Premonitions Read Online Free PDF Page A

L.A. through the huge floor-to-ceiling windows. Around him, the detritus from the previous night’s debauchery lay in broken piles. Smashed glasses twinkled in the morning sun, a heavy leather couch had been knocked back onto the marble floor during God knew what kind of nocturnal calisthenics, and a line of alternating panties and boxers had been laid out along the entire length of the bar. All that was missing were the people, who had, in accordance with custom, presumably been rounded up and shooed out at some pitch-black hour before Mr. Sobell awoke. “No, I think this is standard issue.”
    “Fuck.” Sobell put a hand to his head and cracked open his eyes a little further. “Fuck.” He cupped his hand in front of his face, exhaled loudly, inhaled, andgrimaced. “Fuck.” He straightened, tottering just a bit. “Seems I’m still drunk, Mr. Gresser. Thus, a little hair of the dog is in order. Would you mind?”
    Gresser shrugged. “Which dog?”
    “That goddamned vodka-and-tonic mongrel should do nicely.”
    Gresser walked around the bar and found a glass. This wasn’t the first time he’d found Mr. Sobell like this, nor even the twentieth, and he still wasn’t sure how much of it was an act. That some of it was an act was indisputable. One evening about five years back, Sobell had been playing the Merry Drunkard at some godforsaken dive he enjoyed when he was slumming, and some creep had tried to roll him in the bathroom. Gresser had walked in just in time to see Sobell sober up in a shocking hurry and bury a letter opener four inches into the guy’s eye. Sobell’s cheerful, drunken half smile was gone, his eyes hard and clear for one short moment—and then he’d gone right back to it. “Got a bit of a problem here, Mr. Gresser,” he’d said, and he’d hiccuped for good effect afterward.
    This morning, Sobell hobbled about looking for his other sock while Gresser poured. Ice, vodka, more vodka, open the bottle of tonic and pour some down the sink, and presto! A vodka and tonic the way Enoch Sobell liked it.
    Socks found, donned, and held in place by a couple of thousand-dollar shoes, Sobell made his way to the bar. Half the vodka went down in one toxic slug, and Sobell’s face brightened. And, just like that long-ago night in a men’s room in a shitty part of town, all at once he looked alarmingly sober.
    “Ms. Ames and company? I assume they’re on board.”
    Gresser put both hands on the bar and shook his head. “Not yet. They wanted to think about it. They did deliver the, um, object.”
    “Fine work, that.” Another gulp of vodka. “What did you do with it?”
    “Dropped it in the first trash can I found. Fucking disgusting.”
    “Too right.” Sobell cocked the glass, pausing before downing the last of it. “So, she wants to sleep on it. Not a lot of time for that, but it could be worse. Anything happen afterward?”
    “Met with her crew. Partied. Ruiz and Ames headed out at about three.”
    “Oh?”
    “Yeah. Went to just about the worst part of town I can think of. Looks like Ames’s got a connection down there.” He tapped the crook of his elbow with two fingers.
    Sobell’s brow tightened fractionally. “Where, exactly?”
    “You want an address?”
    “Yes. That’s exactly what I want.”
    “Uh, Norton Street? East of LaBrea, somewhere in the two hundred block.”
    “Hmm,” Sobell said, nodding. His eyes narrowed; with his body backlit by the rising sun, they looked like black slits. “Adelaide.” Gresser could have sworn that the fearless Enoch Sobell actually shuddered.
    “I don’t know where that is.”
    “Not where—who. If Ames is visiting that charming young nut job, she’s almost certainly the real deal. That’s a good thing.” He didn’t look like he thought that was a good thing. He looked like he thought it was on par with eating a handful of lye.
    Gresser hesitated before speaking his next words. He hadn’t gotten into Enoch Sobell’s good graces