“Damned right. It’s a private club and you ain’t a member.”
“It’s okay, Tommy,” Porter spoke up. “I know him. I’ll take care of it.”
A couple of men who had been sitting a few stools from Porter got up and moved to the other end of the bar with their bottles and drinks. A couple of other drunks were already down there watching. But nobody left, not with booze still in their jars and it not quite being six o’clock yet. There would be no place else to go. Bars wouldn’t open until seven and the hour or so until then could last a lifetime. No, they weren’t going anywhere. This crew would sit there and watch a man murdered if they had to.
“Harry, c’mon,” Porter said. “Cool it yourself. We can talk.”
“Can we? Can we? Why didn’t you talk when I called the other day? How about Moore? Did you have a talk with Cal Moore?”
“Look, Harry—”
Bosch spun him around off the stool and face first into the wood-paneled wall. He came easier than Harry had thought he would and hit the wall hard. His nose made a sound like an ice-cream cone hitting the sidewalk. Bosch leaned his back against Porter’s back, pinning him face first against the wall.
“Don’t ‘Look, Harry’ me, Porter. I stood up for you, man, ’cause I thought you were. . . I thought you were worth it. Now I know, Porter. I was wrong. You quit on the Juan Doe. I want to know why. I want to know what’s going on.”
Porter’s voice was muffled by the wall and his own blood. He said, “Harry, shit, I think you broke my nose. I’m bleeding.”
“Don’t worry about it. What about Moore? I know he reported the body.”
Porter made some kind of wet snorting sound but Bosch just pushed him harder. The man stunk of sour body odor, booze and cigarettes, and Bosch wondered how long he had been sitting in Poe’s, watching the door.
“I’m calling the police now,” the bartender yelled. He stood holding the phone out so Bosch would see it was a real threat, which of course it wasn’t. The bartender knew if he dialed that phone every stool in the bar would be left spinning as the drunks filed out. There would be no one left to scam on the change or to leave quarters for his cup.
Using his body to keep Porter pinned to the wall, Bosch pulled out his badge wallet and held it up. “I am the police. Mind your own fucking business.”
The bartender shook his head as if to say what is this fine business coming to, and put the phone back next to the cash register. The announcement that Bosch was a police officer resulted in about half the other customers jerking their drinks down and leaving. There were probably warrants out for everybody in the place, Bosch thought.
Porter was starting to mumble and Bosch thought he might be crying again, like on the phone Thursday morning.
“Harry, I—I didn’t think I was doing . . . I had—”
Bosch bounced harder against his back and heard Porter’s forehead hit the wall.
“Don’t start that shit with me, Porter. You were takin’ care of yourself. That’s what you were doing. And—”
“I’m sick. I’m gonna be sick.”
“—and right now, believe it or not, right now the only one that really cares about you is me. You fuck, you just tell me what you did. Just tell me what you did and we’re square. It goes nowhere else. You go for your stress out and I never see your face again.”
Bosch could hear his wet breathing against the wall. It was almost as if he could hear him thinking.
“You sure, Harry?”
“You don’t have a choice. You don’t start talking, you end up with no job, no pension.”
“He, uh—I just . . . there’s blood on my shirt. It’s roon.”
Bosch pushed harder against him.
“Okay, okay, okay. I’ll tell ya, I’ll tell . . . I just did him a favor, thas all, and he ended up deader’n shit. When I heard, I, uh, I couldn’t come back in, see. I didn’t know what happened. I mean, I mean, they—somebody could be looking for me. I got scared, Harry. I’m scared. I been sitting in bars since I talked to you yesterday. I stink like shit. And now all this blood. I need a napkin. I think they’re after me.”
Bosch took his weight off him but held one hand pressed against his back so he would not go anywhere. He reached back to the bar and took a handful of cocktail napkins off a stack near a bowl of matches. He held them over Porter’s shoulder and the broken cop worked his hand loose from his jacket and took them. He turned his head away from the wall to press the napkin to his swelling nose. Harry saw tears on his face and looked away.
The door to the bar opened then and dawn’s early gray light shot into the bar. A man stood there, apparently adjusting to the darkness of the bar as Bosch had done. Bosch saw he was dark complexioned with ink-black hair. Three tattooed tears dripped down his cheek from the corner of his left eye. Harry knew he was no banker or lawyer who needed a double-scotch breakfast to start the day. He was some kind of player, maybe finishing a night collecting for the Italians or Mexicans and needing something to smooth out the edges. The man’s eyes finally fell on Bosch and Porter, then to Porter’s gun, which was still on the bar. The man sized up the situation and calmly and wordlessly backed out through the door.
“Fucking great,” the bartender yelled. “Would you get the hell out of here. I’m losing customers. The both of you, get the fuck out.”
There was a sign that said Toilet and an arrow pointing down a darkened hallway to Bosch’s left. He pushed Porter that way. They turned a corner and went into the men’s room, which smelled worse than Porter. There was a mop in a bucket of gray water in the corner, but the cracked tile floor was dirtier than the water. He pushed Porter toward the sink.
