The Black Box

in transport.”
    He finished his drink as Bosch nodded.
    “So no real action, huh?”
    Banks rapped his empty glass on the bar.
    “Lori, you workin’ t’night or what?”
    He then looked directly at Bosch.
    “Hell, man, we had plenty action. Our whole unit almost got smoked by a SCUD. We kicked some ass, too. And like I said, I was in transpo. We had access to everything and knew how to get it back stateside.”
    Bosch turned to him like he was suddenly interested. But he waited until Lori Lynn was finished freshening Banks’s drink and moved away again. Bosch spoke in a quiet, conspiratorial tone.
    “What I want is something from the Republican Guard. You know anybody with that stuff? This is the reason I stop atthe VFW every time I’m in a new town. This is where I find this stuff. I got the tanto off an old guy I met in the post bar over in Tempe. That was like twenty years ago.”
    Banks nodded, trying to follow the words through his growing alcoholic fog.
    “Well . . . I know guys. They got all kinds of stuff back here. Guns, uniforms, whatever you want. But you gotta pay and you can start by buyin’ the fuckin’ Gator you spent all day lookin’ at.”
    Bosch nodded.
    “I hear ya. We can talk about that. I’ll come on back by the dealership tomorrow. How’s that?”
    “Now you’re talking, partner.”

30
    B osch managed to get out of the VFW without buying Banks a drink and apparently without Banks noticing that Bosch drank less than half of his beer. Once back in his car, Bosch drove to the far end of the parking lot, where there was a boat ramp providing access to the river. He parked next to a line of pickup trucks with empty boat trailers attached. He waited another twenty minutes before Banks finally came out of the bar and got into his car.
    Bosch had seen him put down three drinks in the bar. He assumed there had been one before he got there and at least one after. His concern was that if Banks showed obvious evidence of driving impairment, Bosch would have to pull him over too soon to stop him from possibly hurting himself and others.
    But Banks was a skilled drunk driver. He pulled out and started east on Hatch, back the way he had come. Bosch followed from a distance but kept his eyes on the taillights in front of him. He saw no swerving, speeding, or unexplained braking. Banks appeared to have control of his car.
    Nevertheless, it was a tense ten minutes as Bosch followedBanks to the entrance ramp to the 99 freeway, where he headed north. Once they were on the freeway, Bosch narrowed the gap and pulled up right behind Banks. Five minutes later, they passed the Hammett Road exit and then came to the sign that welcomed travelers to San Joaquin County. Bosch put the strobe light on the dashboard and turned it on. He closed the space between the two cars even more and flicked on the bright lights, illuminating the interior of Banks’s car. Bosch had no siren but there was no way Banks could miss the light show behind him. After a few seconds, Banks put on his right-turn signal.
    Bosch was counting on Banks not pulling off onto the freeway shoulder, and he was right. The first exit to Ripon was a half mile away. Banks slowed down and exited, then pulled to a stop in the gravel lot of a closed fruit stand. He killed the engine. It was dark and deserted. That made it perfect for Bosch.
    Banks didn’t get out of his car, unlike many protesting drunks. He didn’t lower his window either. Bosch walked up, his large Mag-Lite held on his shoulder so that it would be too bright should Banks try to look up at his face. He rapped his knuckles on the window and Banks grudgingly lowered it.
    “You had no cause to pull me over, man,” he said before Bosch could speak.
    “Sir, you’ve been swerving the whole time I’ve been behind you. Have you been drinking?”
    “Bullshit!”
    “Sir, step out of the car.”
    “Here.”
    He handed his driver’s license out the window. Bosch tookit and held it up into the light as if he were looking at it. But he never took his eyes off Banks.
    “Call it in,” Banks said, a clear challenge in his voice. “Call it in to Sheriff Drummond and he’ll tell you to go back to your undercover car and get the fuck out of here.”
    “I don’t need to call Sheriff Drummond,” Bosch said.
    “You better, buddy, ’cause your job’s on the line here. Take a hint from me. Make the fucking call.”
    “No, you don’t understand, Mr. Banks. I don’t need to call