It was also time for me to look into the face of the man who had taken Angella Benton from this world. I had no badge and no official standing. But I knew things and believed that I still stood for her. I spoke for her. In the morning they could take it all away from me, make me sit down and watch from the sidelines. But I still had until then. And I knew I was not going home just yet. I was going to confront Linus Simonson and take his measure. I was going to let him know who put the bead on him. And I was going to give him the chance to answer for Angella Benton.

When we got back to the Splendid Age I left Sugar Ray dozing in the front seat while I went in to get the porter. Getting him into the Mercedes outside the Baked Potato by myself had been a chore.

I gently shook him awake and then we got him down onto the sidewalk. We walked him in and then down the hall to his room. Sitting on his bed, trying to shake off the sleep, he asked me where I’d been.

“I’ve been right here with you, Sugar Ray.”

“You’ve been practicing?”

“Every chance I get.”

I realized that he may have already forgotten our evening’s outing. He may have thought I was there for a lesson. I felt bad about him being robbed of the memory so soon.

“Sugar Ray, I’ve gotta go. I’ve got some work to do.”

“Okay, Henry.”

“It’s Harry.”

“That’s what I said.”

“Oh. You want me to turn on the box or are you going to go to sleep?”

“Nah, put the box on for me if you don’t mind. That’d be good.”

I turned on the television that was mounted on the wall. It was on CNN and Sugar Ray said to leave it there. I went over and squeezed his shoulder and then headed for the door.

“‘Lush Life,’” he said to my back.

I turned around to look at him. He was smiling. “Lush Life” was the last song of the set we had heard. He did remember.

“I love that song,” he said.

“Yeah, me too.”

I left him to his memories of a lush life while I headed out into the night to see a king about a stolen life. I was unarmed but unafraid. I was in a state of grace. I carried the last prayer of Angella Benton with me.

Shortly after ten o’clock I approached the doorway to Nat’s on Cherokee, a half block south of Hollywood Boulevard. It was still early but there was no line 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 bet you show that to all the boys.”

“Is it worth ten bucks?”

I almost told her I knew places where I could get the real thing for a ten but let it go. I left her there and found my way to a hallway behind the bar. There were doors for the rest rooms and then a door marked “Management Only.” I didn’t knock. I just went through and it only led to a continuation of the hallway and more doors. The third door down said “Linus” on it. I opened that one without knocking, too.

Linus Simonson was sitting behind a cluttered desk. I recognized him from the magazine photo. He had a bottle of Scotch whiskey and a snifter on the desk. There was a black leather couch in the office and on it sat a man I also recognized from the magazine as one of the partners. His name was James Oliphant. He had his feet up on a coffee table and looked like he wasn’t the least bit concerned by a visit from a man he’d been told was a cop.

“Hey, man, you the cop,” Simonson said as he waved me in. “Close the door.”

I stepped in and introduced myself. I didn’t say I was a cop.

“Well, I’m Linus and that there’s Jim. What’s up? What can we do for you?”