Theaella

32

Up the street the Alex Theatre’s gaudy Greco-Egyptian fa?ade funneled into a hundred-foot art deco column, lit with neon and topped with a spiked ball befitting a medieval flail. The theater was hosting a Buster Keaton marathon, the signage bringing Matthew back to late nights in the study with Jack watching Buster scurry around a locomotive like an ant surveying a leaf. Jack rarely laughed, but he’d prop his cheek on his fist, the wrinkles at his temple conveying something like pleased contentment. It was rare to see Jack at peace with his place in the world, even if only for the two-hour running time. Every other waking second was spent striving for the ever-receding horizon of perfection. Matthew drank up those precious moments of leisure with Jack. He imagined for most people that was what life generally felt like. He sensed that once this mission was completed, that would be the sensation he’d search for.

But today Matthew wasn’t here for the movie theater. Or the steroidal coffee.

He was here because of the view, as clean a vantage as he could have hoped for across four lanes of traffic onto the entrance of the Three Monkeys Café.

Half of Glendale’s population was composed of folks with Armenian roots. The café, with its overpriced khash and khorovats, seemed to cater to the upper slice of the community. The whole area had an upscale gleam not unlike that of Violet’s South Pasadena neighborhood. Sun-kissed buildings, breeze-ruffled foliage, pop-up shops selling artisanal ice cream or hemp purses or accent tables made out of driftwood.

It brought to mind how far Los Angeles proper had slid. From downtown sidewalks cloaked in a forever haze of freeway exhaust to Eastside shanties ready to topple from a strong wind or a stray bullet. These surrounding towns and incorporated neighborhoods with their own taxes and budgets fared better than the great wheezing city, a beast of burden bearing the load of four million souls.

A convoy of Town Cars interrupted Matthew’s musings. Three heavy-duty Lincolns, black as pitch, rolled up to the valet. Six doors opened in concert. Twelve loafers set down on the asphalt. Even at this distance, the clunk of the closing doors was audible, armored metal reseating in reinforced frames.

The large men formed a rugby scrum that moved without obvious purpose but still encapsulated the passenger in the middle car as he emerged. Matthew caught only a fleeting glimpse of a man with silver hair and a dark beard before his men cocooned him and conveyed him into the café. Everyone else knew the drill as well, swinging into motion as if mechanized, the valets nodding deferentially, a hostess materializing to hold the door, the ma?tre d’ standing at attention inside, armed with a leather-bound wine list.

The scrum swept inside without a hitch. One of the men had peeled out of formation to stand at the curb, overseeing the parked Town Cars.

Matthew left the used workbooks on the table. As he jogged down the stairs, he felt no residual dizziness from the concussion. As long as he took it easy, he seemed to be functional.

He crossed the street. The valets didn’t nod at him deferentially. No hostess appeared to hold the door for him. The ma?tre d’ didn’t bother to look up from his reservation ledger, which he pondered Talmudically.

All that pointed inattention gave Matthew a moment to scan the bustling café. Tables spread artfully across a Moroccan tile floor. A few sleek wooden fans circled leisurely overhead. French doors let onto a small courtyard with a single table where the convoy’s sole passenger sat with two other men, sipping espresso. The bodyguards stood around the courtyard and at the French doors, on alert.

The diners didn’t seem to take notice. A mother ate with one hand on a baby stroller, rolling it gently back and forth. Her husband lolled in his chair and jabbed at a molar with a toothpick, his stomach a testament to suburban sprawl. Near the door to a unisex bathroom, a family of six rimmed a round table, their heads bowed as if in prayer, each lost to a different screen.

No one seemed bothered in the least by the bodyguards.

Which meant Unidentified Caller was well known in the community, his presence here a dash of local flavor: the neighborhood connected guy who ate where the good food was.

The patrons were unaware that they were providing him protection, allowing him to hide here in plain sight. Cops and rivals would be less willing to make a move with such a high likelihood of collateral damage. And in the event that they did? Having civilians around to distract, confuse, and catch the occasional stray bullet would provide useful protection.

At last the ma?tre d’ pried himself from the ledger, looking up through his wire frames. “Yes, sir?”

“May I sit in the courtyard?” Matthew asked.

“I’m afraid that table is taken.”

“Today?”

“Always.”

“Oh. Is that the owner?” Matthew flicked his head toward the silver-haired gentleman. The cut of his suit was impeccable, the fabric breaking in all the right places, as if the folds had been penciled by a sketch artist.

Matthew had looked into the café’s business records but found only a snarled fishing line of parent companies, subsidiaries, and loan-outs.

The ma?tre d’ said, “I’d be happy to seat you inside, sir.”

Putting a name to Unidentified Caller would take a bit more hoop-jumping, then.

“That would be fine. I’d prefer something away from the door. Maybe there?” Matthew pointed to an open table with a partial view of the courtyard.

The ma?tre d’s grin looked as if he’d read about how to smile in a textbook and was trying it on under duress. But he seated Matthew where he’d asked.

Matthew ordered an Armenian coffee and settled in to observe.

The bodyguards were on point, focused on movements, windows, doorways. The courtyard looked to be sheltered from the view of the surrounding buildings. The armored Town Cars out front were under constant watch.