Lost Light

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