The Night Crew

and fished in the hideout box for the .357, got it, turned, and caught Harper appreciating her ass. She hopped out of the truck and dropped the pistol in her jacket pocket.
    ‘‘I thought you kept the gun at home,’’ Harper said, grinning. He knew he’d been caught, and he wasn’t the least abashed by it; he twirled the putter like a baton.
    ‘‘I do, but I had it last night when Creek got shot, and I didn’t want the cops to take it.’’
    Jerry’s was Anna’s regular spot, with comfortable booths and decent coffee, mostly empty in the late afternoon, the waiters bustling around, getting ready for the dinner rush. The owner, Donna Tow—Jerry’s ex-wife—came over with coffee and said, ‘‘Heard about Creek. I called the hospital and they said he’d be okay.’’
    ‘‘Looks like it,’’ Anna said. They talked for a few more minutes, Anna giving her a quick account of the shooting.
    ‘‘Too goddamn many guns around,’’ Tow said, as she headed back toward the kitchen.
    Anna and Harper slid into a booth, and a waitress brought a pot of coffee and two cups. ‘‘So what are we doing?’’ Anna asked Harper.
    ‘‘Having you along won’t make it easier,’’ Harper said.
    ‘‘It might; I’m probably smarter than you are,’’ Anna said. ‘‘
    That could help,’’ he said. He grinned again: he wouldn’t be goaded.
    ‘‘So what . . .’’ The grin faded and he squared himself in the booth and said, ‘‘Names. The whole thing is connected to O’Brien and Jacob: You shoot Jacob’s . . . fall . . . and the next thing, the guy is coming after you and kills O’Brien and MacAllister, who also happen to be connected by drugs. Somewhere in there, we’ll find his track.’’
    ‘‘But I didn’t know that much about Jason,’’ Anna said. ‘‘We’d done a few things over at UCLA, Creek and Louis and me, and he was taking film classes, and heard about us. He came up with a story—this was a year or so ago—and we shot it and sold it. So he started looking for stuff, and whenever he’d come up with something, he rode along, shot it, and got a cut, ten percent.’’
    ‘‘But you weren’t social.’’
    ‘‘No. He’d get me by phone, or if I needed an extra guy, I’d call him up. He was good with a camera and he had a cool head when things were getting rough. He’d keep shooting no matter what . . .’’
    ‘‘I know.’’ A sudden deep sadness crossed his face, and Anna reached out and touched his hand on the coffee cup. ‘‘I’m really sorry about your kid. I mean, I really am.’’
    ‘‘Yeah.’’ He looked out the window, at a woman skating by in the street, Walkman phones on her ears. ‘‘Christ, I hardly knew him. I mean, I’d see him all the time—but I didn’t know him. It was like, I could get to know him later. My ex-wife, I think she did a pretty good job with him, now this . . .’’ He shook himself and said, ‘‘So do you have any ideas about O’Brien? Where we start?’’
    ‘‘I know one name and face—Bob—and I’ve heard about a couple of other people. But if we can find Bob, we might have something.’’
    Bob, she told Harper, was also in film at UCLA. A few months earlier, Jason had called about a possible story. They’d arranged to meet in Santa Monica, and when they did, Bob was with him. They were both high.
    ‘‘They either shared the dope or shared the dealer,’’ she said. ‘‘One way or another . . .’’
    ‘‘So let’s go talk to Bob,’’ Harper said, pushing the coffee away.
    ‘‘Hospital first,’’ Anna said. Creek was in a third-floor critical care unit, sleeping, an IV dripping into his arm. Pam Glass was curled up on a chair next to the bed, reading a magazine, wearing the same clothes she’d been wearing that morning. When she saw them coming, she smiled, weakly, and stood up. ‘‘He should sleep for another hour or two,’’ she whispered.
    ‘‘Have you been home?’’ Anna asked.
    ‘‘No, I just went down to the corner for a sandwich. I’m okay.’’
    ‘‘God, Pam . . .’’ They both turned and looked at Creek. His hair had been tamed, and was pulled back under his head. His face was pale under the sailor’s tan, his cheekbones more prominent than Anna remembered. And he looked, she thought, almost . . . old.
    ‘‘An hour or two?’’ Anna asked.
    Pam nodded. ‘‘What are you guys doing?’’
    ‘‘Looking around,’’ Harper said.
    Glass hardened up: ‘‘Look, I