pictures. Lists and pictures for the pawn detail?”
“Yes, LAPD, that is true. I turn over lists of everything I take in to the pawn detectives. It is the law. I cooperate fully.”
Obinna nodded his head and frowned mournfully into the broken display case.
“What about the pictures?” Bosch said.
“Yes, pictures. These pawn detectives, they ask me to take pictures of my best acquisitions. Help them better identify for
stolen merchandise. It is not the law, but I say sure, I cooperate fully. I buy the Polaroid kind of camera. I keep pictures
if they want to come and look. They never do. It’s bullshit.”
“You have a picture of this bracelet?”
Obinna’s eyebrows arched again as he considered the idea for the first time.
“I think,” he said, and then he disappeared through a black curtain in a doorway behind the counter. He came out a few moments
later with a shoe box full of Polaroid photos with yellow carbon slips paper-clipped to them. He rustled through the photos,
occasionally pulling one out, raising his eyebrows, and then sliding it back into place. Finally, he found what he wanted.
“Here. There it is.”
Bosch took the photo and studied it.
“Antique gold with carved jade, very nice,” Obinna said. “I remember it, top line. No wonder the shitheel that broke through
my window took it. Made in the 1930s, Mexico …I gave the man eight hundred dollars. I have not often paid such a price for
a piece of jewelry. I remember, very big man, he came here with the ring for the Super Bowl. Nineteen eighty-three. Very nice.
I gave him one thousand dollars. He did not come back for it.”
He held out his left hand to display the oversized gold ring, which seemed even larger on his small finger.
“The guy who pawned the bracelet, you remember him as well?” Bosch asked.
Obinna looked puzzled. Bosch decided that watching his eyebrows was like watching two caterpillars charging each other. He
took one of the Polaroids of Meadows out of his pocket and handed it to the pawnbroker. He studied it closely.
“The man is dead,” Obinna said after a moment. The caterpillars seemed to quiver with fear. “The man looks dead.”
“I don’t need your help for that,” Bosch said. “I want to know if he pawned the bracelet.”
Obinna handed the photo back. He said, “I think yes.”
“He ever come in here and pawn anything else, before or after the bracelet?”
“No. I think I’d remember him. I’ll say no.”
“I need to take this,” Bosch said, holding up the Polaroid of the bracelet. “If you need it back, give me a call.”
He put one of his business cards on the cash register. The card was one of the cheap kind, with his name and phone number
handwritten on a line. As he walked to the front door, crossing under a row of banjos, Bosch looked at his watch. He turned
to Obinna, who was looking through the box of Polaroids again.
“Mr. Obinna, the watch officer, he said to tell you that if the detectives didn’t get here in a half hour, you should go home
and they will be by in the morning.”
Obinna looked at him without saying a word. The caterpillars charged and collided. Bosch looked up and saw himself in the
polished brass elbow of a saxophone that hung overhead. A tenor. Then he turned and walked out the door, heading to the com
center to pick up the tape.
• • •
The watch sergeant in the com center beneath City Hall let Bosch record the 911 call off one of the big reel-to-reels that
never stop rolling and recording the cries of the city. The voice of the emergency operator was female and black. The caller
was male and white. The caller sounded like a boy.
“Nine one one emergency. What are you reporting?”
“Uh, uh —”
“Can I help you? What are you reporting?”
“Uh, yeah, I’m reporting you have a dead guy in a pipe.”
“You said you are reporting a dead body?”
“Yeah, that’s right.”
“What do you mean a pipe,
“Yes, LAPD, that is true. I turn over lists of everything I take in to the pawn detectives. It is the law. I cooperate fully.”
Obinna nodded his head and frowned mournfully into the broken display case.
“What about the pictures?” Bosch said.
“Yes, pictures. These pawn detectives, they ask me to take pictures of my best acquisitions. Help them better identify for
stolen merchandise. It is not the law, but I say sure, I cooperate fully. I buy the Polaroid kind of camera. I keep pictures
if they want to come and look. They never do. It’s bullshit.”
“You have a picture of this bracelet?”
Obinna’s eyebrows arched again as he considered the idea for the first time.
“I think,” he said, and then he disappeared through a black curtain in a doorway behind the counter. He came out a few moments
later with a shoe box full of Polaroid photos with yellow carbon slips paper-clipped to them. He rustled through the photos,
occasionally pulling one out, raising his eyebrows, and then sliding it back into place. Finally, he found what he wanted.
“Here. There it is.”
Bosch took the photo and studied it.
“Antique gold with carved jade, very nice,” Obinna said. “I remember it, top line. No wonder the shitheel that broke through
my window took it. Made in the 1930s, Mexico …I gave the man eight hundred dollars. I have not often paid such a price for
a piece of jewelry. I remember, very big man, he came here with the ring for the Super Bowl. Nineteen eighty-three. Very nice.
I gave him one thousand dollars. He did not come back for it.”
He held out his left hand to display the oversized gold ring, which seemed even larger on his small finger.
“The guy who pawned the bracelet, you remember him as well?” Bosch asked.
Obinna looked puzzled. Bosch decided that watching his eyebrows was like watching two caterpillars charging each other. He
took one of the Polaroids of Meadows out of his pocket and handed it to the pawnbroker. He studied it closely.
“The man is dead,” Obinna said after a moment. The caterpillars seemed to quiver with fear. “The man looks dead.”
“I don’t need your help for that,” Bosch said. “I want to know if he pawned the bracelet.”
Obinna handed the photo back. He said, “I think yes.”
“He ever come in here and pawn anything else, before or after the bracelet?”
“No. I think I’d remember him. I’ll say no.”
“I need to take this,” Bosch said, holding up the Polaroid of the bracelet. “If you need it back, give me a call.”
He put one of his business cards on the cash register. The card was one of the cheap kind, with his name and phone number
handwritten on a line. As he walked to the front door, crossing under a row of banjos, Bosch looked at his watch. He turned
to Obinna, who was looking through the box of Polaroids again.
“Mr. Obinna, the watch officer, he said to tell you that if the detectives didn’t get here in a half hour, you should go home
and they will be by in the morning.”
Obinna looked at him without saying a word. The caterpillars charged and collided. Bosch looked up and saw himself in the
polished brass elbow of a saxophone that hung overhead. A tenor. Then he turned and walked out the door, heading to the com
center to pick up the tape.
• • •
The watch sergeant in the com center beneath City Hall let Bosch record the 911 call off one of the big reel-to-reels that
never stop rolling and recording the cries of the city. The voice of the emergency operator was female and black. The caller
was male and white. The caller sounded like a boy.
“Nine one one emergency. What are you reporting?”
“Uh, uh —”
“Can I help you? What are you reporting?”
“Uh, yeah, I’m reporting you have a dead guy in a pipe.”
“You said you are reporting a dead body?”
“Yeah, that’s right.”
“What do you mean a pipe,
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