BECAUSE THE NIGHT
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moody, troubled. He took the news hard. He was drunk at two in the afternoon. Poor bastard.”
“We’re going to have a file a Missing Persons Report, Lloyd.”
“I know. Let Internal Affairs handle it, which means you and Walt Perkins are going to catch shit for not reporting it earlier and probably even heavier shit for working Herzog off the payroll.”
“You might get the case if it goes to Robbery/Homicide.”
“They’ll never find the stiff, Dutch. This job is pro all the way. I.A.D. will go at it sub rosa, then stonewall it. Let me give it another forty-eight hours before you call them, okay?”
“Okay.”
“What have you got from your snitches on the liquor store job?”
“Nothing yet. I sent out a memo to all officers on it. It’s still too early for a response. What’s next on Herzog?”
“Barhopping, Dutchman. Yours truly as a swinging single.”
“Have fun.”
Lloyd laughed and said, “Fuck you,” then hung up.
*
*
*
Bombarded by disco music, Lloyd competed for floor and bar space at First Avenue West. Showing his insurance agent’s business card and Jack Herzog’s personnel file photo to three bartenders, four cocktail waitresses and two dozen singles, he got negative responses, distinguished only by hostile looks and shakes of the head from low-rider types who made him for fuzz and annoyed brush-offs from young women who didn’t like his style. Lloyd walked out the door angrily shaking his head as the washout continued. Jackie D.’s, three doors down, was almost deserted. Lloyd counted heads as he took a seat at the bar. A couple doing a slow grind on the dance floor and two overaged swingers feeding coins to the jukebox. The bartender slipped a napkin in front of him and explained why: “Twofers at First Avenue West. Every Tuesday night I get killed. First Ave. can afford it, I can’t. I keep my prices low to do volume and I still get killed. Is there no mercy in this life?”
“None,” Lloyd said.
“I just wanted a confirmation. What are you drinking?”
Lloyd put a dollar bill on the bar. “Ginger ale.”
The bartender snorted, “You see what I mean? No mercy!”
Lloyd took out the snapshot of Jack Herzog. “Have you seen this man?”
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The bartender scrutinized the photo, then filled Lloyd’s glass and nodded. “Yeah, I seen him around here a lot.”
Lloyd’s skin prickled. “When?”
“A while back. A month, six weeks, maybe two months ago, right before those A.B.C. cocksuckers filed on me. You a cop?”
“That’s right.”
“Hollywood Vice?”
“Robbery/Homicide. Tell me about the man in the picture.”
“What’s to tell? He came in, he drank, he tipped well, he didn’t hit on the chicks.”
“Ever talk to him?”
“Not really.”
“Did he ever come in with or leave with anyone?”
The bartender screwed his face into a memory search, then said, “Yeah. He had a buddy. A sandy-haired guy. Medium height, maybe early thirties.”
“Did he meet him here?”
“That I can’t tell you.”
Lloyd walked over to the pay phone outside the men’s room and called Hollywood Station, requesting Lieutenant Perkins. When he came on the line, Lloyd said, “Walt, this is Lloyd Hopkins. I’ve got a question.”
“Hit me.”
“Did Herzog work his bar assignments alone?”
There was a long moment of silence. Finally Perkins said, “I’m not really sure, Lloyd. My guess is sometimes yes, sometimes no. I’ve always given Jack carte blanche. Any arrangements he made with individual squad members would be up to him. Shall I ask around tomorrow night at roll call?”
“Yes. What about a sandy-haired man, medium height, early thirties. Herzog might have worked with him.”
“That’s half our squad, Lloyd.”
There was another stretch of silence. Finally Lloyd said, “He’s dead. I’ll be in touch,” and replaced the receiver. The barman looked up as he strode toward the door. “There’s no mercy!” he called out.
*
*
*
Battered by sleeplessness and dwindling options, Lloyd drove downtown to Parker Center, hoping to find an easily intimidated nightwatch supervisor on duty at Personnel Records. When he saw the man behind the records counter dozing in his chair with a science fiction novel lying on his chest, he knew he was home.