At exactly five o’clock, men and women came out of the printing plant and filed through the parking lot to their cars. Holman watched Tony Gilbert go to a Cadillac and the two front-office girls get into a Jetta. Three minutes later he watched Pitchess exit the building and get into a Dodge Charger that was almost as bad as Perry’s beater.

Holman waited until Pitchess pulled out, then slipped into traffic a few cars behind him. He followed the Charger for almost a mile until he was sure no one else from the printing plant was around. He accelerated around the cars ahead, and swerved back into the lane so he was directly behind Pitchess.

Holman tapped his horn and saw Pitchess’s eyes go to the rearview mirror, but Pitchess kept driving.

Holman tapped his horn again, and when Pitchess looked, Holman gestured for him to pull over.

Pitchess got the message and turned into a Safeway parking lot. He stopped near the entrance, but didn’t get out of his car. Holman thought the sonofabitch was probably scared.

Holman parked behind him, got out, and walked forward. Pitchess’s window rolled down as Holman approached.

Holman said, “Can you get me a gun?”

“I knew I’d see you again.”

“Can you get me a gun or not?”

“You got the money?”

“Yeah.”

“Then I can get whatever you need. Get in.”

Holman went around to the passenger side and climbed in.

28

WHEN HOLMAN got home that night Perry’s usual parking spot was empty. The beater was gone.

Holman avoided the water raining from the window units and let himself in through the front door like always. It was almost ten, but Perry was still at his desk, reading a magazine with his feet up.

Holman decided to move quickly to the stairs without speaking, but Perry put down his magazine with a big smile.

“Hey, those boys came back today. You must’ve straightened’m out real good, Holman. Thanks.”

“Good. I’m glad it worked out.”

Holman didn’t want to hear about it now. He wanted to get upstairs, so he kept going, but Perry swung his feet from the desk.

“Hey, wait-hang on there. What’s that in the bag, your dinner?”

Holman stopped, but held the paper Safeway bag down along his leg like it was nothing.

“Yeah. Listen, Perry, it’s getting cold.”

Perry pushed the magazine aside and smiled so wide his lips peeled off his gums.

“If you want a beer to go with it I got a couple in my place. We could have dinner together or something.”

Holman hesitated, not wanting to be rude but also not wanting to get involved with Perry. He wanted to bring the bag upstairs.

“It’s just a little bit of chow mein. I already ate most of it.”

“Well, we could still have that beer.”

“I’m sober, remember?”

“Yeah. Listen, I’m just trying to thank you for whatever you did. When those boys walked in, I thought, holy shit, they’re gonna bust my guts.”

Now Holman was curious. He also figured the sooner Perry got it out, the sooner he’d be able to go upstairs.

“I didn’t know they were coming back.”

“Well, shit, you must’ve told’m somethin’. Did you notice that ol’ Mercury is gone?”

“Yeah.”

“They’re gonna fix it up for me, kind of like an apology. Pound out those dents and hit the rust that’s eating up my headlights and paint the sonofabitch. Have it back good as new, they said.”

“That’s real good, Perry.”

“Hell, Holman, I appreciate this. Thanks, man.”

“No problem. Listen, I want to get this upstairs.”

“Okay, partner, I just wanted to let you know. You change your mind about that beer, you come knock.”

“Sure, Perry. Thanks.”

Holman went up to his room, but left his door open. He turned off his AC unit to cut the noise of its blower, then returned to his door. He heard Perry lock the front door, then move through the lobby turning off lights before heading back along the hall to his room. When Holman heard Perry’s door close, he slipped off his shoes. He crept down to the utility closet at the end of the hall where Perry kept mops, soaps, and cleaning supplies. Holman had raided the closet a couple of times, looking for Pine-Sol and a plunger.

In addition to the cleaning supplies, Holman had noticed a water shutoff valve in a rectangular hole cut into the wall between two studs. He pushed the bag into the hole beneath the valve. He didn’t want to keep the gun in his room or car. The way things had been going, the cops would search his room. If they had found something when they searched his car that morning, he would be back in federal custody right now.

