She squeezed his shoulder again and went off. Bosch’s attention was drawn to the stage, where Randy’s first song had just ended. The next song was “Lawyers, Guns and Money” by Warren Zevon. Bosch hadn’t heard it in a while and he remembered how it had been an anthem among the uniforms back when he had worked patrol.

A disk jockey in a sound booth at the left side of the stage announced the next dancer would be Randy. An old Eddie Money song, “Two Tickets to Paradise,” started blaring over the sound system as a tall brunette wearing blue jeans cut off to expose the lower half of her bottom and a neon pink bikini top charged through the shimmering curtain and started moving to the beat of the music.

“It’s Harry.”
“Well, Harry, I’m Rhonda. As in…” Bosch said nothing.
“Come on, Harry, you’re supposed to say, ‘Help me, Rhonda, help, help me, Rhonda.’”
She sang the line from the old Beach Boys song.

“Scheherazade,” he said.
“What’s that, Harry?” Edgar asked.
“The music. It’s called Scheherazade. Ever heard it?”