerland with his, ah, staff."
"For crissake," Samuelson said. "You called him first."
"I didn't want to bother you," I said.
"Then stay the fuck back in Boston and eat beans," Samuelson said. "You bother me every time you get west of Flagstaff."
"Well, I guess I should go see Leon," I said. "Got an address?"
"No. But he's on parole," Samuelson said. "His PO is Raymond Cortez."
"You got a phone number?"
"Sure."
"So why don't you call Raymond and ask for Leon's address."
"What am I, your secretary?"
"L.A. Police Captain will get a lot more response than a private guy from Boston," I said.
"And should," Samuelson said and picked up his phone.
Leon had an address on Mulholland Drive, west of Beverly Glen. Samuelson wrote it out on a memo pad, ripped off the sheet, and handed it to me.
"Thank you," I said. "How about a woman named Bunny Lombard?"
"Bunny?" Samuelson said. "Only name I got," I said.
Samuelson leaned forward and tapped his computer keys. "I feel like I'm on a fucking quiz show," he said.
"You are an absolute model of transcontinental cooperation," I said.
Samuelson studied the computer a little longer, then he shook his head.
"Nix on Bunny," he said. "Nothing."
"I got plenty of that," I said.
"And deserve every bit of it," Samuelson said.
"I may as well go see Leon."
"You got any backup? This is a tough coast. Leon may be a tough guy."
I nodded. "I have backup," I said.
"He any good?" Samuelson said.
"Captain," I said. "You have no idea."
30
It was one of those days in L.A. There was enough breeze to keep the smog diluted, and the sun was bright and pleasant, shining down on the flowering trees and blond hair. At quarter till two we were heading up Beverly Glen. At the top we turned left onto Mulholland and went along the crest of the hill with the San Fernando Valley spread out below us to the right, orderly and smog-free.
Leon Holton's house was built onto a hillside at the end of a long driveway that slanted off Mulholland so that the house overlooked the Valley. When we pulled up to the security gate and rang the bell, a voice on the speakerphone said, "Yeah?"
"We're here to see Leon Holton," I said. "Emily Gordon sent us."
There was a long silence, then the intercom buzzed and the security barrier swung open. We drove another hundred yards and parked in a circular driveway outside. The house in front of us was some sort of glass pyramid with a wide double door recessed into the front. The door was painted turquoise. To the left, built into the down slope toward the valley, was a full-sized basketball court made of some kind of green composition from which tennis courts are sometimes built. A red, white, and blue basketball sat on the ground near midcourt. A slim black man with a small patch of beard under his lower lip came to the door as we got out of the car.
"I'd like to see some ID, please," he said.
"We're not cops," I said.
The slim guy was wearing a black Armani suit and a black silk T-shirt. He glanced quickly over his shoulder into the house. Then he turned back and stared at us for a time.
"Getting a little scared?" I said to Hawk.
"Chilled," Hawk said. "The man's stare is chilling."
"Who's this Emily Gordon?" the slim man said.
"You Leon?" I said.
"No. What's this shit about Emily whosis?"
"We'll need to talk with Leon about that," I said.
The slim guy looked at us some more. Hawk and I bore up as best we could. Finally, the slim guy said, "Wait here," and turned and disappeared into the ridiculous glass pyramid. We waited. In a few minutes he came back out, and with him was backup. There was a little white guy with big hands who looked like he might have been a jockey once, and a 300-pound black man with very little body fat who stood about 6'8".
"If there's trouble," I murmured to Hawk, "you take him."
"Might be better," Hawk said, "we run like rabbits."
"We need to search you," the slim guy said, "before you go in."
"We each have a gun," I said.
"Can't bring in no gun," the slim man said.
"We'll lock them in the trunk," I said.
"I'll do it," Slim said. "Pop the trunk."
"Now, first, White Guy, take the gun out and hold it in two fingers and hand it to me."
I did and he took it, and, holding it in his left hand, he went around to Hawk.
"Now you, bro."
Hawk gave him his gun. Slim put both guns in the trunk.
"Okay," he said. "Step out, put your hands on the roof."
We did. The big black man stood close to us. The jockey stood away a little and at an angle. The big guy was muscle. The jockey would be the gun hand. Slim patted us down and stepped away.
"Okay," he said.
The whole first floor of the pyramid was without walls. Seen from the inside the glass had a bluish tint, as if we were standing inside an aquarium. In the center of the space was an open fire pit with a stainless steel hood and stainless steel chimney. There was a big fire in the fireplace and a lot of air-conditioning to overcome it. In the far lefthand corner was a small glass elevator with stainless steel trim. The vast space was furnished as a living room, with stainless steel and blue leather furniture, and several big television screens suspended in midair. It was bigger than O'Hare Airport, but not as warm. There was a black man sitting beyond the fireplace in a stainless steel and blue leather Barcalounger. Slim pointed us out to him. Then he and his helpers went and stood near the front door.
Leon didn't get up when we walked over. He was a taut, middle-sized black man with noticeable cheekbones, wearing rimless glasses. His graying hair was cut in a short afro, and he wore a long, blue-patterned dashiki. His feet were bare. There was a prison gang tattoo on his left forearm. He and Hawk looked at each other for a long time. "Who is Emily Gordon?" Leon said softly. His voice was flat and controlled and careful, as if he thought about every word.
