Stalking the Angel (8 page)

When we got to the door, Bradley cupped a hand over the receiver’s mouthpiece, leaned out of his chair, and called, “Cole. Keep me posted, will you?”

I said sure.

Bradley Warren uncupped the receiver, laughed like he’d just heard the best joke he’d heard all year, then swiveled back toward the big glass wall.

I left.

With the security of his family now in my trusted hands, apparently it was safe to resume business.

Twenty minutes after Bradley and Jillian resumed business, I drove down to a flat, gray building on Venice Boulevard in Culver City, and parked beside a red Jeep Cherokee with a finish like polished glass. It’s industrial down there, so all the buildings are flat and gray, but most of them don’t have the Cherokee or an electronically locked steel door or a sign that says
BARTON’S PISTOL RANGE
. I had to ring a bell and someone inside had to buzz open the steel door before I could enter.

The lobby is big and bright, with high ceilings and Coke machines and posters of Clint Eastwood as Dirty Harry and Sylvester Stallone as Rambo. Someone had put up a poster of Huey, Dewey, and Louie, with a little sign on it that said
WE ARE THE NRA
. These gun nuts. There was a long counter filled with targets and gun cleaning supplies and pistols you could rent, and a couple of couches you could sit on while you were waiting for a shooting stall to open up. Three men in
business suits and a woman in a jogging suit and another woman in a dress were waiting to shoot, but they weren’t waiting on the couches. They were at the head of the counter and they didn’t look happy. One of the men was tall and forty pounds too fat and had a red face. He was leaning over the counter at Rick Barton, saying, “I made an appointment, goddamnit. I don’t see why I have to stand around and wait.”

Rick Barton said, calmly, “I’m terribly sorry for the inconvenience, sir, but we’ve had to momentarily close the range. It will open again in about fifteen minutes.”

“Closed my ass! I hear
somebody
shooting back there!”

Rick Barton nodded, calmly. “Yes, sir. Another fifteen minutes. Excuse me, please.” Rick came down the long counter and nodded at me. He was short and slight and had put in twelve years in the Marine Corps. Eight of those years he had shot on the Marine Corps pistol team. He said, “Thank Christ you walked in. I hadda ‘sir’ that fat fuck one more time, I’da lubed his gear box for him.”

“Ah, Rick. You always did have a gift for the public.”

Rick said, “You want to pop some caps?”

I shook my head. “The gun shop said Joe was here.”

Rick looked at his watch. “Go on back. Tell him he’s got another ten, then I chuck his ass out.”

He tossed me a set of ear covers, and I went back toward the range. Behind me, the fat guy said, “Hey, how come
he
gets to go back there?”

You go through the door, then down a long, dim corridor with a lot of signs that say things like
EAR AND EYE PROTECTION MUST BE WORN AT ALL TIMES
and
NO RAPID FIRING
, and then you go through another
sound-proofed door and you’re on the firing range. There are twelve side-by-side stalls from which people can shoot at targets that they send down-range using little electric pulleys. Usually, the range is bright, and well lighted, but now the lights had been turned off so that only the targets were lit. A tape player had been hooked up, and Bob Seger was screaming
I like that old time rock ’n’ roll
 … so loud that you could hear him through the ear covers. Anyone else would find his partner on the golf course or the tennis courts.

Joe Pike was shooting at six targets that he had placed as far down-range as possible. He was firing a Colt Python .357 Magnum with a four-inch barrel, moving left-to-right, right-to-left, shooting at the targets in precise time with the music.
That kind of music just soothes the soul
 … He was wearing faded Levi’s and blue Nike running shoes and a gray sweatshirt with the sleeves cut off and a big steel Rolex and mirrored pilot’s glasses. The gun and the glasses and the Rolex gleamed in the darkness as if they had been polished to a high luster. Pike moved without hesitation or doubt, as precise and controlled as a well-made machine.
Bang bang bang
. The Python would move, and flash, and a hole would burst near the center of a target. The dark glasses seemed not to adversely affect his vision. Maybe the sunglasses didn’t matter because Pike had his eyes closed. Maybe somehow Pike and the target were one, and we could write a book titled
Zen and the Art of Small Arms Fire
and make a fortune. Wow.

He stopped to reload, still facing down-range, and said, “Want to shoot a few?” You see? Cosmic.

I went to the stall where he had set up Rick’s tape player and clicked off the music. “How’d you know I was here?”

Shrug.

“We’ve got a job.”

“Yeah?” Pike loves to talk.

We walked down-range, collected his targets, then examined them. Every shot had been within two inches of center. He was delighted. You could tell because the corner of his mouth twitched. Joe Pike does not smile. Joe Pike never smiles. After a while you get used to it. I said, “Eh. Not bad.”

We gathered his things and walked back along the dim corridor, me telling him about Bradley and Sheila and the stolen Hagakure and the phone call from person or persons unknown that had scared the hell out of Sheila Warren.

He said, “Threat like that doesn’t make any sense.”

“Nope.”

“Maybe there wasn’t a threat. Maybe somebody’s having a little fun.”

“Maybe.”

“Maybe the lady made it up.”

“Maybe. But we don’t know that. I figure you can stay with the woman and the kid while I look for the book.”

“Uh-huh.”

Pike was pulling off his sweatshirt when we walked out into the lobby. The fat man said, “Well, it’s about goddamned time,” and then he saw Joe Pike and shut up. Pike is an inch taller than me, and more heavily muscled, and when he was in Vietnam he’d had a bright red arrow tattooed on the outside of each deltoid. The arrows pointed forward. There is an ugly pucker scar high on the left side of his chest from the time a Mexican in a zoot suit shot him with a gold Llama automatic, and two more scars low on his back above
his right kidney. After the fat guy looked at the tattoos and the muscles, he looked at the scars and then he looked away. Rick Barton was grinning from ear to ear.

