of people waiting to get in. There was no velvet rope. There was no doorman selecting who got in and who didn’t. There was no collector of a cover charge. When I got inside, there also were almost no customers.
I had been in Nat’s on numerous occasions in its former incarnation as a dive bar populated by a clientele as devoted to alcohol as any other aspect of life. It wasn’t a pickup spot-unless you counted the prostitutes who cooled their heels at the bar. It wasn’t a celebrity-watching spot. It was a drinking spot and that was the sum of its entire purpose, and as such it had an honest character. As I walked in and saw all the polished brass and rich woods I realized that what it had now was glamour and that was never the same or as long-lasting as character. It didn’t matter how many people lined up on opening night. The place wasn’t going to go the distance. I knew that within fifteen seconds. The place was doomed before the first citron martini was poured shaken not stirred into its frosted glass and placed on a black napkin.
I went right to the bar where there were three patrons who looked like tourists in from Florida after a dose of much needed California Cool. The bartender was tall and thin and wore the requisite black jeans and tight body shirt that allowed her nipples to introduce themselves to the customers. She had a black-ink snake wrapped around one bicep, its forked red tongue licking the crook of her elbow, where the needle scars were evident. Her hair was shorter than mine and on the nape of her neck a bar code was tattooed. It made me think of how much I enjoyed discovering Eleanor Wish’s neck the night before.
“There’s a ten-dollar cover,” the bartender said. “What can I get you?”
I remembered from the magazine article that it used to be $20.
“What does it cover? This place is dead.”
“Stick around. That’s ten dollars.”
I made no move to give her the money. I leaned on the bar and spoke quietly.
“Where’s Linus?”
“He’s not here tonight.”
“Then where is he? I need to talk to him.”
“He’s probably at Chet’s. That’s where he keeps his office. He doesn’t usually start bopping around to the places until after midnight. Are you going to pay the ten?”
“I don’t think so. I’m leaving.”
She frowned.
“You’re a cop, aren’t you?”
I smiled proudly.
“Going on twenty-eight years.”
I left off the part about the twenty-eight years coming before I retired. I figured she’d get on the phone and send the word a cop was coming. That might work in my favor. I reached in my pocket and pulled out a ten. I tossed it onto the bar.
“That’s not the cover. That’s for you. Get a haircut.”
She put an exaggerated smile on her face, one that showed she had a nice set of dimples. She snatched the ten.
“Thanks, Dad.”
I smiled as I walked out.
It took me fifteen minutes to get over to Chet’s on Santa Monica near LaBrea. I had the address thanks to Los Angeles Magazine, which had conveniently put a listing of all of the Four Kings establishments in a box on the last page of the story.
Again there was no line and few customers. I was beginning to think that once you are declared cool in the tourist books and magazines, then you’re dead in the water. Chet’s was almost a carbon copy of Nat’s, right down to the sullen bartender with the not-so-subtle nipples and tattoos. The one thing I liked about the place was the music. Chet Baker’s “Cool Burnin’” was playing when I walked in and I thought maybe the kings might have some taste after all.
The bartender was déjà vu all over again-tall, thin and in black, except her bicep tattoo was Marilyn Monroe’s face circa “Happy Birthday, Mr. President.”
“You the cop?” she asked before I said a word.
“You’ve been talking to your sister. I guess she told you I don’t pay cover.”
“She said something about that.”
“Where’s Linus?”
“He’s in his office. I told him you were coming.”
“That was nice of you.”
I stepped away from the bar but pointed at her tattoo.
“Your mom?”
“Hey, come here, take a look.”
I leaned back over the bar. She bent her elbow and flexed her muscles repeatedly. Marilyn’s cheeks puffed up and then down as the bicep beneath expanded and contracted.
“Kind of looks like she’s giving a blow job, doesn’t it?” the bartender said.
“That’s real cute,” I said. “I