U Is for Undertow (Kinsey Millhone 21)

He turned left on Monarch Lane, the side street that intersected Old Coast Road. The bank was on the corner and his office was located at the far end of the building. He traversed the parking lot, making a covert visual sweep as he pushed through the glass door into the reception area. When he paused to look back, he spotted the MG passing on the street. The girl was staring in his direction and he saw her reach over and grab Michael Sutton’s arm to get his attention. The MG slowed and Michael peered past her at the front of the bank. Walker stepped away from the glass and then pivoted and took the side corridor to his office, where he closed the door.

At 6:00 he left the bank and walked the two blocks to his motel. He’d intended to eat dinner at the bar and grill off the Pelican parking lot, but he couldn’t bring himself to walk in. He’d halted at the door, struck by the smell of whiskey and beer. The cigarette smoke didn’t bother him as much as the clatter of flatware, diners bending over their plates, sawing away at steaks and pork chops. Nine days sober and he felt the old quickening, the automatic spark of excitement when he knew a drink was in the offing. Not tonight. Rather than order a meal, steeling himself against the old associations of red meat and red wine, he turned on his heel and returned to his room. He watched TV for a while, flipping from channel to channel.

At 9:15 he left his room again, crossed the street to the twenty-four-hour gas station, and shut himself into a public phone booth with a bifold door. He put a couple of coins in the slot and dialed Jon Corso’s number. On the street a car slowed, turned in, and stopped in front of the pumps. Walker lowered his head, obscuring his face. He was behaving like a fugitive.

After four rings Jon picked up, sounding brusque. He was probably working on a new book, irritated at the interruption. “Hello?”

“We need to talk.”

There was a pause of four seconds. “About what?”

“I’d rather not say on the phone.”

“And why is that?”

“Shit, Jon. You’re the one who’s paranoid. I’m taking my cue from you.”

“Where are you?”

“At the gas station across the street from the bank. I’m using a pay phone.”

“I’ll pick you up in half an hour,” Jon said, and hung up.

Walker checked his watch, unsure what to do with himself until Jon arrived. He went into the minimart adjacent to the service bays, which were dark now. The place was empty except for a clerk who sat at the register reading a comic book. Walker ambled up and down the aisles, looking at the gaudy array of potato chips, Fritos, Cheetos, tortilla chips, sun-baked chips, and pretzels, along with nasty-looking jars of salsa and a cheese product as viscous as glue. Crackers, cookies, candy bars, Twinkies, packaged cupcakes covered in coconut. The refrigerated coolers were stocked with cheap beer, canned and bottled sodas, and a row of jug wines. He came to an ordered row of sandwiches and read the labels. Tuna salad, ham and cheese, a bologna with mayonnaise on wheat bread. He selected a bologna sandwich, which he hadn’t eaten in years. At the counter he added four candy bars and paid for the lot. The clerk put everything in a bag for him, which he tucked under his arm. He went outside again and crossed to the half-wall at the far end of the paved area. He sat down, wishing he’d bought a soft drink, but too lazy to go back.

He opened the sandwich and took a bite. He chewed slowly, savoring the mild flavor of bologna, the sweet tang of mayonnaise. Montebello Bank and Trust was just across the street. He could see a light on, a low-tech burglar deterrent. Traffic was scanty, though he was certain that farther up the block, where bars and restaurants were clustered, the valet car parkers would be hustling back and forth.

Jon’s black Jaguar finally tooled into sight at a leisurely speed. Walker was guessing he’d bypassed the freeway, opting to drive along the beach. It would be like him to take his time, leaving Walker to loiter on the corner like a bum. Jon pulled over and Walker opened the door on the passenger side, sliding into the seat.

Walker said, “Shit, this feels like we’re having an affair.”

“I didn’t think you did things like that.”

“Once for two months. Miserable experience. I swore off.”

“Carolyn catch you at it?”

“She knew something was going on, but she never figured it out.”

“Good for you. So where to?”

“You pick. I’m sick of being cooped up.”

Jon made a leisurely U-turn and headed for the entrance to the northbound 101. The car was silent and the ride was smooth. There was no conversation. Walker slouched in his seat and closed his eyes, so relaxed he nearly fell asleep. Nights at the Pelican were a bad mix—headlights turning into the parking lot at odd hours, pipes thumping. Walker would wake to the tap and scratch of footsteps passing along the walkway outside his door. The place wasn’t cheap, located as it was in the heart of Montebello, but the builder had cut corners. The shower was fiberglass and the bathroom vanity looked like something purchased from a cut-rate catalog. The kitchenette consisted of a hot plate, a toaster oven, and a tiny under-the-counter refrigerator too small to hold a pizza box.