Middle Of Nowhere

Boldt guessed right—Sanchez had in fact paid a visit to SPD's Tech Services and had asked a lab rat named Tina Ming a variety of questions about cloning garage door openers. Ming confirmed that duplicating the radio frequencies used by such a device was scientifically quite simple. They had not ended up providing Sanchez with a clone however, because their work had been delayed by the Flu. Ming suggested Boldt consult the FBI.

   Flu or not, the FBI was never the fastest agency to respond. Boldt would seek solutions elsewhere. He thought he now understood where Sanchez had been headed: a black-market source for a cloned garage door opener. Nine of them, to be precise—over the course of the last several weeks. A way into homes otherwise believed locked up. If he could find that supplier and squeeze out a name of a buyer, he might have the repeat burglar—and quite possibly Sanchez's offender— behind bars by the end of the day. He felt pulled between two theories—cop on cop or burglary gone bad— but the solution to the Sanchez assault seemed paramount to both.

* * *

The apartment occupied the floor above the Joke's On You, Bear Berenson's comedy/jazz club that enjoyed an odd combination of a Happy Hour police crowd and a prime-time college clientele. Boldt pulled the Chevy down the back alley and parked, making sure to put the laminated blue POLICE—OFFICIAL BUSINESS card that would keep the tow trucks away. He hoped to only spend a few minutes with Bear, but the pot-smoking, angst-ridden, longtime friend could make a scenic drive out of the shortest errand. He practiced patience, preparing himself for an extended stay.

   Required to address a white plastic box housing a badly scratched TALK button and a speaker grid that had inherited some chewing gum, Boldt gained admittance through a buzzing door jamb with Bear's distorted voice welcoming him. He climbed the long, dark stairwell, the smell of stale beer and cigarettes familiar to a man who occasionally worked the Happy Hour piano on the other side of the communicating wall. Where others might gag, Lou Boldt felt comfort. He had spent a lot of good hours at this bar, and its predecessor, the Big Joke. A few million notes had passed through his fingers here.

   The steep stairs presented a challenge. His battered and painful body was still unwilling to climb. But he managed. Nearing the top landing, he smelled the weed. Knowing Bear, he had opened a window trying to air out the apartment, but his attempt had backfired and instead was blowing the smoke toward the stairwell. Boldt forgave him the habit, but asked that he not smoke in front of him, for obvious reasons.

   "Sherlock!" Berenson had a smoker's rasp, a neatly trimmed black beard with gray streaks coming down like fangs, and something of a beer gut, maintained by the contents of the long-neck bottle gripped casually in his right hand.

   "Live, and in person," Boldt said.

   "Tea?"

   "You think I'd risk contamination?"

   "You look a little off," Bear said.

   "And you a little sideways," Boldt observed. He won a smile for that comment.

   "I'm always sideways."

   "Sore is all," Boldt explained. "I've been dodging baseball bats lately."

   "Sit down before you fall down," Berenson advised.

   Bear loved an audience; he paced from side to side, as if working a stage.

   Boldt said, "I'd love to say it's a social call."

   "Did I forget to pay you or something?"

   Boldt explained, "It's more of a research visit."

   "Weed? Women? Retail sales?"

   "Frankie," Boldt said.

   "Frankie?" Bear asked, wounded.

   "I wouldn't ask if it wasn't important."

   "Frankie?" Bear repeated. He sucked down some beer and wiped his mouth.

   "I'm not after him—even if he's involved. I promise him a free ride. A name is all I'm after. One name."

   "Are you paying?" Berenson asked.

   "You're his agent now?"

   "Just asking," Bear replied.

   "I'm paying," Boldt answered.

   Bear had a tendency to put himself in the middle of things, and no one wanted to get between Frankie and anything, including Boldt.

   "Frankie isn't going to want anything to do with you—for obvious reasons. It had better be a shitload of money. Know what I mean?"

   "A shitload of money," Boldt agreed, "and maybe I get the current charges reduced."

   "I've known the man a long time," Bear said. "It doesn't mean I know his current status with the PA. And I don't want to."

   "There's a woman officer in bad shape," Boldt explained. "Maybe Frankie can help with that."

   "I read the newspapers, you know?"

   "So Hooked on Phonics actually works."

   "You're going to bite the hand that feeds you?" Bear added, "You want a name. Is that all? Maybe I can get you the name myself."

   Boldt usually tended not to see the degree of Bear's intoxication. After years of friendship, he took him as he was. But now he saw that he was a little more stoned than usual, and decided to connect the dots for him. "I'm interested in garage door openers."

   Berenson spit out some beer as he laughed.

   "I've got to do this in person, Bear." He offered, "I'll give you a Happy Hour for free."