“Clean yourself up,” Bosch said. “What was the favor? You said you did something for Moore. Tell me about it.”
Porter was looking at his blurred reflection in a piece of stainless steel that was probably put in when the management got tired of replacing broken mirrors.
“It won’t stop bleeding, Harry. I think it’s broke.”
“Forget your nose. Tell me what you did.”
“I, uh—look, all he did was tell me that he knew some people that would appreciate it if the stiff behind the restaurant didn’t get ID’d for a while. Just string it out, he said, for a week or two. Christ, there was no ID on the body, anyway. He said I could do the computer runs on the prints cause he knew they wouldn’t bring a match. He said just take my time with it and that these people, the ones he knew, would take care of me. He said I’d get a nice Christmas present. So, I, you know, I went through the motions last week. I wouldn’t have gotten anywhere with it, anyway. You know, you saw the file. No ID, no wits, no nothing. The guy’d been dead at least six hours before he got dumped there.”
“So what spooked you? What happened Christmas?”
Porter blew his nose into a bouquet of paper towels and this brought more tears to his eyes.
“Yeah, it’s broke. I’m not getting any air through. I gotta go to a clinic, get it set. Anyway . . . well, nothing happened Christmas. That’s the thing. I mean, Moore’d been missing for almost a week and I was getting pretty nervous about the whole thing. On Christmas Moore didn’t come, nobody did. Then when I’m walking home from the Lucky my neighbor in the trailer next door says to me about how real sorry she was about that dead cop they found. I said thanks and went inside and put on the radio. I hear it’s Moore and that scares me shitless, Harry. It did.”
Porter soaked a handful of towels and began stroking his bloodstained shirt in a manner that Bosch thought made him look more pathetic than he was. Bosch saw his empty shoulder holder and remembered he had left the gun on the bar. He was reluctant to go back and get it while Porter was talking.
“See, I knew Moore wasn’t no suicide. I don’t care what they’re putting out at Parker. I know he didn’t do himself like that. He was into something. So, I decided, that was enough. I called the union and got a lawyer. I’m outta here, Harry. I’m gonna get cleaned up and go to V
egas, maybe get in with casino security. Millie’s out there with my boy. I wanna be close by.”
Right, Bosch thought. And always be looking over your shoulder. He said, “You’re bleeding again. Wash your face. I’m going to get some coffee. I’m taking you out of here.”
Bosch moved through the door but Porter stopped him.
“Harry, you going to take care of me on this?”
Bosch looked at his damaged face a long moment before saying, “Yeah, I’ll do what I can.”
He walked back out to the bar and signaled the bartender, who was standing all the way down at the other end smoking a cigarette. The man, about fifty, with faded blue tattoos webbing both forearms like extra veins, took his time coming over. By then Bosch had a ten-dollar bill on the bar.
“Give me a couple coffees to go. Black. Put a lot of sugar in one of them.”
“’Bout time you got outta here.” The bartender nodded at the ten-dollar bill. “And I’m taking out for the napkins, too. They’re not for cops who go round beat’n’ on people. That oughta ’bout cover it. You can just leave that on the bar.”
He poured coffee that looked like it had been sitting in the glass pot since Christmas into foam cups. Bosch went to Porter’s spot at the bar and gathered up the Smith thirty-eight and the twenty-three dollars. He moved back to his ten-dollar bill and lit a cigarette.
Not realizing Bosch was now watching, the bartender poured a gagging amount of sugar into both coffees. Bosch let it slide. After snapping plastic covers on the cups, the bartender brought them over to Bosch and tapped one of the tops, a smile that would make a woman frigid on his face.
“This is the one with no—hey, what is this shit?”
The ten Bosch had put down on the bar was now a one. Bosch blew smoke in the bartender’s face as he took the coffees and said, “That’s for the coffee. You can shove the napkins.”
“Just get the fuck out of here,” the bartender said. Then he turned and started walking down to the other end of the bar, where several of the patrons were impatiently holding their empty glasses up. They needed more ice to chill their plasma.
Bosch pushed the door to the restroom open with his foot but didn’t see Porter. He pushed the door to the only stall open and he wasn’t there either. Harry left the room and quickly pushed through the women’s restroom door. No Porter. He followed the hallway around another corner and saw a door marked Exit. He saw drops of blood on the floor. Regretting his play with the bartender and wondering if he’d be able to track Porter by calling hospitals and clinics, he hit the door’s push bar with his hip. It opened only an inch or so. There was something on the other side holding it closed.
Bosch put the coffees down on the floor and put his whole weight on the door. It slowly moved open as the blockage gave way. He squeezed through and saw a Dumpster had been shoved against the door. He was standing in an alley behind Poe’s and the morning light, flowing down the alley from the east, was blinding.
There was an abandoned Toyota, its wheels, hood and one door gone, sitting dead in the alley. There were more Dumpsters and the wind was blowing trash around in a swirl. And there was no sign of Porter.
