Kind of Blue Read Online Free PDF Page B

century, flanked the street. Some were shuttered, their ground-floor windows boarded up with plywood.
    I rolled down my window and watched a few seedy hotel lobbies roll by, the faint smell of Lysol wafting out the doors. Crackheads and elderly pensioners shuffled about barefoot or in house slippers. The streetlamps cast a sickly yellow light on the sad landscape of check cashingoffices, passport photo shops, and small markets that sold single cigarettes and short dogs to the rummies who jammed the corners.
    Los Angeles was decades behind most major cities in attracting residents to live downtown. There had been efforts in the past, with scattered buildings that featured lofts, but they generally failed. Most people in L.A. assiduously avoided the area, which they regarded as a forbidding wasteland, a repository for the detritus of the city. During the past decade, however, numerous stately old commercial buildings had been renovated and converted into lofts, drawing renters and buyers. Still, those who chose to live downtown were viewed skeptically by many in Southern California, where a manicured front lawn and a backyard with a barbecue are considered a birthright.
    Duffy screeched to a stop in front of one of the old bank buildings, an imposing Beaux Arts structure. Four massive, pale green marble columns border the filigreed brass door. The building was constructed of cream-colored stone and at the top is an ornate, swirling cornice shading a dozen stone griffins, eyes bulging, surveying the skyline.
    “I like the building, but your neighborhood’s a shithole. You can’t find an LAPD cop who lives in the city, yet you move downtown,” Duffy said, snorting.
    “After Robin left me, this is where I wanted to be,” I said.
    “I been divorced three times,” Duffy said. “This your first, right?”
    I nodded. “But the divorce hasn’t gone through yet; we’re still separated. I’m waiting for her to file the judgment forms and all the final documents with the court.”
    “Is it really over?”
    “Yeah. It’s really over.”
    “You’ll need this,” he said, handing me the keys to an unmarked LAPD detective car. “You can pick it up tomorrow.”
    I flipped the door handle, but before I could climb out, Duffy grabbed my arm.
    “I’ve got something for you, Asher,” he said, opening his briefcase. In the center, gleaming from a fresh polishing, was the stainless-steel-and-copper badge that I had turned in eleven months before. “I made sure your number wasn’t reassigned.”
    I took the badge from Duffy and nodded. I felt my throat catch. Getting the detective badge had been one of the greatest moments of mylife. Handing it in had been one of the worst. Now, feeling the heft of it in my palm and running my fingers along the outline of City Hall, my resentment toward Duffy began to dissipate a bit.
    Duffy extended his hand.
    I shook it and said softly, “Thanks LT.”
    At the front door, I punched my code into the keypad, slipped inside, and took the elevator to the top floor. I unlocked my door and set the badge on a small wooden table. My loft, a spare, cavernous expanse, has exposed brick walls, polished concrete floors, and two gold-trimmed skylights streaked with dust. Suspended from metal hooks near my bed are a mountain bike and a surfboard. One large window faces west, the lights atop the skyscrapers on Bunker Hill twinkling in the distance; a smaller window on the other side of the loft faces east, offering a view of the rooflines of hundred-year-old brick and stone buildings.
    I grabbed a beer from the refrigerator, flipped on my CD player, and eased into my leather chair. Studying the lights of the skyscrapers, I listened to the Miles Davis cut “So What.” For the past eleven months this had been my melancholic anthem. Night after night, month after month, I sat here, unable to sleep, watching ESPN with the sound off, listening to “So What,” while I stared dully at the obscure sporting