Broken

by Don Winslow

his vinyl. Which, the younger people tell him, is coming back again. Bullshit, Duke thinks as he listens to the Jack Montrose Sextet play “That Old Feeling” (Pacific Jazz Records, 1955)—vinyl records never went anywhere. Duke’s collection of the genre generally known as “West Coast jazz” takes up most of the second floor of his house, and his nephew-in-law—his sister’s daughter’s well-meaning but idiotic husband—is afraid that the weight of all those albums is going to collapse the floor. Also bullshit, Duke thinks. His house was built in 1926, when they built things to last.

When most guys his age look out at the ocean, the soundtrack in their minds is the Beach Boys, Jan and Dean, Dick Dale or maybe the Eagles. Not Duke. He hears Cool School. Pacific Jazz Records. Art Pepper, Stan Getz, Gerry Mulligan, Hampton Hawes, Shelly Manne, Chet Baker, Shorty Rogers, Howard Rumsey’s Lighthouse All Stars, Lennie Niehaus, Lee Konitz, Bud Shank, Clifford Brown, Cal Tjader, Dexter Gordon, Wardell Gray, Harold Land, Dave Brubeck, Paul Desmond, Jimmy Giuffre, Red Mitchell, Stan Kenton, Benny Carter . . . Charlie Parker blew here.

They all did. Bird played the old San Diego Boxing Arena back in 1953, too long ago for even Duke to have been there, but it means something to him. Just like it means something to him that Harold Land was from San Diego. This album? Jack Montrose on tenor sax, Conte Candoli on trumpet, Bob Gordon on bari, Paul Moer on piano, Ralph Pena on bass, Shelly Manne, of course, on drums. Duke knows this without looking at the album cover, he knows most of these details by memory because it’s important, goddamn it, to know the sidemen on recordings. Just like in his work, details are important, details are everything, you don’t get the so-called small things right, you’ll screw up the big things. So Duke remembers who plays on almost every album, but if he doesn’t, he can look at the goddamn liner notes, which you can’t do on the iPad or mePod or shitPot or whatever they call the thing that his nephew-in-law is always trying to sell him on. “But, Duke,” the ki...

They say never meet your heroes. They should have added and for God’s sake, never make them your friends. Not a friend like Terry anyway. A friend who could be so charming in one moment, then try to pick up your girlfriend in the next (albeit with such boyish charm that both you and the girlfriend instantly forgave him) and then stick you with the check.

Boone’s getting tired of her La Jolla Ice Maiden routine. It’s one of the pat San Diego personas—Laid-Back Surfer Girl, Hot Soccer Mom, La Jolla Ice Maiden. They’re set pieces. She does it exceptionally well, but it’s still a tired stereotype.

“He wasn’t speaking to affordability,” Neal said. “He was speaking to a necessity that you can afford to meet.” “Define ‘necessity,’” Lou said. “My car gets me from Point A to Point B. This is what I need in a car.” “But it looks like shit,” Duke said. “Which is as irrelevant, if not more so, as affordability,” Lou said. “Not necessarily,” Neal said. “If, in your role as a police lieutenant, the appearance of your vehicle causes you to lose prestige, it becomes a liability that you can’t afford.” “Or,” Lou says, “it becomes sort of a trademark. A charming symbol of my refusal to conform to a societal demand for prestige items. Like Duke’s Cadillac.” “I drive a Cadillac because I’m big.” “You drive a Cadillac,” Neal said, “because you’re nostalgic, because you think it brings you back to an era that you consider preferable to the current one.” “I do consider an older era preferable to the current one,” Duke said. As would any sensate being who ever heard Hank Mobley play “No Room for Squares.” “I think it’s more a matter of image,” Lou said. “Chronic criminals see the Duke rolling around free in a big old Cadillac, they believe he can free them, too.”

Neal hands Sandra one of Duke’s personal cards. “If Terry gets hold of you, will you call this number?” She says, “I love him.” “It’s a bitch, isn’t it?” Neal asks, standing up. “If you ever have a problem, Duke Kasmajian owes you a solid.” Then he hands her another card. “This is a police lieutenant named Lubesnick. He’s in a different unit, but he’ll get you to the right person so you can file charges for assault.” “I won’t do that.” “He beat up another woman,” Neal says. “He choked you. Does someone have to die before one of you does the right thing? Think about that, huh?” In the courtyard Boone says, “You were really good in there.” “I read a lot of books,” Neal says.