Southside (9781608090563) by Michael Krikorian Page B

his greeting, and quickly walked around the bar and up to me and firmly shook my hand.
    â€œHow the hell are you, Michael? Jesus, you had us worried out of our minds.”
    â€œI’m feeling all right, all things considered,” I said. “But, Danny, I’m still Jack around here, ain’t I?”
    â€œOf course, of course, Jack. Jesus Christ, Jack. I don’t think you know it, but Jack and I, I mean Sharky and I, we heard the shots and we came running out, like damn fools. We were the first to get to you. You don’t remember, but you looked up at us.”
    â€œNah, I don’t remember much. But, I sure could use a Jack. A big one.”
    â€œYou got it, Jack. And this one’s on me.”
    The first sip of Tennessee sour mash made me wince as it often does. But, it quickly started to work its magic. By the time I finished the second drink, the mixture of blood and alcohol was getting right. I was feeling pretty good. I wasn’t overly concerned about what Goldstein had said about the chief saying I’d look like shit. He was just
talkin’
shit.
    The television stations started flooding the late afternoon screen with teasers. Channel 4 came in with “Big break in
Times
reporter shooting.” Channel 7 Eyewitness News announced, “BreakingNews. Is there an arrest? LAPD to hold news conference on the crime against crime reporter.” I laughed and told Danny, “I think breaking news is when something is happening, not to announce that something will be happening.”
    As Danny set my third JD before me, the front door creaked again and Carly Engstrom, Nona Yates, and my cousin Greg filed in. They ordered two martinis and a tonic water for Nona. They sat in a booth. I joined them, saddling up between Nona and Carly, whose white skirt glided up her leg as she sat in the booth. As when she was my pod mate, I made a feeble attempt not to look down. I was true to my girl, Francesca, never cheated once, but I looked. A lot.
    The local news went “live” to the PAB. By now, the Redwood was packed, twelve people at the bar, another twenty at booths and stand-up tables. Danny turned up the volume. My table grew silent. Other tables followed suit. Soon, the only sound in the old saloon was that of ice cracking.
    Chief Miller came to the microphone surrounded by his brass, Kuwahara and Tatreau and Detectives LaBarbera and Hart who looked uncomfortable.
    â€œAs you know,” Miller began, “
Los Angeles Times
reporter Michael Lyons was shot nearly three weeks ago while walking along 2nd Street near Broadway. I’m glad to inform those of you who don’t know, Lyons has been released from the hospital and is said to be doing very well.”
    Miller continued. “As I’m sure many of you know, the
Times
has been relentless in their criticism of the Los Angeles Police Department, the finest police department in the world. They questioned our ability to solve crimes. They brought an element of fear to the downtown area.”
    â€œWhat’s his point?” said Greg.
    I was beginning to squirm. I took a swig of the whiskey and wished I had another full glass. Too bad we weren’t at the bar. I could just nod at Danny then look at my glass.
    Miller went on. “During the course of our exhaustive investigation, our detectives have come up with a striking piece of this puzzle. It is a taped conversation between Michael Lyons and a known gang member. We cannot at this time reveal the name of the gang member, but the tape is definitely the voice of Michael Lyons. Three of our lab technicians have verified that.”
    â€œWhat is this?” I mumbled.
    â€œI have the tape here and will play it. But first, I want to say that to protect the other person on the tape, his voice has been altered. Also, a couple short snippets of the tape have been edited out to protect that same individual. I have to warn the public and the media the tape does