The Murder Book

Milo waited another half hour, was just about to split, when the grate yawned once more and a soot gray Lincoln Town Car nosed out. Vanity plates: CCCCCCC. Windows tinted well past the legal limit- even the driver's pane- but otherwise nice and conservative.

The Lincoln stopped at the red light at Wilshire, then turned west. Traffic was heavy enough for Milo to obtain cover two lengths behind, but sufficiently fluid to allow a nice, easy tail.

Perfect. For what it was worth.

He followed the gray Lincoln half a mile west to San Vicente Boulevard, then north to Melrose and west again to Robertson, where the Town Car pulled into the front lot of a restaurant on the southwest corner.

Brushed steel door. Matching steel nameplate above the door, engraved heavily:

Sangre de Leon.

New place. The last time Milo had taken the time to look, an Indonesian-Irish fusion joint had occupied the corner. Before that had been some kind of Vietnamese bistro run by a celebrity chef from Bavaria and bankrolled by movie stars. Milo figured the patrons had never served in the military.

Before that, he recalled at least six other start-up trendolas in as many years, new owners refurbishing, grand opening, garnering the usual breathless puff pieces in L.A. Magazine and Buzz, only to close a few months later.

Bad-luck corner. Same for the site across the street- the bamboo-faced one-story amorphoid that had once been a Pacific Rim seafood palace was now shuttered, a heavy chain drawn across its driveways.

Sangre de Leon. Lion's Blood. Appetizing. He wouldn't take bets on this one enduring longer than a bout of indigestion.

He found a dark spot across Robertson, parked diagonal to the restaurant, turned off his headlights. The rest of the decor was windowless gray stucco and sprigs of tall, bearded grass that looked like nothing other than dry weeds. An army of pink-jacketed valets- all good-looking and female- hovered at the mouth of the lot. Stingy lot; the seven Mercedes parked there filled it.

The Town Car's chauffeur- a big, thick bouncer type nearly as large as Georgie Nemerov's hunters- jumped out and sprang a rear door. A chesty, puffy-faced guy in his forties with sparse, curly hair got out first. His face looked as if it had been used as a waffle iron. Milo recognized Garvey Cossack right away. The guy had put on weight since his most recent newspaper photo, but not much else about him had changed. Next came a taller, soft-looking character with a shaved bullet head and a Frank Zappa mustache that drooped to his chin- little brother Bobo, minus his slicked-back hairdo. Middle-aged sap doing the youth-culture thing? Cranial skin as a proud badge of rebellion? Either way, the guy enjoyed mirror time.

Garvey Cossack wore a dark sport coat with padded shoulders over a black turtleneck, black slacks. Below the slacks, white ru

Bobo had on a too-small black leather bomber jacket, too-tight black jeans and black T-shirt, too-high black boots. Black-lensed shades, too. Call the paramedics, we've got an emergency overdose of cool.

A third man exited the Lincoln, and the big chauffeur let him close his own door.

Number Three was dressed the way businessmen used to dress in L.A. Dark suit, white shirt, undistinguished tie, normal shoes. Shorter than the Cossack brothers, he had narrow shoulders and a subservient stoop. Saggy, wrinkled face, though he didn't appear any older than the Cossacks. Miniscule oval eyeglasses and long, blond hair that shagged over his collar fought the Joe-Corporate image. The top of his scalp was mostly bald spot.

Mini-Specs hung back as the Cossacks entered the restaurant, Garvey in a flat-footed waddle, Bobo swaggering and bopping his head in time to some private melody. The chauffeur returned to the car and began backing out, and Specs walked past the pink ladies' expectant smiles. The Town Car turned south on Robertson, drove a block, pulled to the curb, went dark.

Specs remained out in the lot for a few seconds, looking around- but at nothing in particular. Facing the Taurus, but Milo caught no sign the guy saw anything that bothered him. No, this one was just full of random nervous energy- hands flexing, neck rotating, mouth turned down, the tiny lenses of his glasses darting and catching street light, a pair of reflective eggs.

Guy made him think of a crooked accountant on audit day. Finally, Specs ran his finger under his collar, rotated his shoulders, and made his way to the pleasures of leonine hemoglobin.

No additional diners materialized during the thirty-seven minutes Milo sat there. When one of the untipped valets looked at her watch, stepped out to the sidewalk, and lit up a cigarette, he got out of the Taurus and loped across the street.

The girl was a gorgeous, little red-haired thing with blue-blue eyes so vivid the color made its way through the night. Maybe twenty. She noticed Milo approaching, kept smoking. The cigarette was wrapped in black paper and had a gold tip. Shermans? Did they still make those?

She looked up when he was three feet away and smiled through the cloud of nicotine that swirled in the warm night air.

Smiling because Milo had his latest bribe visible. Two twenties folded between his index and tall fingers, backed by a freelance journalist cover story. Forty bucks was double what he'd paid the Pakistani POB clerk but the valet- her tag said Val- was a helluva lot cuter than the clerk. And as it turned out, a lot easier to deal with.

Ten minutes later he was back in the Taurus, cruising past the Town Car. Mt. Chauffeur was snoozing with his mouth open. A shaved-head Latino guy. The redhead had supplied Mini-Spec's ID.

"Oh, that's Brad. He works with Mr. Cossack and his brother."

"Mister Cossack?"

"Mr. Garvey Cossack. And his brother." Blue-eyed glance back at the restaurant. "He co-owns this place, along with…" A string of celebrity names followed. Milo pretended to be impressed.

"Must be a jumping place."

"It was when it opened."

"No more, huh?"

"You know," she said, rolling her eyes.

"How's the food?"

The parking cutie smiled and smoked and shook her head. "How would I know? It's like a hundred bucks a plate. Maybe when I get my first big part."

Her laugh was derisive. She added: "Maybe when pigs fly." So young, so cynical.

"Hollywood," said Milo.

"Yeah." Val looked back again. All the other girls were loafing, and a few were smoking. Probably keeping their weight down, thought Milo. Any of them could've modeled.

Val lowered her voice to a whisper: "Tell the truth, I hear the food sucks."

"The name can't help. Lion's Blood."

"Ick. Isn't that gross?"

"What kind of cuisine is it?"

"Ethiopian, I think. Or something African. Maybe also Latino, I du

"Cuban music?"

"No, silly. This place."

"Time for a new job?" said Milo.

"No prob, there's always bar mitzvahs." Stubbing out her cigarette, she said, "You don't happen to ever work for Variety, do you? Or The Hollywood Reporter?"

"Mostly I do wire service stuff."

"Someone's interested in the restaurant?"

Milo shrugged. "I drive around. You've got to dig if you wa

She looked at the Taurus and her next smile was ripe with sympathy. Another L.A. loser. "Well, if you ever do Variety, remember this name: Chataqua Dale."

Milo repeated it. "Nice. But so is Val."

A cloud of doubt washed over the blue eyes. "You really think so? 'Cause I was wondering if Chataqua was maybe, you know, over the top."