Pike said, “Use your shower, Rick?”

“No problem, bo.”

While Pike was in the shower I used a pay phone to call Sheila Warren. “I’m on the way over,” I said. “Bradley hired me to look out for you.”

“Well,” she said, “I should hope so.”

“I’m bringing my partner, Joe Pike. He’ll make sure the house and grounds are secure and be there in case there’s a problem.”

There was a pause. “Who’s Joe Pike?”

Maybe I had lapsed into Urdu the first time. “My partner. He owns the agency with me.”

“You won’t be here?”

“Somebody has to look for the book.”

“Maybe this Joe Pike should look for the book.”

“I’m better at finding. He’s better at guarding.”

You could hear her breathing into the phone. The breaths were deep and irregular and I thought I could hear ice move in a glass but maybe that was the TV. I said, “You were pretty gone last night. How’s your head?”

“You go to hell.” She hung up.

Five minutes later Pike came back with a blue leather gym bag and we drove across town, me leading and Pike following in the Cherokee. When we got to the Warren house, Pike parked in the drive, then got out with the gym bag, walked back, and climbed into my car. Hatcher and his T-bird were gone. I told Pike about Berke Feldstein in the Sun Tree Gallery and Nobu Ishida and the two Asian Task Force cops.

“Asian Task Force are tough dudes,” Pike said. “You think Ishida’s got the book?”

“I think that a couple of hours after I saw him, someone threatened the Warrens. If Ishida doesn’t have it, maybe he’ll want to find out who does. Maybe he’ll ask around.”

Pike nodded. “And maybe you’ll be there when he gets some answers.”

“Uh-huh.”

The twitch. “Nice.”

The front door opened and Sheila Warren stepped out. She was in Jordache jeans over a red Danskin top that showed a fine torso. She put her palms on her hips, fingertips down the way women do, and stared at us.

Pike said, “The lady of the house?”

“Yep.”

Pike opened the gym bag, took out a Walther 9mm automatic in a strap holster, hitched up his right pant, fastened the gun around his ankle, then pulled the pant down over it and got out of the car. Maybe he was saving the .357 for heavy work.

“Be careful,” I said.

Pike nodded without saying anything, then took the gym bag and walked up to the house. He stopped in front of Sheila Warren and put out his hand and she took it. She glanced my way, then back up at Pike and gave him a big smile. Twenty kilowatts. She touched his gym bag and then his forearm and said something and laughed. She slid her hand up his arm to his shoulder and showed him into the house. I think she may have licked her lips. I eased the Corvette into gear and drove away. It’s a good thing Pike’s tough.

Little Tokyo was jammed with the lunch hour rush. Every restaurant on the block had a line of Caucasian secretaries and their bosses queued up out front, and the smell of hot peanut oil and vinegar sauces made my stomach rumble.

A small
CLOSED
sign was taped in the door at Nobu Ishida’s place. It was one of those cruddy hand-lettered things and not at all what you would expect from a big-time importer and art connoisseur, but there you go. I turned into the alley behind Ishida’s just to check, and, sure enough, it looked closed from back there, too. Probably out for lunch.

I turned back to Ki, then went up Broadway past the Hollywood Freeway into Chinatown. Chinatown is much bigger than Little Tokyo and not as clean, but the best honey-dipped duck and spring rolls in America can be had at a place called Yang Chow’s on Broadway just past Ord. If bad guys can break for lunch, so can good guys.

I parked in front of a live poultry market and walked back to Yang Chow’s and bought half a duck, three spring rolls, fried rice, and two Tsingtao to go. They put extra spice in the spring rolls for me.

Ten minutes later I was back on Ki Street, pulling into a parking lot sandwiched between two restaurants. It was crowded but all of the lots this time of day were crowded. I was a block and a half down from Ishida’s, and if anyone went into his shop through the front or came out through the front or turned over the
CLOSED
sign, I’d be able to see it. If they came or went through the back I was screwed. You learn to live with failure.

The parking attendant said, “You here to eat?”

“Yeah.”

“Three-fifty.”

I gave him three-fifty.

“Park anywhere. Give me the key.”

I took a spot at the front of the lot, blocking in a white Volvo so that I had an easy eyes-forward view of Ishida’s shop. I got out of the Corvette, pulled the top up to cut the sun, then climbed back in. I opened a Tsingtao, drank some, then went to work on the rice.

“I thought you here to eat.” The parking attendant was standing by my door.

I showed him the rice.

“In there.” He pointed at one of the restaurants.

I shook my head. “Out here.”

“You no eat out here. In there for eating.”

“I’m a health inspector. I go in there I’ll close the place down.”

“You got to give me key.” Maybe he didn’t believe me.

“No key. I keep the key.”

He pointed at the Volvo. “What if owner come
out? I got to move.” He rapped knuckles on the Corvette’s door.

“I’m here. I’ll move it.”

“You no insured here.”

“Okay. I’ll get out and let you move it.”

“What if you leave.”

“If I leave, I’ll give you the key.” People like this are put here to test us.

He was going to say more when two Asian women and a black man came out of the restaurant. The black man wore a navy suit and had a small mustache and looked successful. The attendant hustled over to them, got a claim check, then hustled to the back of the lot. One of the Asian women said something to the black man and they all laughed. The attendant drove up in a Mercedes 420 Turbo Diesel. Bronze. He closed the door after each woman, and the black man gave him a tip. Maybe the tip made him feel better about things. He went back to the little attendant’s shack and looked at me but left me alone.