Read Online Stalking the Angel by Robert Crais - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Robert Crais
Ads: Link
bag and walked up to the house. He stopped in front of Sheila Warren and put out his hand and she took it. She glanced my way, then back up at Pike and gave him a big smile. Twenty kilowatts. She touched his gym bag and then his forearm and said something and laughed. She slid her hand up his arm to his shoulder and showed him into the house. I think she may have licked her lips. I eased the Corvette into gear and drove away. It’s a good thing Pike’s tough.
9
Little Tokyo was jammed with the lunch hour rush. Every restaurant on the block had a line of Caucasian secretaries and their bosses queued up out front, and the smell of hot peanut oil and vinegar sauces made my stomach rumble.
A small CLOSED sign was taped in the door at Nobu Ishida’s place. It was one of those cruddy hand-lettered things and not at all what you would expect from a big-time importer and art connoisseur, but there you go. I turned into the alley behind Ishida’s just to check, and, sure enough, it looked closed from back there, too. Probably out for lunch.
I turned back to Ki, then went up Broadway past the Hollywood Freeway into Chinatown. Chinatown is much bigger than Little Tokyo and not as clean, but the best honey-dipped duck and spring rolls in America can be had at a place called Yang Chow’s on Broadway just past Ord. If bad guys can break for lunch, so can good guys.
I parked in front of a live poultry market and walked back to Yang Chow’s and bought half a duck, three spring rolls, fried rice, and two Tsingtao to go. They put extra spice in the spring rolls for me.
Ten minutes later I was back on Ki Street, pulling into a parking lot sandwiched between two restaurants. It was crowded but all of the lots this time of day were crowded. I was a block and a half down from Ishida’s, and if anyone went into his shop through the front or came out through the front or turned over the CLOSED sign, I’d be able to see it. If they came or went through the back I was screwed. You learn to live with failure.
The parking attendant said, “You here to eat?”
“Yeah.”
“Three-fifty.”
I gave him three-fifty.
“Park anywhere. Give me the key.”
I took a spot at the front of the lot, blocking in a white Volvo so that I had an easy eyes-forward view of Ishida’s shop. I got out of the Corvette, pulled the top up to cut the sun, then climbed back in. I opened a Tsingtao, drank some, then went to work on the rice.
“I thought you here to eat.” The parking attendant was standing by my door.
I showed him the rice.
“In there.” He pointed at one of the restaurants.
I shook my head. “Out here.”
“You no eat out here. In there for eating.”
“I’m a health inspector. I go in there I’ll close the place down.”
“You got to give me key.” Maybe he didn’t believe me.
“No key. I keep the key.”
He pointed at the Volvo. “What if owner comeout? I got to move.” He rapped knuckles on the Corvette’s door.
“I’m here. I’ll move it.”
“You no insured here.”
“Okay. I’ll get out and let you move it.”
“What if you leave.”
“If I leave, I’ll give you the key.” People like this are put here to test us.
He was going to say more when two Asian women and a black man came out of the restaurant. The black man wore a navy suit and had a small mustache and looked successful. The attendant hustled over to them, got a claim check, then hustled to the back of the lot. One of the Asian women said something to the black man and they all laughed. The attendant drove up in a Mercedes 420 Turbo Diesel. Bronze. He closed the door after each woman, and the black man gave him a tip. Maybe the tip made him feel better about things. He went back to the little attendant’s shack and looked at me but left me alone.
The honey-dipped duck was wonderful.
Four hours and twenty minutes later the Volvo was gone and the first of the early evening dinner crowd were starting to show up. The lot had emptied
9
Little Tokyo was jammed with the lunch hour rush. Every restaurant on the block had a line of Caucasian secretaries and their bosses queued up out front, and the smell of hot peanut oil and vinegar sauces made my stomach rumble.
A small CLOSED sign was taped in the door at Nobu Ishida’s place. It was one of those cruddy hand-lettered things and not at all what you would expect from a big-time importer and art connoisseur, but there you go. I turned into the alley behind Ishida’s just to check, and, sure enough, it looked closed from back there, too. Probably out for lunch.
I turned back to Ki, then went up Broadway past the Hollywood Freeway into Chinatown. Chinatown is much bigger than Little Tokyo and not as clean, but the best honey-dipped duck and spring rolls in America can be had at a place called Yang Chow’s on Broadway just past Ord. If bad guys can break for lunch, so can good guys.
I parked in front of a live poultry market and walked back to Yang Chow’s and bought half a duck, three spring rolls, fried rice, and two Tsingtao to go. They put extra spice in the spring rolls for me.
Ten minutes later I was back on Ki Street, pulling into a parking lot sandwiched between two restaurants. It was crowded but all of the lots this time of day were crowded. I was a block and a half down from Ishida’s, and if anyone went into his shop through the front or came out through the front or turned over the CLOSED sign, I’d be able to see it. If they came or went through the back I was screwed. You learn to live with failure.
The parking attendant said, “You here to eat?”
“Yeah.”
“Three-fifty.”
I gave him three-fifty.
“Park anywhere. Give me the key.”
I took a spot at the front of the lot, blocking in a white Volvo so that I had an easy eyes-forward view of Ishida’s shop. I got out of the Corvette, pulled the top up to cut the sun, then climbed back in. I opened a Tsingtao, drank some, then went to work on the rice.
“I thought you here to eat.” The parking attendant was standing by my door.
I showed him the rice.
“In there.” He pointed at one of the restaurants.
I shook my head. “Out here.”
“You no eat out here. In there for eating.”
“I’m a health inspector. I go in there I’ll close the place down.”
“You got to give me key.” Maybe he didn’t believe me.
“No key. I keep the key.”
He pointed at the Volvo. “What if owner comeout? I got to move.” He rapped knuckles on the Corvette’s door.
“I’m here. I’ll move it.”
“You no insured here.”
“Okay. I’ll get out and let you move it.”
“What if you leave.”
“If I leave, I’ll give you the key.” People like this are put here to test us.
He was going to say more when two Asian women and a black man came out of the restaurant. The black man wore a navy suit and had a small mustache and looked successful. The attendant hustled over to them, got a claim check, then hustled to the back of the lot. One of the Asian women said something to the black man and they all laughed. The attendant drove up in a Mercedes 420 Turbo Diesel. Bronze. He closed the door after each woman, and the black man gave him a tip. Maybe the tip made him feel better about things. He went back to the little attendant’s shack and looked at me but left me alone.
The honey-dipped duck was wonderful.
Four hours and twenty minutes later the Volvo was gone and the first of the early evening dinner crowd were starting to show up. The lot had emptied
Similar Books