Holman shut the closet and returned to his room. He was too tired for a shower. He washed up as best he could in the sink, then put the air conditioner back on and climbed into bed.

When Holman first saw problems with how the police were explaining Richie’s death, he believed the police were incompetent; now he believed he was dealing with conspiracy and murder. If Richie and his friends had been trying to find the sixteen million in missing money, Holman was pretty sure they weren’t the only people trying to find it. And since the missing money was a secret, the only other people who knew about it were policemen.

Holman tried to imagine what sixteen million dollars in cash looked like, but couldn’t. The most he had ever had in his possession at one time was forty-two hundred bucks. He wondered if he could lift it. He wondered if he could put it into his car. A man might do anything for that much cash. He wondered if Richie was such a man, but thinking about it made his chest ache so he forced the thoughts away.

Holman turned to Katherine Pollard and what they discussed under the bridge. He liked her and found himself feeling bad he had gotten her involved. He thought he might like to know her a little bit better, but he held no real hope of that. Now here he was with the gun. He hoped he wouldn’t have to use it, but he would even though it meant going back to prison. He would use it as soon as he found his son’s killer.

29

THE NEXT MORNING, Pollard called to tell Holman they were on with Leyla Marchenko. Mrs. Marchenko lived in Lincoln Heights not far from Chinatown, so Pollard would pick him up at Union Station and they would drive over together.

Pollard said, “Here’s the deal, Holman-this woman hates the police, so I told her we were reporters.”

“I don’t know anything about reporters.”

“What’s to know? The point is she hates cops and that’s our in. I told her we were doing a story about how the cops mistreated her when they were investigating her son. That’s why she’s willing to talk to us.”

“Well, okay.”

“Why don’t I do this without you? No reason you have to tag along.”

“No, no-I want to go.”

Holman felt bad enough she was working for free; he didn’t want her to think he was leaving it all to her.

Holman took a fast shower, then waited until he heard Perry hosing the sidewalk before he returned to the closet. He had tossed and turned throughout the night, regretting that he had gotten the gun. Now Pitchess knew he had a gun and if Pitchess got pinched for something he wouldn’t hesitate to cut a deal for himself by ratting Holman out. Holman knew with a certainty Pitchess would get pinched because guys like Pitchess always got pinched. It was only a matter of time.

Holman wanted to check his hiding place in the better light of day. The water valve and exposed pipes were thick with dust and cobwebs, so it was unlikely Perry or anyone else would reach down between the studs. Holman was satisfied. If Pitchess ratted him out, he would deny everything and the cops would have to find the gun. Holman positioned the mop and broom in front of the valve, then went to meet Pollard.

Holman had always liked Union Station, even though it was a block away from the jail. He liked the deco Spanish look of the place with its stucco and tile and arches, which reminded him of the city’s roots in the Old West. Holman had loved watching westerns on TV when he was a child, which was the only thing he remembered ever doing with his father. The old man brought him down to Olvera Street a few times, mostly because Mexican guys walked around dressed like Old West vaqueros. They had bought churros, then walked across the street to see the trains at Union Station. It had all seemed to fit together-Olvera Street, the vaqueros, and Union Station looking like an old Spanish mission-there at the birthplace of Los Angeles. His mother had brought him the one time, but only the one. She brought him into the passenger terminal with its enormously high ceiling and they sat on one of the long wooden benches where people wait. She bought him a Coke and a Tootsie Pop. Holman had been five or six, something like that, and after a few minutes she told him to wait while she used the bathroom. Five hours later his father claimed him from the station attendants because she hadn’t come back. Two years later she died and the old man finally told him his mother had tried to abandon him. She had boarded a train, but only got as far as Oxnard before she ran out of guts. That’s the way his father had put it-she ran out of guts. Holman still liked Union Station anyway. It reminded him of the Old West that had always looked pretty good when he was watching it on TV with his dad.