the annoyance layered atop her already general grumpiness. She’d wanted to talk about Clark, but Creek didn’t want to hear it. ‘‘That’s too personal,’’ he said. ‘‘I can’t tell you what to do and I don’t want to think about it. Go find a girlfriend to talk to.’’
Louis was waiting outside his apartment, standing on the curb in his white shirt and plaid jacket, carrying the laptop. He’d updated the address database with GPS numbers, and claimed that with his new GPS receiver he should be able to put them within a few feet of their actual position, anywhere in L.A. County, southern Ventura or Santa Barbara.
‘‘What’s happening with Jason?’’ he asked, as he ducked his head and climbed aboard.
‘‘I’m trying to figure out a funeral,’’ Anna said, as he sat down. Creek pulled away from the curb and Louis brought up the electronics. Anna asked, ‘‘What’s going on?’’
Louis started monitoring the cops from his apartment, an hour or so before they went out. He had a scanner on an old trunk at the foot of his bed, and Creek claimed to have seen him adjust the volume dial with his toes, without opening his eyes. ‘‘Nothing really heavy, but something’s going on with the hookers up on Sunset,’’ he said, twiddling a dial. ‘‘Hard to tell what’s going on, but I think it might make a movie.’’
‘‘Boys or girls?’’ Anna asked.
‘‘Girls. There was a call about ten minutes ago. The cops hit a club up there, cocaine thing, and I guess dumped a bunch of girls out on the street, lined them up, and a fight started. Somebody said it looked like a riot . . .’’
‘‘Everybody’ll be there,’’ Creek said. He sounded as grumpy as Anna felt.
‘‘I don’t think so,’’ Louis said, not yet catching the crankiness in the front seat. ‘‘There hasn’t been much on the air. You sorta had to be following it.’’
‘‘So let’s go,’’ Anna said. The riot was a bust.
A few cop cars still lingered, a few girls strolled along the street, mostly looking at reflections in the store windows. There was the familiar air of trouble immediately past, but no action—like arriving ten minutes after a thunderstorm, with nothing but puddles to show for the violence.
They headed toward the valley, Anna thinking about cruising Ventura. Louis got some movement on the radio, but it was small stuff, and too far south. By the time they’d arrive, there wouldn’t be anything to see, or other crews would already be working it.
‘‘Wish the bitches had been doing something,’’ Louis said. ‘‘Would’ve made the night simple.’’
‘‘Don’t call them that,’’ Anna snapped.
‘‘Why not?’’ Louis asked. ‘‘That’s what . . .’’
‘‘Shut the fuck up, Louis,’’ Anna said.
‘‘Ooo, what’s your problem?’’ He was smiling, trying for a bantering attitude, but he didn’t understand.
‘‘Best be quiet, Louis,’’ Creek said, and Louis shut up. A minute later, Anna, now in a sulk, said, ‘‘Sorry, Louis. You can talk now.’’
‘‘Is there a problem I don’t know about?’’ he asked tentatively.
‘‘Yeah, but it’s mine,’’ Anna said.
‘‘Fatburger coming up,’’ Creek said. Creek knew every Fatburger in L.A. County.
‘‘Stop, I need some caffeine,’’ Anna said. ‘‘Louis?’’
‘‘Diet Coke.’’
‘‘Fatburger and a Coke,’’ Creek said.
• • •
Anna got the food, waited, paid, carried it out to the parking lot. Two valley guys, in their late teens or early twenties, both with buzz cuts, three-day-artist-hangout stubble and black jackets, were leaning against the hood of a beat-up Buick, and one of them said, ‘‘Hey, mama.’’
Anna put the Fatburger sack and three cups of coffee on the hood of the truck and turned back to them: ‘‘Hey, mama, what? Huh? What?’’
One of the guys straightened up and said, ‘‘Hey, mama, what’cha doing tonight?’’
‘‘I’ll tell you
Louis was waiting outside his apartment, standing on the curb in his white shirt and plaid jacket, carrying the laptop. He’d updated the address database with GPS numbers, and claimed that with his new GPS receiver he should be able to put them within a few feet of their actual position, anywhere in L.A. County, southern Ventura or Santa Barbara.
‘‘What’s happening with Jason?’’ he asked, as he ducked his head and climbed aboard.
‘‘I’m trying to figure out a funeral,’’ Anna said, as he sat down. Creek pulled away from the curb and Louis brought up the electronics. Anna asked, ‘‘What’s going on?’’
Louis started monitoring the cops from his apartment, an hour or so before they went out. He had a scanner on an old trunk at the foot of his bed, and Creek claimed to have seen him adjust the volume dial with his toes, without opening his eyes. ‘‘Nothing really heavy, but something’s going on with the hookers up on Sunset,’’ he said, twiddling a dial. ‘‘Hard to tell what’s going on, but I think it might make a movie.’’
‘‘Boys or girls?’’ Anna asked.
‘‘Girls. There was a call about ten minutes ago. The cops hit a club up there, cocaine thing, and I guess dumped a bunch of girls out on the street, lined them up, and a fight started. Somebody said it looked like a riot . . .’’
‘‘Everybody’ll be there,’’ Creek said. He sounded as grumpy as Anna felt.
‘‘I don’t think so,’’ Louis said, not yet catching the crankiness in the front seat. ‘‘There hasn’t been much on the air. You sorta had to be following it.’’
‘‘So let’s go,’’ Anna said. The riot was a bust.
A few cop cars still lingered, a few girls strolled along the street, mostly looking at reflections in the store windows. There was the familiar air of trouble immediately past, but no action—like arriving ten minutes after a thunderstorm, with nothing but puddles to show for the violence.
They headed toward the valley, Anna thinking about cruising Ventura. Louis got some movement on the radio, but it was small stuff, and too far south. By the time they’d arrive, there wouldn’t be anything to see, or other crews would already be working it.
‘‘Wish the bitches had been doing something,’’ Louis said. ‘‘Would’ve made the night simple.’’
‘‘Don’t call them that,’’ Anna snapped.
‘‘Why not?’’ Louis asked. ‘‘That’s what . . .’’
‘‘Shut the fuck up, Louis,’’ Anna said.
‘‘Ooo, what’s your problem?’’ He was smiling, trying for a bantering attitude, but he didn’t understand.
‘‘Best be quiet, Louis,’’ Creek said, and Louis shut up. A minute later, Anna, now in a sulk, said, ‘‘Sorry, Louis. You can talk now.’’
‘‘Is there a problem I don’t know about?’’ he asked tentatively.
‘‘Yeah, but it’s mine,’’ Anna said.
‘‘Fatburger coming up,’’ Creek said. Creek knew every Fatburger in L.A. County.
‘‘Stop, I need some caffeine,’’ Anna said. ‘‘Louis?’’
‘‘Diet Coke.’’
‘‘Fatburger and a Coke,’’ Creek said.
• • •
Anna got the food, waited, paid, carried it out to the parking lot. Two valley guys, in their late teens or early twenties, both with buzz cuts, three-day-artist-hangout stubble and black jackets, were leaning against the hood of a beat-up Buick, and one of them said, ‘‘Hey, mama.’’
Anna put the Fatburger sack and three cups of coffee on the hood of the truck and turned back to them: ‘‘Hey, mama, what? Huh? What?’’
One of the guys straightened up and said, ‘‘Hey, mama, what’cha doing tonight?’’
‘‘I’ll tell you
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