The Last Coyote

stumbled and grabbed the spot for support. He hoped the man in the room had not seen the blood was already there.
    “Get away from there, goddamnit. That’s a five-thousand-dollar table. Look at the blood…shit.”
    “Sorry. I’ll pay for it.”
    “Not where you’re going. Let’s go.”
    Bosch recognized him. It was the man he guessed it would be. Mittel’s man from the party. And his face matched his voice. Gruff, strong, he had broken a few boards with it. He had a ruddy complexion set off by two small brown eyes that never seemed to blink.
    He wore no suit this time. At least that Bosch could see. He was dressed in a bulky blue jumpsuit that looked brand-new. It was a splatter suit. Bosch knew that professional killers often used them. It was easier to clean up after a job and you didn’t mess up your suit. Just zip off the splatter suit, dump it, and you’re on your way.
    Bosch stood on his own and took a step but immediately bent over and folded his arms across his stomach. He thought this was the best way to conceal the weapon he had.
    “You really hit me, man. My balance is shot. I think I might get sick or something.”
    “You get sick and I’ll make you clean it up with your tongue. Like a fuckin’ cat.”
    “I guess I won’t get sick then.”
    “You’re a funny guy. Let’s go.”
    The man backed away from the door and into the room. He then signaled Bosch out. For the first time Bosch saw that he carried a gun. It looked like a Beretta twenty-two and was held down low at his side.
    “I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “Only a twenty-two. You think you could take maybe two, three shots and still get to me. Wrong. I got hollow points in here. I’ll put you down with one shot. Tear a hole the size of a soup bowl outta your back. Remember that. Walk ahead a’me.”
    He was playing it smart, Bosch noticed, not coming closer than five or six feet even though he had the gun. Once Bosch was through the door, the man issued directions. They walked down a hallway, through what looked like a living room and then through another room that Bosch thought would also qualify as a living room. This one Bosch recognized by the French doors and windows. It was the room off the party lawn at Mittel’s mansion on Mount Olympus.
    “Go out the door. He’s waiting for you out there.”
    “What did you hit me with, man?”
    “Tire iron. Hope it put a splinter in your skull, but it don’t matter if it did or didn’t.”
    “Well, I think it did anyway. Congratulations.”
    Bosch stopped at one of the French doors as if he expected it to be opened for him. Outside the party tent was gone. And out near the edge of the overhang he saw Mittel standing with his back turned to the house. He was silhouetted by the lights of the city extending out into infinity from below.
    “Open it.”
    “Sorry, I thought…never mind.”
    “Yeah, never mind. Just get out there. We don’t have all night.”
    Out on the lawn, Mittel turned around. Bosch could see he was holding the badge wallet with his ID in one hand and the lieutenant’s badge in the other. The gunman stopped Bosch with a hand on his shoulder, then moved back to his six-foot distance.
    “So, then, Bosch is the real name?”
    Bosch looked at Mittel. The former prosecutor turned political backdoor man smiled.
    “Yes. That’s the real name.”
    “Well, then, how do you do, Mr. Bosch?”
    “It’s Detective, actually.”
    “Detective, actually. You know, I was wondering about that. Because that’s what this ID card says but then this badge says something completely different. It says lieutenant. And that’s curious. Wasn’t that a lieutenant I read about in the papers? The one who was found dead and without his badge? Yes, I’m sure it was. And wasn’t his name, Harvey Pounds, the same name that you used when you were parading around here the other night? Again, I think so, but correct me if I am wrong, Detective Bosch.”
    “It’s a long story, Mittel, but I am a cop. LAPD. If you want to save yourself a few years in prison, you’ll get this old fuck with the gun away from me and call me an ambulance. I’ve got a concussion, at least. It might be worse.”
    Before speaking, Mittel put the badge in one of the pockets of his jacket and the ID wallet in the other.
    “No, I don’t think we’ll be making any calls on your behalf. I think things have gone a little too far for humanitarian gestures like that. Speaking of the human