Blues in the Night by Dick Lochte Page A

traffic flow along Melrose before nosing the Camry out. As he drove past Slick’s window, he discovered that the squiggly things hanging from the tree were contraceptives.
    Angela’s next stop was on Hollywood Boulevard. Triple Tech, an ultra-contemporary aluminum Quonset hut, with a chrome and neon facade as understated as a slot machine and about as appealing. She found a parking space directly in front.
    Mace backed into the only other open slot, eight or nine cars down. Facing the street, he was able to watch the Mustang and Triple Tech’s front door in the Camry’s rear-view. This time, it took no imagination to figure out what the place was peddling: computer games and other electronic crap.
    In less than five minutes, she emerged with a small bag of what he presumed were expensive non-essentials. She surprised him by walking away from the Mustang, heading for a flash clothes store named Cruise Line. In its window, two male manikins, dressed in yachting gear, lay spooning on a wooden deck chair, while a third, wearing a US Navy officer’s cap and a thong stood at a ship’s wheel with a martini glass in one hand.
    Returning to the Mustang with arms full of merchandise, Angela took her shopping expedition to Honeymoon Way, an unassuming semi-commercial street between Sunset and Hollywood Boulevard. She parked at an old, brick building that housed two presumably separate enterprises, the Honeymoon Drug Store and Schlesinger’s Gun Shop.
    Mace was growing restless. His watch told him he’d been following her for nearly an hour and it seemed to have been a waste of time. As far as he could tell, the woman was just shopping. As he watched her stride into the drug store, her body language gave no suggestion of anything out of the ordinary.
    But the store was another matter. Its lighted display window featured an assortment of aloe lotion bottles in front of a cardboard diorama depicting a woman slathering her naked, lobster-red sunburned back with the stuff. An innocuous-seeming display. But it blocked a view of the shop’s interior. As did the frosted glass panels of its old-fashioned wooden front doors.
    It was as if Angela Lowell had walked into a dark cloud and faded away.
    The set-up seemed . . . suspicious. He supposed the cloudy glass may have been used to ward off direct sunlight. But the dark green awning that covered both doors and display window should have taken care of that. Was there a reason they were hiding the interior of the drug store?
    Was this assignment fucking up his head? He was afraid he knew the answer to that one.
    He concentrated on the opaque glass panels, saw or imagined vague shadowy motion in the store. Finally, he took a deep breath, exhaled, shook his head and got out of the car.
    An old-fashioned bell tinkled as he entered the Honeymoon Drug Store. The place was a throwback to the days before chain superstores. Black and white tile floor, high ceiling, wood and glass counters. Boxes and bottles neatly shelved against the walls. There was even a small soda fountain, dark and unused. At the rear of the room a middle-aged druggist in a crisp white coat was talking to a boy wearing cargo pants and a Lakers T. The boy was carrying a skateboard under one arm. A few elderly Hispanic women were studying a cosmetic display to his left.
    It reminded Mace a little of the drug store his father had used, where he had spent so much time on medication runs during the old man’s last days. In spite of the association, he’d liked that store. And he would have liked this one, except for one thing. Angela Lowell wasn’t in it.
    Mace moved to a postcard rack. Idly pawing an assortment of glossy ultra-ugly photos of LA by day and night, he scanned the store, convincing himself that she wasn’t behind a counter or display.
    Puzzled and annoyed, he exited the store. He turned to give it one last look, took a backward step and bumped into someone.
    It was Angela