to see. From the position of the desk in the room, this person sat in profile to the doorway, the desk at ninety degrees to the doorway. His head was down as he made a handwritten notation and then stood, closing a file folder.
Magrady was pretty sure that was Wakefield Nakano, SubbaKhanâs regional VP in there. Nakano put the file away in a standing file cabinet and locked it back. He returned to his desk and Magrady knew he was pushing it to stay any longer. He scuttled away and got his hand on the front doorâs knob when he could hear Nakano moving around again too. For sure the exec was also leaving. Worse, there were voices in the hallway beyond the door. Scared, but having no choice, Magrady stepped out as quickly as he could. He stood before the door, his back to it, closing it quietly.
A male and female student were walking past, deep in their conversation about Romneyâs versus Giulianiâs strengths and weaknesses and the mystery as to why neither of their candidacies took off. Magrady headed for the stairs. To his back he heard the main door to the office open and Nakano exit as well.
Be cool, he reminded himself, making sure to proceed at a normal pace. Nakanoâs footfalls were a hurried cadence behind him. If he was busted, wouldnât the VP yell âhaltâ or âfreezeâ like they did on TV? The exec had a couple of decades on Magrady, so could be he was just going to tackle him and make him piss and drool while jamming a stun gun to his nuts.
âExcuse me,â Nakano said, as he moved past Magrady, bumping him slightly on the shoulder.
âNo problem,â the vet replied.
âYes, of course,â SubbaKhanâs man said in a hushed voice. âIâm very interested in the Portinari.â Magrady watched Nakano descend, one of those Bluetooth gadgets stuck in his ear.
He got to the bottom of the stairwell and dashed through the glass door of the business school, saying into the air, âThatâs not going to be a problem. Iâll see to that.â With that Nakano was gone.
Magrady also reached the ground floor berating himself for not having a car to tail the VP. What would Magnum or Mannix have to say about that? He also realized he hadnât called Angie. But as this was a college campus, finding a pay phone wasnât as hard as on the streets. He clinked his coins in and called the number Baine had given Bonilla.
âEarl,â a manâs voice said.
He was one of the bartenders at the King Eddy, a semi-dive, semi-hip bar in the King Edward Hotel on East 5th Street. Magrady knew all the watering holes in and orbiting Skid Row, and a fair amount between there and South Central. Heâd certainly done his best to turn his kidneys into pâté in several of them. Years ago, before he too joined the âAm I a Murderer?â public guess-o-rama, Robert Blake filmed part of his TV cop show
Baretta
there as the supposed East Coast place where he lived. Magrady was a background extraâsupernumerary bum was how it was described in the scriptâin a few episodes. A director told him he was a natural.
Magrady identified himself and asked about Angie.
âShe said if you called, Sergeant Fury, to meet her at Hogarthâs at 6:30 tonight.â
âWhy?â
âLike I give a shit. Get a goddamn cell phone like everyone else.â The diplomatic Earl hung up.
Hogarthâs wasnât a bar. It was a coffee house located near the Japanese American Cultural and Community Center off of 1st Street and Alameda. Where the encroachers, the downtown small dog-walkinâ, inner peace-seekinâ, loft-living crowd hung, Magrady reflected wryly. Why the hell would she be having him there and at that time?
Having several hours to fill, Magrady sought out a cassette recorder. He walked over to the Bethune Branch Library on Vermont. They did have one such model used for older versions of books-on-tape. Only it was on
Magrady was pretty sure that was Wakefield Nakano, SubbaKhanâs regional VP in there. Nakano put the file away in a standing file cabinet and locked it back. He returned to his desk and Magrady knew he was pushing it to stay any longer. He scuttled away and got his hand on the front doorâs knob when he could hear Nakano moving around again too. For sure the exec was also leaving. Worse, there were voices in the hallway beyond the door. Scared, but having no choice, Magrady stepped out as quickly as he could. He stood before the door, his back to it, closing it quietly.
A male and female student were walking past, deep in their conversation about Romneyâs versus Giulianiâs strengths and weaknesses and the mystery as to why neither of their candidacies took off. Magrady headed for the stairs. To his back he heard the main door to the office open and Nakano exit as well.
Be cool, he reminded himself, making sure to proceed at a normal pace. Nakanoâs footfalls were a hurried cadence behind him. If he was busted, wouldnât the VP yell âhaltâ or âfreezeâ like they did on TV? The exec had a couple of decades on Magrady, so could be he was just going to tackle him and make him piss and drool while jamming a stun gun to his nuts.
âExcuse me,â Nakano said, as he moved past Magrady, bumping him slightly on the shoulder.
âNo problem,â the vet replied.
âYes, of course,â SubbaKhanâs man said in a hushed voice. âIâm very interested in the Portinari.â Magrady watched Nakano descend, one of those Bluetooth gadgets stuck in his ear.
He got to the bottom of the stairwell and dashed through the glass door of the business school, saying into the air, âThatâs not going to be a problem. Iâll see to that.â With that Nakano was gone.
Magrady also reached the ground floor berating himself for not having a car to tail the VP. What would Magnum or Mannix have to say about that? He also realized he hadnât called Angie. But as this was a college campus, finding a pay phone wasnât as hard as on the streets. He clinked his coins in and called the number Baine had given Bonilla.
âEarl,â a manâs voice said.
He was one of the bartenders at the King Eddy, a semi-dive, semi-hip bar in the King Edward Hotel on East 5th Street. Magrady knew all the watering holes in and orbiting Skid Row, and a fair amount between there and South Central. Heâd certainly done his best to turn his kidneys into pâté in several of them. Years ago, before he too joined the âAm I a Murderer?â public guess-o-rama, Robert Blake filmed part of his TV cop show
Baretta
there as the supposed East Coast place where he lived. Magrady was a background extraâsupernumerary bum was how it was described in the scriptâin a few episodes. A director told him he was a natural.
Magrady identified himself and asked about Angie.
âShe said if you called, Sergeant Fury, to meet her at Hogarthâs at 6:30 tonight.â
âWhy?â
âLike I give a shit. Get a goddamn cell phone like everyone else.â The diplomatic Earl hung up.
Hogarthâs wasnât a bar. It was a coffee house located near the Japanese American Cultural and Community Center off of 1st Street and Alameda. Where the encroachers, the downtown small dog-walkinâ, inner peace-seekinâ, loft-living crowd hung, Magrady reflected wryly. Why the hell would she be having him there and at that time?
Having several hours to fill, Magrady sought out a cassette recorder. He walked over to the Bethune Branch Library on Vermont. They did have one such model used for older versions of books-on-tape. Only it was on
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