an onboard alarm system that hadn’t been activated.
A black-and-white swung by, slowed momentarily. Driver leaned back against the hood as if it were his own ride, heard the crackle of the radio. The cruiser went on.
Driver straightened and moved to the window of the Lexus.
Steering wheel crossed with a Club—but Driver had no use for the car, and it took him less than a minute to slimjim the door. The interior was spotless. Seats clean and empty. Nothing on the floorboards. A scant handful of refuse, drink cup, tissues, ballpoint pen, tucked neatly into a leatherette pocket hanging off the dash.
Registration in the glove compartment gave him what he wanted.
Bernard Wolfe Rosenwald.
Residing at one of those woodland names out in Culver City, probably some apartment complex with a half-assed security gate.
Driver taped one of the pizza coupons to the steering wheel. He’d drawn a happy face on it.
Chapter Twenty-eight
His eyes went up, to plastic IV bags hanging on trees above the bed, six of them. Below those a battery of pumps. They’d need to be reset every hour or so. One beeped in alarm already.
“What, another goddamn visitor?”
Driver had spoken with the charge nurse, who told him there’d been no other visitors. She also told him his friend was dying.
Doc raised a hand to point shakily to the IVs.
“See I’ve reached the magic number.”
“What?”
“Back in med school we always said you have six chest tubes, six IVs, it’s all over. You got to that point, all the rest’s just dancing.”
“You’re going to be fine.”
“Fine’s a town I don’t even visit anymore.”
“Is there anyone I can call?” Driver asked.
Doc made scribbling motions on air. There was a clipboard on the table. Driver handed it to him.
“This is an L.A. number, right?”
Doc nodded. “My daughter.”
At a bank of pay phones in the lobby, Driver dialed the number.
Thank you for calling. Your call is important to us. Please leave a message.
He said that he was calling from Phoenix, that her father was seriously ill. He left the name of the hospital and his own phone number.
When he got back, a Spanish-language soap opera was playing. A handsome, shirtless young man came struggling up out of swampland, plucking leeches off well-muscled legs.
“No answer,” Driver said. “I left a message.”
“She won’t call back.”
“Maybe she will.”
“Why should she?”
“Because she’s your daughter?”
Doc shook his head.
“How’d you find me?”
“I went by your place. Miss Dickinson was outside, and when I opened the door she rushed in. You two had a routine. If she was there, then you should be. I started knocking on doors, asking around. A kid across the street told me paramedics had come and taken you away.”
“You feed Miss Dickinson?”
“I did.”
“Bitch has us all well trained.”
“Is there anything I can do for you, Doc?”
His eyes went to the window. He shook his head.
“I figured you could use this,” Driver said, handing him a flask. “I’ll try your daughter again.”
“No reason to.”
“Okay if I come back to see you?”
Doc tilted the flask to drink, then lowered it.
“Won’t be much reason for that, either.”
Driver was almost to the door when Doc called out: “How’s that arm?”
“The arm’s good.”
“So was I,” Doc said. “So was I.”
Chapter Twenty-nine
This son of a bitch was beginning to piss him off.
Bernie Rose came out of China Belle picking his teeth. He tossed the fortune cookie in the Dumpster. Even if the damn thing held the gospel truth, who in his right mind would want to know?
Ripping the coupon off his steering wheel, he balled it up and sent it after the fortune cookie.
Pizza. Right.
Bernie drove home, to Culver City, not far from the old MGM studios, now Sony-Columbia. Jesus, one hand wrapped around a hamburger, held two fingers of the other up to his head in greeting, then hit the button to open the gate.
A black-and-white swung by, slowed momentarily. Driver leaned back against the hood as if it were his own ride, heard the crackle of the radio. The cruiser went on.
Driver straightened and moved to the window of the Lexus.
Steering wheel crossed with a Club—but Driver had no use for the car, and it took him less than a minute to slimjim the door. The interior was spotless. Seats clean and empty. Nothing on the floorboards. A scant handful of refuse, drink cup, tissues, ballpoint pen, tucked neatly into a leatherette pocket hanging off the dash.
Registration in the glove compartment gave him what he wanted.
Bernard Wolfe Rosenwald.
Residing at one of those woodland names out in Culver City, probably some apartment complex with a half-assed security gate.
Driver taped one of the pizza coupons to the steering wheel. He’d drawn a happy face on it.
Chapter Twenty-eight
His eyes went up, to plastic IV bags hanging on trees above the bed, six of them. Below those a battery of pumps. They’d need to be reset every hour or so. One beeped in alarm already.
“What, another goddamn visitor?”
Driver had spoken with the charge nurse, who told him there’d been no other visitors. She also told him his friend was dying.
Doc raised a hand to point shakily to the IVs.
“See I’ve reached the magic number.”
“What?”
“Back in med school we always said you have six chest tubes, six IVs, it’s all over. You got to that point, all the rest’s just dancing.”
“You’re going to be fine.”
“Fine’s a town I don’t even visit anymore.”
“Is there anyone I can call?” Driver asked.
Doc made scribbling motions on air. There was a clipboard on the table. Driver handed it to him.
“This is an L.A. number, right?”
Doc nodded. “My daughter.”
At a bank of pay phones in the lobby, Driver dialed the number.
Thank you for calling. Your call is important to us. Please leave a message.
He said that he was calling from Phoenix, that her father was seriously ill. He left the name of the hospital and his own phone number.
When he got back, a Spanish-language soap opera was playing. A handsome, shirtless young man came struggling up out of swampland, plucking leeches off well-muscled legs.
“No answer,” Driver said. “I left a message.”
“She won’t call back.”
“Maybe she will.”
“Why should she?”
“Because she’s your daughter?”
Doc shook his head.
“How’d you find me?”
“I went by your place. Miss Dickinson was outside, and when I opened the door she rushed in. You two had a routine. If she was there, then you should be. I started knocking on doors, asking around. A kid across the street told me paramedics had come and taken you away.”
“You feed Miss Dickinson?”
“I did.”
“Bitch has us all well trained.”
“Is there anything I can do for you, Doc?”
His eyes went to the window. He shook his head.
“I figured you could use this,” Driver said, handing him a flask. “I’ll try your daughter again.”
“No reason to.”
“Okay if I come back to see you?”
Doc tilted the flask to drink, then lowered it.
“Won’t be much reason for that, either.”
Driver was almost to the door when Doc called out: “How’s that arm?”
“The arm’s good.”
“So was I,” Doc said. “So was I.”
Chapter Twenty-nine
This son of a bitch was beginning to piss him off.
Bernie Rose came out of China Belle picking his teeth. He tossed the fortune cookie in the Dumpster. Even if the damn thing held the gospel truth, who in his right mind would want to know?
Ripping the coupon off his steering wheel, he balled it up and sent it after the fortune cookie.
Pizza. Right.
Bernie drove home, to Culver City, not far from the old MGM studios, now Sony-Columbia. Jesus, one hand wrapped around a hamburger, held two fingers of the other up to his head in greeting, then hit the button to open the gate.
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