“This and that.”
“What about South-Central? What were you doing down there with those people last week?”
Bosch understood the reference to those people as meaning the predominant minority population of South L.A. He turned and looked pointedly at Mackey, as if telling him he was asking too many questions.
“This and that,” he said evenly.
“That’s cool,” Mackey responded, taking his hands off the wheel in a backing off gesture.
“Tell you what, though, it doesn’t matter what I was doing, you can just fucking keep this city, man.”
Mackey smiled.
“I know what you mean,” he said.
Bosch thought they were close to sharing more than small talk. He believed Mackey had gotten a glimpse of the tattoos and was trying to draw from Bosch a signal as to what kind of person he was. He thought the moment was right for another subtle move toward the newspaper article.
Bosch put the newspaper down on the seat between them, making sure the photo of Rebecca Verloren was still noticeable. He then started putting his shirt back on. He leaned forward and extended his arms to do it. He didn’t look at Mackey but knew the skull on his left arm would be very noticeable as he did this. He put his right arm into the shirt first and then brought the shirt behind his back and put his left arm into its sleeve. He leaned back and started buttoning the shirt.
“Just a little too third world around here for me,” Bosch said.
“I’m with you on that.”
“Yeah? Is this where you’re from?”
“My whole life.”
“Well, pal, you ought to take your family-if you have a family-and the flag with you and leave. Just fucking leave this place.”
Mackey laughed and nodded.
“I got a friend says the same thing. All the time.”
“Yeah, well, it’s not an original idea.”
“Got that right.”
Then the radio interrupted the momentum of the conversation.
“Hey, Ro?”
Mackey grabbed the mike.
“Yeah, Ken?”
“I’m gonna run over to KFC while Spider’s waiting on you. You want something?”
“Nah, I’ll go out later. Out.”
He hung the mike up. They drove in silence for a few moments while Bosch tried to think of a way to naturally get the conversation going again and in the right direction. Mackey had driven down to Burbank Boulevard and gone right. They were coming up on Tampa. He would turn right again and then it would be a straight shot to the station. In less than ten minutes the ride would be over.
But it was Mackey who got it going again.
“So where’d you do your time?” he suddenly asked.
Bosch waited a moment so that his excitement wouldn’t show.
“What are you talking about?” he asked.
“I saw your markings, man. It’s no big deal. But they’re either homemade or prison-made. That’s obvious.”
Bosch nodded.
“Obispo. I spent a nickel up there.”
“Yeah? For what?”
Bosch turned and looked at him again.
“This and that.”
Mackey nodded, apparently not put off by his passenger’s reluctance to open up.
“That’s cool, man. I have a friend that was there for a while. Late nineties. He said it wasn’t so bad. It’s kind of a white-collar place. Not as many niggers there as other places, at least.”
Bosch was silent for a long moment. He knew Mackey’s use of the racial slur was like a password. If Bosch responded in the proper way, then he would be accepted. It was code work.
“Yeah,” Bosch said, nodding his head. “That made the conditions a little more livable. I probably missed your friend, though. I got out in early ’ninety-eight.”
“Frank Simmons. That’s his name. He was only there for like eighteen months or something. He was from Fresno.”
“Frank Simmons from Fresno,” Bosch said as if trying to recall the name. “I don’t think I knew him.”
“He’s good people.”
Bosch nodded.
“There was one guy who came in like a few weeks before I walked out of that place,” he said. “I heard he was from Fresno. But, man, I was on short time and I wasn’t into meeting new people, you know what I mean?”
“Yeah, that’s cool. I was just wondering, you know.”
“Did your guy have dark hair and his face had a lot a scars like from zits and stuff?”
Mackey started smiling and nodding.
“That’s him! That’s Frank. We used to call him Crater Face from Crater Lake.”
“And I’m sure he was happy about that.”
The tow truck turned onto Tampa and headed north. Bosch knew he might have more time with Mackey in the service station while the tire was being fixed but he couldn’t count on it. There could be another tow call or myriad other distractions. He had to finish the play and plant the seed now, while he was alone with the target. He picked up the newspaper and held it in his lap, glancing down as if he was reading the headlines. He had to figure out a way to naturally steer the conversation directly toward the Verloren article.
Mackey took his right hand off the wheel and pulled off his glove by biting one of the fingers. It reminded Bosch of the way a child would do it. Mackey then extended his hand to Bosch.
“I’m Ro, by the way.”
Bosch shook his hand.
“Ro?”
“Short for Roland. Roland Mackey. Pleased to meet you.”
“George Reichert,” Bosch said, giving the name he had made up after careful thought earlier in the day.
“Reichert?” Mackey said. “German, right?”
“Means ‘heart of the Reich.’”
“That’s cool. And I guess that explains the Mercedes. You know, I deal with cars all fucking day. You can tell a lot about people by the cars they drive and how they take care of them.”
“I suppose.”
Bosch nodded. He now saw the direct way to his goal. Once again Mackey had unwittingly helped.
“German engineering,” Bosch said. “The best fucking carmakers in the world. What do you drive when you’re not in this rig?”
“I’m restoring a ’seventy-two Camaro. It’s going to be a sweet ride when I’m finished.”
“Good year,” Bosch offered.
“Yeah, but I wouldn’t buy anything out of Detroit nowadays. You know who’s making our cars now, don’t you? All the fucking mud people. I wouldn’t drive one, let alone put my family in one.”
“In Germany,” Bosch responded, “you go into a factory and everybody’s got blue eyes, you know what I mean? I’ve seen pictures.”
Mackey nodded thoughtfully. Bosch thought it was time to make the direct move. He unfolded the newspaper on his lap. He held it up so that the full front page, and the full Verloren story, could be seen.
“Talk about mud people,” he said. “Did you read this story?”
“No, what’s it say?”
“It’s about this mother sittin’ on a bed boohooing about her mud child who got killed seventeen years ago. And the police are still on the case. But I mean, who cares, man?”
Mackey glanced over at the paper and saw the photo with the inset shot of Rebecca Verloren’s face. But he didn’t say anything and his own face did not betray any recognition. Bosch lowered the paper so as not to be too obvious about it. He refolded it and discarded it on the seat between them. He pushed things one more time.
“I mean, you mix the races like that and what are you going to get?” he asked.
“Exactly,” Mackey said.
It wasn’t a strong reply. It was almost hesitant, as if Mackey was thinking about something else. Bosch took this as a good sign. Maybe Mackey had just felt that cold finger go down his spine. Maybe it was the first time in seventeen years.
Bosch decided he had given it his best shot. If he tried to do anything more he might cross the line into obviousness and give himself away. He decided to ride the rest of the way silently, and Mackey seemed to make the same choice.
But a few blocks later Mackey swerved the truck into the second lane to get around a slow-moving Pinto.