Trunk Music

was stepping into a pair of jeans when she stopped and looked at the men giving conflicting orders.
    “Well, which is it?” Randy asked in an irritated voice. “You people got your shit together or what?”
    Bosch recognized her as the woman who had been dancing in Dolly’s the night before.
    “Get ’em out of here!” Iverson yelled. “Now.”
    The uniforms moved in to usher the naked women out.
    “We’re going,” Randy yelped. “Don’t touch me.”
    Iverson yanked the sheets off Goshen and began cuffing his hands behind his back. Goshen’s blond hair ran in a thin and tightly braided ponytail down his back. Bosch hadn’t noticed that the night before.
    “Whatsa matter, Iverson?” he said, his face against the mattress. “You got a problem with a little poon hangin’ around? You a little punk or something?”
    “Goshen, do yourself a favor, shut your fuckin’ hole.”
    Goshen laughed off the threat. He was a deeply tanned man who seemed even larger than Bosch recalled from the night before. He was completely buffed, his arms the size of hams. For a short moment, Bosch thought he understood Goshen’s desire to sleep with two women. And why they willingly went with him in twos.
    Goshen faked a yawn to make sure everyone knew he wasn’t the least bit threatened by what was happening. He wore only black bikini underwear that matched the sheets. There were tattoos on his back. A one percent sign on the left shoulder blade, a Harley Davidson insignia on the right. On the upper left arm there was another tattoo. The number eighty-eight.
    “What’s this, your IQ?” Iverson said as he sharply slapped the arm.
    “Fuck you, Iverson, and the phony fuckin’ warrant you rode in on.”
    Bosch knew what the tattoo meant. He had seen it enough in L.A. The eighth letter of the alphabet was H. Eight-eight meant HH, short for Heil Hitler. It meant Goshen had spent some time with white supremacists. But most of the assholes Bosch came across with similar tattoos had gotten them in prison. It was amazing to him that Goshen apparently had no criminal record and had spent no time in stir. If he had, his name would have come up when the prints from Tony Aliso’s jacket had been run through the AFIS computer. He put thoughts of this contradiction aside when Goshen managed to turn his head so that he was looking at Bosch.
    “You,” he said. “You’re the one they should be arresting. After what you did to Gussie.”
    Bosch bent over the bed to reply.
    “This ain’t about last night. This is about Tony Aliso.”
    Iverson roughly turned Goshen over on the bed.
    “What the fuck are you talking about?” Goshen asked angrily. “I’m clean on that, man. What are you-”
    He tried to pull himself up into a sitting position but Iverson pushed him back down hard.
    “Just sit tight,” Iverson said. “We’ll hear your sorry side of things. But we’re going to have a look around first.”
    He took the warrant out of his pocket and dropped it on Goshen’s chest.
    “There’s your warrant.”
    “I can’t read it.”
    “Not my fault you didn’t stay in school.”
    “Just hold it up for me.”
    Iverson ignored him and looked at the others.
    “Okay, let’s split up and see what we’ve got here. Harry, you take this room, okay, keep our friend here company?”
    “Right.”
    Iverson then addressed the two uniforms.
    “I want one of you guys in here. Just stand out of the way and keep your eyes on douche bag here.”
    One of the uniforms nodded and the others left the room. Bosch and Goshen looked at each other.
    “I can’t read this thing,” Goshen said.
    “I know,” Bosch said. “You said that.”
    “This is bullshit. It’s just a roust. You couldn’t possibly have anything on me because I didn’t do it.”
    “Then who’d you have do it? Gussie?”
    “No, man, nobody. There’s no way you’ll be able to pin this on me. No fucking way. I want my lawyer.”
    “As soon as you’re booked.”
    “Booked for what?”
    “For murder, Lucky.”
    Goshen continued his denials and demands for a lawyer while Bosch ignored him and started looking around the room, checking the drawers of the dresser. He glanced back at Goshen every few seconds. It was like walking around a lion’s cage. He knew he was safe but that didn’t stop him from checking. He could tell Goshen was watching him in the mirror over the bed. When the big man finally quieted, Bosch waited a few moments and then started asking