The drive from Freedom to Los Angeles took less than two hours. I avoided rush hour and because I was in a police cruiser, the traffic tended to get out of my way. I pulled into the Musso & Frank parking lot just before one o’clock.
Located in the center of Hollywood, down the street from such landmarks as Grauman’s Chinese, The Hollywood Wax Museum, and the El Capitan Theatre, Musso’s is a legendary industry eatery. Its grill room was where Charlie Chaplin lunched daily in his exclusive corner booth which, in later years, was where Steve McQueen, Nelson Riddle, and Jonathan Winters could be regularly found. It’s still the favorite of movie and TV luminaries who frequent the area.
Because it was a place neither of us could afford when we were rookie cops together, Chuck Voight chose it for our lunch. He even reserved the Chaplin booth.
He was already seated when I arrived and he stood to greet me. After a hail of compliments regarding our respective appearances and a good deal of mutual back-slapping and laughter, we slid into the red leather, dark mahogany wood booth that faced Hollywood Boulevard, both of us with big grins on our faces.
“One time, when I made Detective, Daryl Gates brought me here,” Voight reminisced. “He so scared the shit out of me that I ordered scrambled eggs thinking nothing else would stay down.”
“Why don’t you have the eggs today?” I taunted him. “For old times’ sake.”
“Screw that, Buddy boy. Steak. Medium rare. Mashed garlic potatoes. Us guys have arrived.”
“Martinis?”
“I’m on duty.”
“Never stopped you before.”
“Yeah, well, we’ve come a long way since them days. Back then I could handle it. Today I’d go face-first into the mashed.”
His imagery made me laugh. “You’re not alone, Charley. It’s great to see you.”
“You, too. You enjoying yourself up there in Shitsville?”
“Not totally.”
“Something about your father, right?”
“Lou Gehrig’s disease.”
“Oh, Jeez. I’m sorry, Buddy.”
“Thanks.”
“People miss you down here. I can’t tell you how many times guys ask me how you’re doing.”
“That’s nice. Thanks for mentioning it.”
“My pleasure. I always tell them you’re in a rehab facility in Malibu.”
I snorted.
A smartly dressed waiter in a red tuxedo jacket stepped to our booth brandishing a platter of sourdough bread along with his best wise-guy attitude. “How did you two suckers manage to score the Chaplin?”
“Pull,” Voight said.
“Cops,” the waiter said. “I could spot you a mile away.”
“That obvious, huh?”
“Like you’ve got name tags on your foreheads. What can I get you?”
We told him. He grinned and strolled off.
I watched him go, then asked, “Robber Xmas?”
“If it’s the last thing I do.”
“He’s that slippery?”
Voight shook his head. “Son of a bitch is on my radar. I keep thinking I’m warm, but I can’t quite close the deal. Your associate tells me he’s shifted operations to your neck of the woods.”
“Could be. How often do you monitor your landscape?”
“For graffiti, you mean?”
“Yes.”
“Regularly. Daily.”
“When was the last time you saw something of his?”
“Nothing new for a couple of weeks now.”
“How long had he been tagging here?”
“At least a year. Maybe more.”
“And you haven’t been able to identify him?”
“He works alone. Sometimes we don’t see anything from him for several weeks. Then he re-surfaces with a flurry. Unpredictable.”
The waiter arrived with our steaks, fresh from the grill, sensationally aromatic. A similarly clad staffer brought Chuck’s mashed and my baked. Plus the side order of creamed spinach we were sharing. The waiter handed us each a steak knife. “Management frowns on ripping the meat off the bone with your teeth.”
He laughed at his joke and left us to our feast.
“How can we help each other?” I asked after we had dug in.
“We need to track his patterns. I’ll let you know if he shows up back here. Or if I learn anything in his absence. You do the same.”
“A regular joint task force,” I offered.
“I don’t know about that,” Chuck added. “This guy’s a slippery son of a bitch. But at least we’ll get the chance to make some more mischief together. Like that time in Boyle Heights.”
“Don’t go there, Chuck.”
“Oh, come on, Buddy. Surely you remember that night.”
“If I did, which I don’t, it would be a totally different memory than the one you have.”
“That’s a load of crap. You haven’t forgotten the milk shake incident, have you?”
“There was no milk shake incident. You made it up.”
“All six of them?”
“Four.”
“Four what?”
“Four of them.”
“So it is true.”
“Maybe some of it is true.”
“You’re so full of shit, Buddy. Remember how sick you got?”
“No, I don’t remember getting sick at all.”
“Liar.”
“Liar yourself. Eat your steak before it gets cold.” He punched my arm playfully.
“Ditto.”
We laughed our way through the rest of the meal.