The Last Coyote

liked and the feeling was mutual.
    “Harry Bosch,” Sakai said after looking up from the newspaper he held in his hands. “Speak of the devil, I’m reading about you here. Says here you’re in the hospital.”
    “Nah, I’m here, Sakai. See me? Where’s Hounchell and Lynch? Either of them around?”
    Hounchell and Lynch were two investigators who Bosch knew would do him a favor without having to think about it too long. They were good people.
    “Nah, they’re out baggin’ and taggin’. Busy morning. Guess things are picking up again.”
    Bosch had heard a rumor through the grapevine that while removing victims from one of the collapsed apartment buildings after the earthquake, Sakai had gone in with his own camera and taken photos of people dead in their beds-the ceilings crushed down on top of them. He then sold the prints to the tabloid newspapers under a false name. That was the kind of guy he was.
    “Anybody else around?”
    “No, Bosch, jus’ me. Whaddaya want?”
    “Nothing.”
    Bosch turned back to the door, then hesitated. He needed to make the print comparison and didn’t want to wait. He looked back at Sakai.
    “Look, Sakai, I need a favor. You want to help me out? I’ll owe you one.”
    Sakai leaned forward in his chair. Bosch could see just the point of a toothpick poking out between his lips.
    “I don’t know, Bosch, having you owe me one is like having the old whore with AIDS say she’ll give me a free one if I pay for the first.”
    Sakai laughed at the comparison he had created.
    “Okay, fine.”
    Bosch turned and pushed through the door, keeping his anger in check. He was two steps down the hall when he heard Sakai call him back. Just as he had hoped. He took a deep breath and went back into the lounge.
    “Bosch, c’mon, I didn’t say I wouldn’t help you out. Look, I read your story here and I feel for what you’re going through, okay?”
    Yeah, right, Bosch thought but didn’t say.
    “Okay,” he said.
    “What do you need?”
    “I need to get a set of prints off one of the customers in the cooler.”
    “Which one?”
    “Mittel.”
    Sakai nodded toward the paper, which he had thrown back onto the table.
    “That Mittel, huh?”
    “Only one I know of.”
    Sakai was quiet while he considered the request.
    “You know, we make prints available to investigating officers assigned to homicides.”
    “Cut the crap, Sakai. You know I know that and you know, if you read the paper, that I’m not the IO. But I still need the prints. You going to get them for me or am I just wasting my time here?”
    Sakai stood up. Bosch knew that Sakai knew that if he backed down now after making the overture, then Bosch would gain a superior position in the netherworld of male interaction and in all their dealings that would follow. If Sakai followed through and got the prints, then the advantage would obviously go to him.
    “Cool your jets, Bosch. I’m gonna get the prints. Why don’t you get yourself a cup of coffee and sit down? Just put a quarter in the box.”
    Bosch hated the idea of being beholden to Sakai for anything but he knew this was worth it. The prints were the one way he knew to end the case. Or tear it open again.
    Bosch had a cup of coffee and in fifteen minutes the coroner’s investigator was back. He was still waving the card so the ink would dry. He handed it to Bosch and went to the counter to get another cup of coffee.
    “This is from Gordon Mittel, right?”
    “Right. That’s what it said on the toe tag. And, man, he got busted up pretty good in that fall.”
    “Glad to hear it.”
    “You know, it sounds to me like that story in the newspaper ain’t as solid as you LAPD guys claim if you’re sneaking around here gettin’ the guy’s prints.”
    “It’s solid, Sakai, don’t worry about it. And I better not get any calls from any reporters about me picking up prints. Or I’ll be back.”
    “Don’t give yourself a hernia, Bosch. Just take the prints and leave. Never met anybody who tried so hard to make the person doin’ him a favor feel bad.”
    Bosch dumped his coffee cup in a trash can and started out. At the door he stopped.
    “Thanks.”
    It burned him to say it. The guy was an asshole.
    “Just remember, Bosch, you owe me.”
    Bosch looked back at him. He was stirring cream into his cup. Bosch walked back, sticking his hand in his pocket. When he got to the counter he pulled out a quarter and dropped it into the slotted tin box that was the