"You were with her in Boston," I said. "In 1974."
"Never heard of her."
"You let us in here," I said, "so you could find out what we knew about her. and you."
Leon's gaze was steady. He made no comment. Hawk appeared to be paying no attention to either of us or anything else. But I knew that he was taking in the room. If the balloon went up, he'd know where he was.
"I'll make it easy," I said. "We know that you and she were an item. We know you went to Boston and she went with you, or after you, it's not clear which. And she was in a bank during a holdup and got shot."
Leon neither spoke nor moved. There was about him a sense of contained energy that could explode if jostled. I jostled it some more.
"What do you know about the Dread Scott Brigade?"
"Nothing."
"Know a guy named Abner Fancy?" I said. "Called himself Shaka?"
"No."
"Bunny Lombard?"
"No."
"How about a really bad asshole named Coyote?"
"Nothing about him," Leon said.
I glanced around the vast, inhospitable room.
"This the house that dope built?" I said.
"I came into some money," Leon said.
"A lot."
"Yes," he said. "A lot."
"You have any idea who shot Emily Gordon?" I said.
"Don't know," he said. "Don't care."
I took out my card and handed it to him.
"You think of anything," I said, "give me a shout."
He took the card and looked at it and tore it in half and dropped it on the floor.
"Or not," I said.
Leon gestured at Slim. "You and Tom can go now," he said.
Hawk looked at him for a moment. "When you in the joint, Coyote," Hawk said. "How many guys you punk for?"
Leon's face got tighter, but he didn't speak. Slim and his associates led us back to the car, where, as soon as I got there, I opened the trunk and took out the two guns and gave one to Hawk. I saw the slim guy tense a little. The jockey licked his lips. Hawk and I got in the car and drove away.
31
We were driving back down the hill on Beverly Glen.
"Leon ain't pushing loose joints in pool rooms," Hawk said.
"Unless he pushed an awful lot of them," I said. "What do you think?"
"We didn't learn much," Hawk said. " 'Cept that he knew Emily Gordon. He pretty much admitted that the minute he let us in."
"Had to ask," I said.
" 'Course you did," Hawk said. "Can't know what's going to happen before you go in."
"We accomplished something, though," I said.
"Got to see inside the mansion," Hawk said.
"Well, yeah, that's worth something. We also got another reason to look behind us when we walk."
Hawk grinned. "Keep us alert," he said.
We wound down past the Glen Market, where I had once bought a bottle of champagne to drink with Candy Sloan.
"If I weren't a master detective," I said, "I'd be getting frustrated."
"You been walking around all these years thinking you a master detective?" Hawk said.
At the foot of the hill, I followed the tricky little zigzag across Sunset.
"I have been detecting the ass off of this thing now for what, two weeks? I know that Daryl's childhood is made up. I know her mother was in Boston on promiscuous business. I know her father's a dope fiend. I know that the people who did the robbery are headed by a black guy named Abner Fancy, who calls himself Shaka. I know that Emily's promiscuous business in Boston was probably with Leon Dope King, who's a black guy. I know somebody in the FBI wants this thing covered up. I know that Sonny Karnofsky wants it covered up. I know there's a connection between Malone, the retired FBI guy, and Karnofsky."
" 'Cause Sonny try to hit you coming from his house and nobody else know you be there."
"Wow," I said. "You must be a master detective, too."
Hawk nodded, looking at the expensive houses of uncertain lineage that lined the flat of Beverly Glen. "And you put all that together. " Hawk said.
"And you got squat," I said.
"And several people trying to kill you."
"Being a master detective has its downside," I said.
"Wonder if Leon is Shaka," Hawk said.
"Your guy told me Abner Fancy was Shaka."
"Maybe Abner and Leon the same guy."
At Wilshire, I turned right.
"We not going to the hotel."
"Driving helps me think," I said.
"Something better," Hawk said.
We were heading west along the Wilshire corridor, where the high-rise condos lined Wilshire Boulevard like palisades.
"Why Boston?" I said.
"Why not," Hawk said.
"It's a question we haven't asked, because we started out thinking that Emily came to visit her sister."
"We haven't asked?" Hawk said.
"But she didn't," I said. "She came chasing Leon. So what was Leon doing in Boston."
"Being as how I a bad guy," Hawk said. "I know 'bout bad guys, and most of us, if we in California, don't sit 'round saying, 'Hey, man, le's go over to Boston and hoist us a bank.' "
"So, maybe someone was from Boston."
"Maybe," Hawk said. "How we going to find out who?"
"I'll detect some more," I said.
" 'Less somebody shoot your ass," Hawk said.
" 'Less that," I said.
32
Hawk put our guns in a locker at the airport, put the key in an envelope, and dropped the envelope in the mail. We got on American Flight 12, and five and a half hours later Vinnie picked us up at Logan and handed each of us our very own gun.
"Did they behave while we were gone?" I said.
"Who?" Vinnie said.
"The firearms."
"The guns?"
"Yeah."
"Are you fucking crazy?" Vinnie said.
"Man's without sentiment," Hawk said.
"You're as fucking goofy as he is," Vinnie said.
Vinnie drove us home through the new Ted Williams Tunnel, which was not yet open to the general public. I raised this point with Vinnie.
Robert B Parker - Spenser 30 - Back Story Page 9