Walter Mosley - Known to Evil

"That's okay."

"You haven't touched your drink," Lizette chided.

"On the job," I said. "What do you do for a living, ma'am?"

"Lizette."

"What do you do for a living, Lizette?"

"I haven't had a job for a while, Mr. Tooms. What's your first name?"

"John."

"I haven't had a job in a while, John. My nerves, you know. Angie helps me out with the rent, and she has groceries delivered every Monday and Thursday. She doesn't give me any cash, though. If I want a cigarette I have to bum one on the street."

"She must do very well at her job."

"She told me that someone gave her a grant or something, and she's using part of that to help me. You'd think she could give me a few bucks, though. A bottle of wine now and then isn't such a sin…

"Maybe you and me could go out for a little swizzle."

"Maybe some other time," I said, rising to my feet.

"Do you have to go already?"

"I need to find your daughter."

"Angie's fine. She's like a cat."

Lizette wanted to stand up but her body wasn't accommodating the desire.

"Will you come back again?"

"When I find Angie I'll come back and tell you."

"Angie," Lizette said with a sneer.

As I went out the door I heard her mutter, "Bitch."

It wasn't much after eight when I left Lizette's hungry cave. From there my feet took me down the street to the Naked Ear.

The Ear was busier that evening. Large groups of young and not so young people hovered around the bar, drinking and talking, laughing and trying to get the bartender's attention.

I wedged my solid bulk between two women in identical blue dresses, said Excuse me to a man who was laughing so hard that he couldn't take a sip from his glass.

Finally I sidled up to the bar next to a middle-aged man who was reading The New York Times.

"Anything happening?" I asked.

"Not yet," he said, refusing to look at me. "Everybody's waiting for January twentieth like early Christians waiting for the end of time."

There are very few rules I adhere to. In my line of work you can't let something from yesterday keep you from right now. But one thing I never do is talk politics with strangers in bars.

"You're McGill, right?" a woman said.

The bartender that night had black hair and shocking cobalt eyes. She'd been the runner-up to beauty her entire life, but the judges always left the party with her.

"Cynthia," I said, reaching back into my memory.

"Cylla," she said. "You were close."

"Not bartender close."

"Lucy said to tell you that she had to take off tonight but she'd be back on duty tomorrow."

I felt the twinge of unrequited infatuation where instinct told me my heart was.

"Three cognacs, right?" Cylla said.

"Yeah."

"Find a seat and I'll bring them to you."

THE OUTER CIRCLE OF the bar was never heavily inhabited, even on the busiest nights. When the Ear got going, ninety percent of the clientele thronged around the bar like youngsters in a mosh pit.

I found a small round table near a couple of young smoochers. Their love transported them. The beers were glasses of red wine and the table was outside on the Champs-Elysees en ete.

Ignoring the lovers, I tried to understand the life of Angelique Tara Lear. Her boyfriend had betrayed her. Her mother, whom she supported, called her a bitch. Her friend had been murdered, maybe in her stead, and the most powerful man in New York seemed to be obsessed with her every move and acquaintance. Few people did that much living in an entire decade.

My phone made the sound of Chinese wind chimes.

"Hey, Zephrya. Guess where I am."

"Looks like the Naked Ear."

" 'Looks like'?"

"You got the GPS turned on on your phone again," she said. "I could tell you exactly where you were in Beijing or Timbuktu."

Zephyra Ximenez was my lifeline in the electronic dimensions. I rarely saw her. Ninety-nine-point-nine percent of her work was on the phone or online. She had a Dominican mother and Moroccan father-lineages, when combined, that gave her dark red-black skin and the kind of look that defines rather than trails after beauty. I had met her at the Ear and tried to pick her up, but she didn't have a father complex. When I told her about my work she offered me her professional services.

In the long run that was a much better deal for both of us.

"The police are after you, Mr. McGill," she said.

"Say what?"

"Lieutenant Bonilla-the last time I talked to her she was a sergeant-and Detective Kitteridge have both called and demanded your presence."

"What did you tell them?"

"That I would pass the information on as soon as possible."

"I hired a receptionist," I said. "A young woman named Mardi Bitterman."

"Really? Wow. With me, Bug Bateman, and now this Mardi, you almost have a real office."

"Yeah. From now on you can call her during business hours when you can't get me."

"Your drinks," Cylla said.

She had brought them on an old-fashioned dark-brown tray that was lined with cork.

"Is that Cylla?" Zephyra asked.

"It is."

"Let me speak to her a minute, will you, boss?"

While the young women chattered, I took my first nip of brandy and wondered at the zinging feeling in my chest. It made me happy to see Cylla laughing with Zephyra. I wanted the same youthful abandon for Angie but didn't have high hopes.

I LEFT THE BAR about midnight and walked for a while. I honestly didn't realize that I was headed for Lucy's block until I was standing there in front of her building.

The light was on in her apartment. There was jazz coming from somewhere else. I was a teenager, drunk on his first forbidden bender and smitten with passion for a girl.

At my age this feeling was better than love. It was the moment before you really knew the object of affection. Her nipples and the sounds she made in her sleep were still in the province of the unknown. She had no secrets because she was, in herself, a mystery. I had no hold on her because she hadn't yet offered me one.

Standing outside her place, I had two choices: one of them was to ring her bell.

I took out my phone, disengaged the GPS, and entered a number.

"Lieutenant Bonilla," she answered on the third ring.

"You wanted to see me, Lieutenant?"

WE MET AT A little after-hours joint on Eighty-first. The bar closed at one but the owner stayed open for cops and special regulars.

Bonilla was already there when I arrived. She was sitting in a faded red booth, wearing a steel-gray pants suit that had a definite masculine flair.

I sat down across from her and nodded.

"Have you talked to Kitteridge?" were her first words.

"Not since a while ago. He wanted me to come in this afternoon but I demurred."

"You know, you shouldn't take Carson lightly."

The lady cop was offering me good advice. She was intuitive, working outside the rote demands of her profession. She understood that there was a conflict going on in me.

Carson Kitteridge was the only innately honest senior cop I had ever dealt with. It was in his job definition to bring me to justice, whatever that meant. For all that, he played by the rules. He would never take somebody down except by the letter of the law. But Bethann Bonilla was even more rare. She had empathy for me; no love, or even real concern, just a feeling for what I was.

"What do you have on the murders, Mr. McGill?"

"I'm not on that case, Lieutenant. I don't even know what the papers say about it because I haven't had the time to sit down and read them."

"What are you working on?"

"Nothing criminal."

"Does it have to do with Wanda Soa?"

"Not that I know of."

"Then what were you doing at her apartment?"

"I've already explained that."