The Concrete Blonde (hb-3)

building blocked Bosch’s view after that. He quickly started the car and pulled out onto Second and up to Spring.
    Down the block Bremmer entered the newer garage with a card key and Bosch watched the auto door and waited. In five minutes a blue Toyota Celica came out of the garage and slowed while the driver checked for traffic on Spring. Bosch could see clearly it was Bremmer. The Celica pulled onto Spring and so did Bosch.
    Bremmer headed west on Beverly and into Hollywood. He made one stop at a Vons and came out fifteen minutes later with a single bag of groceries. He then proceeded to a neighborhood of single-family homes just north of the Paramount studio. He drove down the side of a small stuccoed house and parked in the detached garage in the back. Bosch pulled to the curb one house away and waited.
    All the houses in the neighborhood were one of three basic designs. It was one of the cookie-cutter victory neighborhoods that had sprung up after World War II in the city, with affordable homes for returning servicemen. Now you’d probably need to be making a general’s pay to buy in. The ‘80s did that. The occupation army of yuppies had the place now.
    Each lawn had a little tin sign planted in it. They were from three or four different home-security companies but they all said the same thing. ARMED RESPONSE. It was the epitaph of the city. Sometimes Bosch thought the Hollywood sign should be taken down off the hill and replaced with those two words.
    Bosch waited for Bremmer to either come around to the front to check his mail or to put lights on inside the house. When neither happened after five minutes, he got out and approached the driveway, his hand unconsciously tapping his sport coat on the side, making sure he had his Smith Wesson. It was there, but he kept it holstered.
    The driveway was unlit and in the recessed darkness of the open garage Bosch could only see the faint reflection of the red lenses of the taillights of Bremmer’s car. But there was no sign of Bremmer.
    A six—foot wooden-plank fence ran along the right side of the drive, separating Bremmer’s property from his neighbor’s. Branches of bougainvillea in bloom hung over and Bosch could hear faint television sounds from the house next door.
    As he walked between the fence and Bremmer’s house toward the garage, Bosch knew he was completely vulnerable. But he also knew that drawing his weapon couldn’t help him here. Favoring the side of the drive nearest the house, he walked to the garage and stopped before its darkness. Standing beneath an old basketball goal with a bent rim, he said, “Bremmer?”
    There was no sound save for the ticking of the engine of the car in the garage. Then, from behind, Bosch heard the light scraping of a shoe on concrete. He turned. Bremmer stood there, grocery bag in hand.
    “What are you doing?” Bosch asked.
    “That’s what I should ask.”
    Bosch watched his hands as he spoke.
    “You never called. So I came by.”
    “Called about what?”
    “You wanted a comment about the verdict.”
    “You were supposed to call me. Remember? Doesn’t matter, the story’s been put to bed now. Besides, the verdict kind of took a back seat to the other developments of the day, if you know what I mean. The story on the Follower-and Irving did use that name on the record-is going out front.”
    Bosch took a few steps toward him.
    “Then how come you’re not at the Red Wind? I thought you said you always go for a pop when you hit the front page.”
    Holding the bag in his right arm, Bremmer reached into the pocket of his coat but Bosch heard the sound of keys.
    “I didn’t feel like it tonight. I kind’ve liked Honey Chandler, you know? What are you really doing here, Harry? I saw you following me.”
    “You going to ask me in? Maybe we can have that beer, toast your front-page story. One-A is what you reporters call it, right?”
    “Yeah. This one’s going above the fold.”
    “Above the fold, I like that.”
    They stared at each other in the darkness.
    “Whaddaya say? About the beer.”
    “Sure,” Bremmer said. He turned and went to the house’s back door and unlocked it. He reached in and hit switches that turned on lights over the door and in the kitchen beyond. Then he stepped back and held out his arm for Bosch to go in first.
    “After you. Go into the living room and have a seat. I’ll get a couple bottles and be right there.”
    Bosch walked through the kitchen and down a short hall