“We’re sure going to try,” Frank said.
Tucker accompanied them to the front door, then outside, where the patio deck in front of the townhouse offered a wide view of Los Angeles in the basin below. “Isn’t it gorgeous?” Tucker asked. “Isn’t it something?”
“Quite a view,” Tony said.
“Such a big, big, beautiful city,” Tucker said with pride and affection, as if he had created the megalopolis himself. “You know, I just heard that the bureaucrats back in Washington made a study of mass transit possibilities for L.A. They were determined to ram some system or other down our throats, but they were stunned to find out it would cost at least one hundred billion dollars to build a rapid transit railway network that would handle only ten or twelve percent of the daily commuter crush. They still don’t understand how vast the West is.” He was rhapsodizing now, his broad face alight with pleasure, his strong hands tossing off one gesture after another. “They don’t realize that the meaning of L. A. is space–space and mobility and freedom. This is a city with elbow room. Physical and emotional elbow room. Psychological elbow room. In L.A., you have a chance to be almost anything you want to be. Here, you can take your future out of the hands of other people and shape it yourself. It’s fantastic. I love it. God, I love it!”
Tony was so impressed with the depth of Tucker’s feeling for the city that he revealed his own secret dream. “I’ve always wanted to be an artist, to make a living with my art. I paint.”
“Then why are you a cop?” Tucker asked.
“It’s a steady paycheck.”
“Screw steady paychecks.”
“I’m a good cop. I like the work well enough.”
“Are you a good artist?”
“Pretty good, I think.”
“Then take the leap,” Tucker said. “Man, you are living on the edge of the Western world, on the edge of possibility. Jump. Jump off. It’s one hell of a thrill, and it’s so damned far to the bottom that you’ll never crash into anything hard or sharp. In fact, you’ll probably find exactly the same thing I found. It’s not like falling down at all. You’ll feel like you’re falling up!”
Tony and Frank followed the brick wall to the driveway, past a jade-plant hedge that had thick juicy leaves. The unmarked sedan was parked in the shade of a large date palm.
As Tony opened the door on the passenger’s side, Tucker called to him from the patio deck, “Jump! Just jump off and fly!”
“He’s some character,” Frank said as he drove away from the townhouse.
“Yeah,” Tony said, wondering what it felt like to fly.
As they headed for the address that Tucker had given them, Frank talked a little about the black man and then a lot about Janet Yamada. Still mulling over Eugene Tucker’s advice, Tony gave his partner only half his attention. Frank didn’t notice that Tony was distracted. When he was talking about Janet Yamada, he really didn’t attempt to carry on a conversation; he delivered a soliloquy.
Fifteen minutes later, they found the apartment complex where Jimmy Ortiz lived. The parking garage was underground, guarded by an iron gate that opened only to an electronic signal, so they couldn’t see if there was a black Jaguar on the premises.
The apartments were on two levels, in randomly set wings, with open staircases and walkways. The complex was structured around an enormous swimming pool and a lot of lush greenery. There was also a whirlpool spa. Two girls in bikinis and a hairy young man were sitting in the swirling water, drinking a martini lunch and laughing at one another’s banter as tendrils of steam writhed up from the turbulent pool around them.
Frank stopped at the edge of the Jacuzzi and asked them where Jimmy Ortiz lived.
One of the girls said, “Is he that cute little guy with the mustache?”
“Baby face,” Tony said.
“That’s him,” she said.
“Does he have a mustache now?”
“If it’s the same guy,” she said. “This one drives a terrific Jag.”
“That’s him,” Frank said.
“I think he lives over there.” she said, “in Building Four, on the second floor, all the way at the end.”