Post Pattern
by David Chill
(A Brief Taste)
Norman Freeman's bachelor party was held in his brother's swank apartment along the Wilshire corridor just adjacent to Beverly Hills. It was after nine o'clock by the time I pulled up, and the faint traces of a smoky orange sunset were fading from the western sky. Night was descending and it was only now starting to cool off. I strapped on my .38 special snub nose revolver which was snuggled inside a ballistic nylon shoulder holster, and I tossed a jacket on over that. I had another gun wrapped against my ankle. Going anywhere unarmed makes me feel a tad naked.
Robbie's apartment building rose twenty-two stories and came complete with a doorman, a security guard, and a small gourmet shop for those last minute items which the maid might forget to pick up. There was a doorman on duty dressed in full costume with a grey coat and matching grey cap, gold shoulder tassels, and white gloves. He barked a crisp "good evening" as he swung the glass door open for me and I offered a crisp "thank you" instead, which seemingly fell on deaf ears.
The security guard was a quiet, balding man who looked as if he were more interested in reading the L.A. Times than in keeping the building secure from unsavory characters. He had on a dark blue uniform with a shoulder patch that advertised his firm, Watchdog Security Systems. The picture of a snarling German Shepherd sat beneath the logo. He inquired whom I wished to see and directed me to sign the guest book. There were about a dozen names before me, most planning to visit apartment 2201.
I rode swiftly up a very quiet chrome elevator. When I reached the top floor, the pounding bass from a powerful set of speakers could be heard through the walls. I practically felt the booming in my gut. Approaching the apartment, I rang the bell but it took an eternity for someone to answer. I tried the doorknob but it was firmly locked. Finally, a husky reveler in a black shirt and jeans opened the door and invited me in without bothering to ask who I was.
The noise expanded as I walked into a spacious apartment with thick white carpeting. An entertainment center with a profundity of glass encased stereo and video equipment took up part of an entire wall. A myriad of glowing dials and switches flashed in tempo with the beat of the music. A painting of a car balancing delicately on the edge of a cliff was on the wall above a black leather couch. To the right of the painting was one of those clocks they sell in Las Vegas where the dice served as the numbers. On the face was the name "Mirage," printed in small italic letters.
There were about a dozen young men in their early twenties standing around the living room laughing and joking and offering toasts with beer bottles. They looked rather alike, muscular guys wearing jeans, untucked shirts and running shoes. Their voices were as loud as their physiques were strong. I had on a dark blue shirt, white cotton trousers and topsiders. I didn't exactly fit in, as I had almost twenty years on most of them. Much of the group had their hands around bottles of Budweiser, with some holding shot glasses filled with gold tequila. Four large bottles of Patrón Añejo sat on the kitchen table, one of them empty, the others partially consumed.
The kitchen was off to the left and I ambled in to see if I could locate more palatable refreshments. A quick perusal of the refrigerator confirmed it had been stocked by a college student rather than by one of the Iron Chefs. Four cases of Budweiser, some cold cuts, Miracle Whip, and white bread were the delicacies of choice in Robbie Freeman's apartment. I sifted around and managed to find a bottle of Corona.
"You made it," a voice called from behind.
I turned and saw Norman Freeman approach me, arm extended. We shook hands and I suggested he introduce me around to the guys.