13
Bosch sat at the counter at the Original Pantry drinking coffee, picking at a plate of eggs and bacon, and waiting for a second wind to come. He hadn’t bothered with trying to follow Porter. He knew that there would be no chance. Knowing Bosch wanted him, even a broken-down cop like Porter would know enough to stay away from the likely places Harry would look. He would stay in the wind.
Harry had his notebook out and opened to the chronological chart he had constructed the day before. But he could not concentrate on it. He was too depressed. Depressed that Porter had run from him, that he hadn’t trusted him. Depressed that it seemed clear that Moore’s death was connected to the darkness that was out there at the outer edge of every cop’s vision. Moore had crossed over. And it had killed him.
I found out who I was.
The note bothered him, too. If Moore wasn’t a suicide, where did it come from? It made him think about what Sylvia Moore had said about the past, about how her husband had been snared in a trap he had set for himself. He then thought of calling her to tell her what he had learned but discarded the idea for the time being. He did not have the answers to questions she would surely ask. Why was Calexico Moore murdered? Who did it?
It was just after eight o’clock. Bosch left money on the counter and walked out. Outside two homeless men shook cups in front of him and he acted like they weren’t even there. He drove over to Parker Center and got into the lot early enough to get a parking space. He first checked the Robbery-Homicide Division offices on the third floor but Sheehan wasn’t in yet. Next he went up to the fourth to Fugitives, to pick up where Porter would have if he hadn’t made his deal with Moore. Fugitives also handled missing-persons reports and Bosch always thought there was something symbiotic about that. Most missing persons were fugitives from something, some part of their lives.
A missing-persons detective named Capetillo asked Bosch what he needed and Harry asked to see the male Latin missings for the last ten days. Capetillo led him to his desk and told him to have a seat while he went to the files. Harry looked around and his eyes fell on a framed photo of the portly detective posed with a woman and two young girls. A family man. Taped to the wall above the desk was a bullfight poster advertising the lineup for a fight two years earlier at Tijuana’s Bullring by the Sea. The names of the six matadors were listed down the right side. The entire left side of the poster was a reproduction of a painting of a matador turning with a charging bull, leading the horns away with the flowing red cape. The caption inscribed below the painting said “El Arte de la Muleta.”
“The classic veronica.”
Bosch turned. It was Capetillo and he was holding a thin file in one hand.
“Excuse me?” Bosch asked.
“The veronica. Do you know anything about the corrida de toros? The bullfights?”
“Never been.”
“Magnificent. I go at least four times a year. Nothing compares to it. Football, basketball, nothing. The veronica is that move. He slyly leads the horns away. In Mexico the bullfight is called the brave festival, you know.”
Bosch looked at the file in the detective’s hand. Capetillo opened it and handed Bosch a thin stack of papers.
“That’s all we have in the last ten days,” Capetillo said. “Your Mexicans, Chicanos, a lot don’t report their missings to police. A cultural thing. Most just don’t trust the cops. Lot of times when people don’t turn up, they just figure they went south. A lot of people are here illegally. They won’t call the cops.”
Bosch made it through the stack in five minutes. None of the reports fit the description of Juan Doe #67.
“What about telexes, inquiries from Mexico?”
“Now that’s something different. We keep official correspondence separate. I could look. Why don’t you tell me what you’re pushing.”
“I’m pushing a hunch. I have a body with no identification. I think the man may have come from down there, maybe Mexicali. This is a guess more than anything else.”
“Hang tight,” Capetillo said and he left the cubicle again.
Bosch studied the poster again, noticing how the matador’s face betrayed no sign of indecision or fear, only concentration on the horns of death. The bullfighter’s eyes were flat and dead like a shark’s. Capetillo was back quickly.
“Nice hunch. I have three reports received in the last two weeks. They all concern men that sound like your guy, but one more than the others. I think we got lucky.”
He handed a single piece of paper to Bosch and said, “This one came from the consulate on Olvera Street
yesterday.”
It was a photocopy of a telex to the consulate by a State Judicial Police officer named Carlos Aguila. Bosch studied the letter, which was written in English
Seeking information regarding the disappearance o
f Fernal Gutierrez-Llosa, 55, day laborer, Mexicali. Whereabouts unknown. Last sighting: 12/17—Mexicali.
Description: 5-foot-8, 145 pounds. Brown eyes, brown hair, some gray. Tattoo right upper chest (blue ink ghost symbol—City of Lost Souls barrio).
Contact: Carlos Aguila, 57-20-13, Mexicali, B.C.
Bosch reread the page. There wasn’t much there but it was enough. Fernal Gutierrez-Llosa disappeared in Mexicali on the seventeenth and early the next morning the body of Juan Doe #67 was found in Los Angeles. Bosch looked quickly at the other two pages Capetillo had but they dealt with men who were too young to be Juan Doe #67. He went back to the first sheet. The tattoo was the clincher.
“I think this is it,” he said. “Can I get a copy?”