Chapter Forty-one

“The post office,” Johnny Kennerly said.

“What about it?”

“Wall to wall.”

“Perhaps you could be a tad less obtuse.”

“Dragons, gargoyles, and a four-foot-high signature.”

“Robber Xmas?”

“The scourge returns.”

We had just finished the four o’clock change-of-shift meeting and we had lingered behind in the squad room.

“This one’s a bitch, Buddy. I say we ratchet up the surveillance.”

“When do you want to start?”

“Tonight,” Johnny answered.

“Both of us?”

“We can keep each the other awake.”

“Excellent idea.”

My Wrangler was parked a couple of doors down from the Noel bungalow. We had stopped at McDonald’s and were engaged in unwrapping our respective Big Mac cheeseburgers and at the same time, dipping into a large bag of sweet potato fries. Johnny’s takeout coffee was planted in one of the Wrangler’s two cup holders, alongside my large vanilla shake.

“That should help keep you in shape for the big event.” He pointed to the shake.

“What big event?”

“One on one, baby. It’s all Helena talks about these days.”

“She’s not really serious about this. She’s just pulling my chain, right?”

“What are you smoking, Buddy? She’s been in training for weeks.”

“Training? Nobody’s ever confirmed that this stupid game is even going to take place.”

“Think again, big fella. The game is definitely on. She announced it in a widely distributed e-mail. All we’re waiting for is the date.”

“This is insane.”

“Correct.”

I looked at the half-eaten cheeseburger and then sheepishly put it back in the bag. I had no idea she was publicizing this event. I glanced down at my slightly burgeoning stomach. I’m doomed, I thought.

Johnny noticed my discomfort and a big fat grin lit up his face. “So what’s the date?”

“Quit bothering me. Can’t you see I’m eating?”

“I can see you’re weaseling.”

“Stay out of it.”

“Weasel,” he said, accusingly.

“What weasel?”

“You heard me.”

It was then that the bungalow’s front door opened and Robaire Noel stepped outside and looked around. He was carrying a backpack. After several moments, he stepped over to the BMW, opened the driver’s side door, tossed in the backpack, then climbed in himself.

“The monster appears,” I said.

We heard the BMW’s twin turbocharged engines roar into life and watched as the richly appointed coupe inched slowly onto Meeker Street.

After several moments, we followed.

Whatever Robaire Noel had in mind for the evening, it didn’t involve graffiti. We followed him onto the 101 Freeway and south to Santa Barbara, where he valet parked in front of The LeGrange Club, a trendy disco, currently the it club for the upscale Santa Barbara crowd.

The hipster doorman greeted Robaire as if he were family, and led him past a gaggle of young wannabes who were waiting on line, angling to get in. Noel elbowed his way through the throng and with the help of the doorman, swooped inside.

We watched for a while. It seemed as if only females were being admitted, young girls displaying a significant amount of skin, all with visions of rich guys shining in their hopeful bedroom eyes.

“Not a good sign,” Johnny said.

“Not for us, maybe. But definitely a good one for Monsieur Robaire.”

“You think he’s in for the night?”

“Likely in more ways than one.”

“Home?”

“No place like it.”

We hit the Hollywood Freeway heading north.