Trunk Music - Michael Connelly [68]
Bosch looked at him a minute. The detective still had a toothpick in his mouth and Bosch wondered if it was the same one from before.
“You know, Iverson, I don’t even know your first name.”
“It’s John, but people call me Ivy.”
“Well, Iverson, I didn’t appreciate the way you were sneaking around the captain’s office or the interview room. In L.A. we’ve got a name for cops who sneak around and eavesdrop and are assholes on general principle. We call ’em squints. And I don’t really care if you’re offended by me or not. You’re a squint. And you make any trouble for me from here on out and I’ll go right to Felton and make trouble for you. I’ll tell him about finding you in my room today. And if that’s not enough, I’ll tell ’im that I won six hundred bucks on the wheel in the casino last night but the money disappeared off the bureau after you were there. Now, you want to do this interview or not?”
Iverson grabbed Bosch by the collar and shoved him against the wall.
“Don’t you fuck with me, Bosch.”
“Don’t you fuck with me, Ivy.”
A smile slowly cracked across Iverson’s face and he released his grip and stepped back. Bosch straightened his tie and shirt.
“Then let’s do it, cowboy,” Iverson said.
When they squeezed into the interview room, Goshen was waiting for them with his eyes closed, his legs up on the table and his hands laced behind his head. Bosch watched Iverson look down at the torn metal where the cuff ring had been attached to the table. Red flares of anger burst on his cheeks.
“Okay, asshole, get up,” Iverson ordered.
Goshen stood up and brought his cuffed hands up. Iverson got out his keys and took the cuff off one wrist.
“Let’s try this again. Sit down.”
When Goshen was back down, Iverson cuffed his wrists behind his back, looping the chain through one of the steel slats of the chair back. Iverson then kicked out a chair and sat to the side of the gangster. Bosch sat across from him.
“Okay, Houdini, you also’ve got destroying public property on your list now,” Iverson said.
“Wow, that’s bold, Iverson. Really bold. That’s like the time you came into the club and took Cinda into the fantasy booth. I think you called it interrogation. She called it something else. What’s this going to be?”
Iverson’s face now glowed with anger. Goshen puffed his chest up proudly and smirked at the detective’s embarrassment.
Bosch shoved the table into Goshen’s midsection and the big man doubled over it as his breath burst out. Bosch was up quickly and around the table. As he went, he pulled his keychain from his pocket. Then, using his elbow to keep Goshen’s chest down on the table, he flicked open the blade of his pocket knife and sawed off the big man’s ponytail. He went back to his seat and when Goshen lifted up, threw the six-inch length of hair on the table in front of him.
“Ponytails went out of style at least three years ago, Goshen. You probably didn’t hear about it.”
Iverson burst out in uproarious laughter. Goshen looked at Bosch with pale blue eyes that seemed as soulless as buttons on a machine. He didn’t say a word. He was showing Bosch he could take it. He was stand-up. But Bosch knew even he couldn’t stand up forever. Nobody can.
“You’ve got a problem, Lucky,” Iverson said. “Big problems. You —”
“Wait a minute, wait a minute. I don’t want to talk to you, Iverson. I don’t want you to talk to me. You’re a runt. I’ve got no respect for you. Understand? Anybody talks, let him talk.”
Goshen nodded to Bosch. There was a silence during which Bosch looked from him to Iverson and then back.
“Go get a cup,” Bosch said, without looking at Iverson. “We’ll be fine in here.”
“No, you —”
“Go get a cup.”
“You sure?”
Iverson looked as if he were being kicked out of the college fraternity because the boys didn’t think he fit in.
“Yeah, I’m sure. You got a rights form on you?”
Iverson got up. He took a folded piece of paper out of his coat pocket and tossed it on the table.
“I’ll be right outside the door.”
When Goshen and Bosch were alone they studied each other for a moment before