Trunk Music

pass by here each watch, chase away the dirtbags.”
    He pointed across Mulholland and up to the crest of the hill. There was a line of houses, most on cantilevers, clinging to the crestline. They looked like mobile homes suspended in air.
    “People up there call the station all the time, say they got campfires going down here, beer parties, devil worship, who knows what. Guess it ruins their view. And they don’t want nothin’ to spoil that million-dollar view. So I come up and sweep out the trash. Mostly bored little pissants from the Valley. Fire Department used to have a lock on the gate here, but a deuce plowed through it. That was six months ago. Takes the city at least a year to repair anything ’round here. Shit, I requisitioned batteries for my Mag three weeks ago and I’m still waiting for them. If I didn’t buy them myself, I’d be working the fuckin’ night watch without a flashlight. City doesn’t care. This ci-”
    “So what about the Rolls, Powers? Let’s stay on the subject.”
    “Yeah, well, I usually make it by after dark, but because of the show in the Bowl I swung by early today. Saw the Rolls then.”
    “You came on your own? No complaint from up the hill?”
    “No. Today I just cruised it on my own. On account of the show. I figured there might be some trespassers.”
    “Were there?”
    “A few-people waiting to hear the music. Not the usual crowd, though. That’s refined music, I guess you’d call it. I chased ’em out anyway, and when they were gone, the Rolls was what was left. But there was no driver for it.”
    “So you checked it out.”
    “Yeah, and I know the smell, man. Popped it with the slim and there he was. The stiff. Then I backed out and called the pros.”
    There was a note of sarcasm in the way he said the last word. Bosch ignored it.
    “The people you chased, you get any names?”
    “No, like I told you, I chased them, then noticed that nobody got in and drove away in the Rolls. It was too late by then.”
    “What about last night?”
    “What about it?”
    “Did you make it by here?”
    “I was off. I’m on Tuesday-Saturday but I switched with a buddy last night ’cause he had something to do tonight.”
    “So then what about Friday night?”
    He shook his head.
    “Three watch is always busy Friday. I had no time for free cruising and we didn’t get a complaint as far as I know…so I never made it by.”
    “Just chasin’ the radio?”
    “I had calls backed up on me all night. I didn’t even get a ten-seven.”
    “No dinner break, that’s dedication, Powers.”
    “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    Bosch saw he had made a mistake. Powers was consumed by job frustrations and he had pushed him too far. Powers turned crimson again and slowly took off his Ray-Bans before speaking.
    “Let me tell you something, big shot. You got in while the getting was good. The rest of us? We get shit. We-I’ve been trying for so many years I can’t count to get a gold shield and I’ve got about as much chance of getting one as whoever’s in the trunk of that Rolls-Royce. But I’m not laying down. I’m still out here five nights a week chasin’ the radio. Says ‘Protect and Serve’ on the car door and I’m doin’ it, man. So don’t give me any shit about dedication.”
    Bosch hesitated until he was sure Powers was done.
    “Look, Powers, I didn’t mean to give you shit. Okay? You want a cigarette?”
    “I don’t smoke.”
    “Okay, let’s try this again.” He waited a beat while Powers put the mirrors back on his eyes and seemed to calm down. “You always work alone?”
    “I’m the Z car.”
    Bosch nodded. Zebra unit. An officer of many stripes, meaning he handled a variety of calls, usually trash calls, while cars with two officers aboard handled the hotshots-the prime, possibly dangerous, calls. Zebras worked patrol alone and often had free rein of the entire division. They were in the supervisory level between the sergeants and the grunts who were assigned to patrol geographic slices of the division known as basic car areas.
    “How often you chase people outta here?”
    “Once or twice a month. Can’t say what happens on the other shifts or with the basic cars. But shit calls like this usually go to the Z car.”
    “You got any shakes?”
    Shakes were three-by-five cards formally called field interview, or FI, cards. Cops filled them out when they stopped suspicious people but did not have enough evidence to arrest them, or when