The concrete blonde - By Michael Connelly Page 0,60
street?”
“Look, you think I would've sent her if I knew? I had a lot invested in her, man.”
“I'm sure you did.”
Bosch looked over at the blonde and wondered how long it would be before she looked like the one he had given the twenty to on the street. His guess was that Cerrone's girls all ended up used up and on the street with their thumb out, or they ended up dead. He looked back at Cerrone.
“Did Rebecca smoke?”
“What?”
“Smoke. Did she smoke? You lived with her, you should know.”
“No, she didn't smoke. It's a disgusting habit.”
Cerrone looked over at the blonde and glared. Bosch dropped his cigarette on the white rug and ground it out as he stood up. He headed toward the door but stopped after he opened it.
“Cerrone, the woman in that dump your mail goes to?”
“What about her?”
“She doesn't pay rent anymore.”
“What are you talking about?”
He climbed up from the floor, regaining a measure of his pride.
“I'm talking about her not paying you rent anymore. I'm going to check on her from time to time. If she's paying rent, your PO gets a call and your scam gets blown. Probation gets revoked and you do your time. It's tough to run an outcall business from county lockup. Only two phones on each floor and the brothers control who uses them and for how long. I guess you'd have to cut them in.”
Cerrone just stared at him, anger thumping in his temples.
“And she better still be there when I check,” Bosch said. “If I hear she went back to Mexico, I blame you and make the call. If I hear she bought a fucking condo, I make the call. She just better be there.”
“That's extortion,” Cerrone said.
“No, asshole, that's justice.”
He left the door open. Out in the hallway waiting for the elevator, he once again heard Cerrone yell, “Shut the fuck up!”
13
The last vestiges of the evening rush hour made it a slow run up to Sylvia's. She was sitting at the dining room table in faded blue jeans and a Grant High T-shirt, reading book reports, when he came in. One of the eleventh-grade English classes she taught down in the Valley at Grant was called Los Angeles in Literature. She had told him she developed the class so the students might come to know their city better. Most of them came from other places, other countries. She had once told him that the students in one of her classes accounted for eleven different native languages.
He put his hand on the back of her neck and bent down to kiss her. He noticed the reports were on Nathanael West's Day of the Locust.
“Ever read it?” she asked.
“Long time ago. Some English teacher in high school made us read it. She was crazy.”
She elbowed him in the thigh.
“All right, wise guy. I try to rotate the tough ones with the easy ones. I assigned them The Big Sleep.”
“That's probably what they thought this one should've been called.”
“Aren't you the life of the party today. Something good happen?”
“Actually, no. Everything is turning to shit out there. But in here … it's different.”
She got up and they embraced. He ran his hand up and down her back the way he knew she liked.
“What's happening on the case?”
“Nothing. Everything. I might be going into the mud puddle. Wonder if I can get a job after this as a private eye. Like Marlowe.”
She pushed away.
“What are you talking about?”
“I'm not sure. Something. I have to work on it tonight. I'll take the kitchen table. You can stay out here with the locusts.”
“It's your turn to cook.”
“Then, I'm going to hire the colonel.”
“Shit.”
“Hey, that's not a good thing for an English teacher to say. What's the matter with the colonel?”
“He's been dead for years. Never mind. It's okay.”
She smiled at him. This ritual occurred often. When it was his turn to cook he usually took her out. He could see she was disappointed by the prospect of fried chicken to go. But there was too much going on, too much to think about.
She had a face that made him want to confess everything bad he had ever done. Yet he knew he could not. She knew it, too.
“I humiliated a man today.”
“What? Why?”
“Because he humiliates women.”
“All men do that, Harry. What did you do to him?”
“Knocked him down in front of his woman.”
“He probably needed it.”
“I don't want you to come to court tomorrow. I'm probably going to be called by Chandler to