“Isn’t it a Japanese course?” The purchase of the Sunset Hills Country Club was one of the more recent outrages in L.A. The West Los Angeles golf course was bought for a huge cash price: two hundred million dollars in 1990. At the time, the new Japanese owners said no changes would be made. But now, the American membership was slowly being reduced by a simple procedure: whenever an American retired, his place was offered to a Japanese. Sunset Hills memberships were sold in Tokyo for a million dollars each, where they were considered a bargain; there was a long waiting list.

“Well,” Connor said, “I’m playing with some Japanese.”

“You do that often?”

“The Japanese are avid golfers, as you know. I try to play twice a week. Sometimes you hear things of interest. Good night, kōhai.”

“Good night, Captain.”

I drove home.

I was pulling onto the Santa Monica freeway when the phone rang. It was the DHD operator. “Lieutenant, we have a Special Services call. Officers in the field request assistance of the liaison.”

I sighed. “Okay.” She gave me the mobile number.

“Hey, buddy.”

It was Graham. I said, “Hi, Tom.”

“You alone yet?”

“Yeah. I’m heading home. Why?”

“I was thinking,” Graham said. “Maybe we should have the Japanese liaison on hand for this bust.”

“I thought you wanted to do it alone.”

“Yeah, well, maybe you want to come over and help out with this bust. Just so everything is done by the book.”

I said, “Is this a CYA?” I meant cover your ass.

“Hey. You going to help me out, or not?”

“Sure, Tom. I’m on my way.”

“We’ll wait for you.”

20

Eddie Sakamura lived in a small house on one of those narrow twisting streets high in the Hollywood hills above the 101 freeway. It was 2:45 a.m. when I came around a curve and saw the two black and whites with their lights off, and Graham’s tan sedan, parked to one side. Graham was standing with the patrolmen, smoking a cigarette. I had to go back a dozen meters to find a place to park. Then I walked over to them.

We looked up at Eddie’s house, built over a garage at street level. It was one of those two-bedroom white stucco houses from the 1940s. The lights were on, and we heard Frank Sinatra singing. Graham said, “He’s not alone. He’s got some broads up there.”

I said, “How do you want to handle it?”

Graham said, “We leave the boys here. I told ‘em no shooting, don’t worry. You and I go up and make the bust.”

Steep stairs ran up from the garage to the house.

“Okay. You take the front and I’ll take the back?”

“Hell, no,” Graham said. “I want you with me, buddy. He’s not dangerous, right?”

I saw the silhouette of a woman pass one of the windows. She looked naked. “Shouldn’t be,” I said.

“Okay then, let’s do it.”

We started up the stairs single file. Frank Sinatra was singing “My Way.” We heard the laughter of women. It sounded like more than one. “Christ, I hope they got some fucking drugs out.”

I thought the chances of that were pretty good. We reached the top of the stairs, ducking to avoid being seen through the windows.

The front door was Spanish, heavy and solid. Graham paused. I moved a few steps toward the back of the house, where I saw the greenish glow of pool lights. There was probably a back door going out to the pool. I was trying to see where it was.

Graham tapped my shoulder. I came back. He gently turned the handle of the front door. It was unlocked. Graham took out his revolver and looked at me. I took out my gun.

He paused, held up three fingers. Count of three.

Graham kicked the front door open and went in low, shouting “Hold it, police! Hold it right there!” Before I got into the living room, I could hear the women screaming.

There were two of them, completely naked, running around the room and shrieking at the top of their lungs, “Eddie! Eddie!” Eddie wasn’t there. Graham was shouting, “Where is he? Where is Eddie Sakamura?” The redhead grabbed a pillow from the couch to cover herself, and screamed, “Get out of here, you fucker!” and then she threw the pillow at Graham. The other girl, a blonde, ran squealing into the bedroom. We followed her, and the redhead threw another pillow at us.

In the bedroom, the blonde fell on the floor and howled in pain. Graham leaned over her with his gun. “Don’t shoot me!” she cried. “I didn’t do anything!”

Graham grabbed her by the ankle. There was all this twisting bare flesh. The girl was hysterical. “Where is Eddie?” Graham said. “Where is he?”

“In a meeting!” the girl squealed.

“Where?”

“In a meeting!” And flailing around, she kicked Graham in the nuts with her other leg.

“Aw, Christ,” Graham said, letting the girl go. He coughed and sat down hard. I went back to the living room. The redhead had her high heels on but nothing else.

I said, “Where is he?”

“You bastards,” she said. “You fucking bastards.”

I went past her toward a door at the far end of the room. It was locked. The redhead ran up and began to hit me on the back with her fists. “Leave him alone! Leave him alone!” I was trying to open the locked door while she pounded on me. I thought I heard voices from the other side of the door. In the next moment Graham’s big bulk slammed into the door and the wood splintered. The door opened. I saw the kitchen, lit by the green light of the pool outside. The room was empty. The back door was open.

“Shit.”

By now the redhead had jumped on my back, and locked her legs around my waist. She was pulling my hair, screaming obscenities. I spun around in circles, trying to throw her off me. It was one of those strange moments where in the middle of all the chaos I was thinking, be careful, don’t hurt her, because it would look bad for a pretty young girl to end up with a broken arm or cracked ribs, it would mean police brutality even though right now she was tearing my hair out by the roots. She bit my ear and I felt pain. I slammed myself back against the wall, and I heard her grunt as the breath was knocked out of her. She let go.

Out the window, I saw a dark figure running down the stairs. Graham saw it, too.

“Fuck,” he said. He ran. I ran, too. But the girl must have tripped me because I fell over, landing hard. When I got to my feet I heard the sirens of the black and whites and their engines starting up.

Then I was back outside, running down the steps. I was maybe ten meters behind Graham, about thirty feet, when Eddie’s Ferrari backed out of the garage, ground the gears, and roared down the street.

The black and whites immediately took up pursuit. Graham ran for his sedan. He had pulled out to follow while I was still running for my own car, parked farther down the road. As his car flashed past me, I could see his face, grim and angry.

I got into my car and followed.

You can’t drive fast in the hills and talk on the phone. I didn’t even try. I estimated I was half a kilometer behind Graham, and he was some distance behind the two patrol cars. When I got to the bottom of the hill, the 101 overpass, I saw the flashing lights going down the freeway. I had to back up and pull around to the entrance below Mulholland, and then I joined traffic heading south.

When the traffic began to slow up, I stuck my flasher on the roof, and pulled into the right-hand breakdown lane. I got to the concrete embankment about thirty seconds after the Ferrari hit it flat out at a hundred and sixty kilometers an hour. I guess the gas tank had exploded on impact, and the flames were jumping fifteen meters into the air. The heat was tremendous. It looked like the trees up on the hill might catch on fire. You couldn’t get anywhere near the twisted wreck of the car.