The Last Coyote

orphanage. When I was new there, one of the older kids took my shoes, my sneakers. They didn’t fit him or anything but he did it because he knew he could do it. He was one of the rulers of the roost and he took ’em. I didn’t do anything about it and it hurt.”
    “But you didn’t do it. That’s not what I-”
    “No, I’m not done. I just told you that because you had to know that part. See, when I got older and I was one of the big shots in the place, I did the same thing. I took this new kid’s shoes. He was smaller, I couldn’t even put ’ em on. I just took them and I…I don’t know, I threw them out or something. But I took them because I could. I did the same thing that was done to me…And sometimes, even now, I think about it and I feel bad.”
    She squeezed his hand in a way he thought was meant to be comforting but said nothing.
    “Is that the kind of story you wanted?”
    She just squeezed his hand again. After a while he spoke.
    “I think the one thing I did that I regret the most, though, was maybe letting a woman go.”
    “You mean like a criminal?”
    “No. I mean like we lived-we were lovers and when she wanted to go, I didn’t really…do anything. I didn’t put up a fight, you know. And when I think about it, sometimes I think that maybe if I had, I could’ve changed her mind…I don’t know.”
    “Did she say why she was leaving?”
    “She just got to know me too well. I don’t blame her for anything. I’ve got baggage. I guess maybe I can be hard to take. I’ve lived alone most of my life.”
    Silence filled the room again and he waited. He sensed that there was something more she wanted to say or be asked. But when she spoke he wasn’t sure if she was talking about him or herself.
    “They say when a cat is ornery and scratches and hisses at everybody, even somebody who wants to comfort it and love it, it’s because it wasn’t held enough when it was a kitten.”
    “I never heard that before.”
    “I think it’s true.”
    He was quiet a moment and moved his hand up so that it was touching her breasts.
    “Is that what your story is?” he asked. “You weren’t held enough.”
    “Who knows.”
    “What was the worst thing you ever did to yourself, Jasmine? I think you want to tell me.”
    He knew she wanted him to ask it. It was true confessions time and he began to believe that the whole night had been directed by her to arrive at this one question.
    “You didn’t try to hold on to someone you should have,” she said. “I held on to someone I shouldn’t have. I held on too long. Thing is, I knew what it was leading to, deep down I knew. It was like standing on the tracks and seeing the train coming at you but being too mesmerized by the bright light to move, to save yourself.”
    He had his eyes open in the dark still. He could barely see the outline of her shoulder and cheek. He pulled himself closer to her, kissed her neck and in her ear whispered, “But you got out. That’s what’s important.”
    “Yeah, I got out,” she said wistfully. “I got out.”
    She was silent for a while and then reached up under the covers and touched his hand. It was cupped over one of her breasts. She held her hand on top of it.
    “Good night, Harry.”
    He waited a while, until he heard the measured breathing of her sleep, and then he was finally able to drift off. There was no dream this time. Just warmth and darkness.

Chapter Twenty-eight
    IN THE MORNING Bosch awoke first. He took a shower and borrowed Jasmine’s toothbrush without asking. Then he dressed in the clothes he’d worn the day before and went out to his car to retrieve his overnight bag. Once he was dressed in fresh clothes he ventured into the kitchen to see about coffee. All he found was a box of tea bags.
    Leaving the idea behind, he walked around the apartment, his steps creaking on the old pine floors. The living room was as spare as the bedroom. A sofa with an off-white blanket spread on it, a coffee table, an old stereo with a cassette but no CD player. No television. Again, nothing on the walls but the telltale indication that there had been. He found two nails in the plaster. They weren’t rusted or painted over. They hadn’t been there very long.
    Through a set of French doors the living room opened up to a porch enclosed in windows. There was rattan furniture out here and several potted plants, including a dwarf orange tree with fruit on it. The entire porch was redolent with its smell.