Rose Gold

by Walter Mosley

  “It’s not just that,” I said, trying to sound reasonable. “Other expenses have come up over the past month, and I have to make some serious money if I want to keep ahead of the curve. Pro bono work for the city won’t get me where I need to be.”

  I wasn’t lying. Unknown to me or my daughter, a counselor at her elementary school had given her name to the admissions office of the prestigious private school Ivy Prep. This counselor, a Miss Timmons, had sent Feather’s test scores and grades to the school, and so we had received a letter of acceptance without even applying.

  Feather was ecstatic. Ivy Prep would put her education on a whole new trajectory. She could consider Harvard or even Oxford for college. And all it cost was a mere thirty-five hundred dollars a semester plus books, uniforms, travel, and special events.

  “We understand that you have to make a living, sir,” Frisk said in a respectful tone. “There is an independent party that is willing to pay eight thousand dollars for you to take on a missing person’s case, and there will be a twenty-five-hundred-dollar bonus for the satisfactory completion of that situation.”

  I was speechless for at least thirty seconds. No policeman had ever offered me money—and I had been stopped, rousted, beaten, and caged by a thousand cops in my years on and near the street.

  A black-haired, charcoal-suited cop walked past carrying a red-lacquered Chinese box across the threshold of my new home. I had owned that chest for more than twenty years.

  “Well, Mr. Rawlins?” Frisk asked.

  It occurred to me that if Melvin was off the force I’d need a new contact. Frisk seemed like a possible candidate.

  “What happened with Melvin?” I asked. I really wanted to know, but this was also a test. I didn’t expect to be told the actual circumstances, but even if he held back what had really happened with Suggs, it mattered to me how Frisk answered.

  “Detective Suggs was discovered to be in a relationship with a woman that he’d arrested a few months earlier,” Frisk said. “There was no proof of wrongdoing but the department gets very suspicious of liaisons of that nature. He’s under a heavy review. If he quits, the department will drop the investigation; if not, he might be facing jail time.”

  It wasn’t unusual for a policeman to show up unexpectedly at my door, maybe even surprising me with a request, but Roger Frisk went beyond surprise—his candor was stunning.

  Melvin had admitted to me that he’d been seeing a woman named Mary whom he’d arrested for passing counterfeit one-hundred-dollar bills. Before that bust and without exception, Melvin had been an unkempt and messy dresser. But when he told me about Mary he was wearing a white shirt and a pressed suit that had nary a grease stain. His shoes were shiny and his teeth bright.

  Love will spruce up the most disheveled bachelor; like an undertaker would do after that bachelor gets shot in the back.

  I’d worry about my friend at another time. Right then my attempt to avoid any meaningful conversation with the special assistant had been scuttled by his offers and his honesty.

  “There’s a Cuban diner over on La Cienega,” I said. “We could go over there if you want.”

  “Perfect,” Frisk said. “I love Cuban food. I’ll even drive.”

  3

  Arturo’s was on the east side of La Cienega, two blocks south of Pico. It was a classic American diner with a facade made from chrome and glass. The parking lot had white-lined slots for six cars and only three of them were occupied. Frisk pulled his dark Mercury Marquis up between a sky blue Pontiac station wagon and a red Chrysler truck.

  When he got out of the car he surveyed the street by moving his head from side to side. He was a careful man in a land where most so-called white men took their security for granted.

  The restaurant comprised one long counter that sat eight and had a small window for takeout orders. Arturo was somewhere behind the window and Manny, a sparsely whiskered man with black eyes and wearing a bright white T-shirt and pants, worked the counter.

  “Hola, Señor Rawlins,” Manny hailed. The pale-skinned counterman was in his middle years, somewhere between thirty-five and fifty. He looked both suspicious and friendly, an unstable combination but, I felt, acceptable in the service profession.

  “Manny,” I said. “This is Roger Frisk.”

  “Welcome,” Manny said.

  Frisk surprised us both with a barrage of Spanish in reply. He was very comfortable with the language and Manny responded with verve. I recognized odd words but I was no linguist. When I was a child I spoke Creole French, but that language was now mostly lost to me.

  There was an older Spanish couple sitting at the two stools farthest from the street, next to Arturo’s service window. They were drinking beer and eating homemade potato chips from a blue plastic basket.

  I moved to the red vinyl stool overlooking La Cienega. Frisk followed slowly, still chattering away with Manny.

  When we were both seated I interrupted, saying, “Two deluxe mixtos and twelve to go. Also you can add two sweet plantains and four orders of beans and rice.”

  “How is Feather?” the counterman asked.

  Whenever I ordered plantains he knew it was for her.

  “She might be going to this fancy private school if I play my cards right.”

  “I’ll ask my wife to pray for her,” Manny said. “Café con leche?”

  “For me,” I said.

  “Me too,” Frisk added.

  Manny went through a crevice into the back to submit my order.

  “You come here a lot?” the pink cop asked.

  “So what can I do for you, Mr. Frisk?”

  He smiled, glad to be getting down to business at last.

  “You ever hear of a man named Foster Goldsmith?” he said.

  “Goldsmith Armaments,” I said, “International. I read the papers.”

  “They got a major research facility out past Arcadia.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said.

  Manny brought our coffees. Frisk thanked him in Spanish.

  When the server moved off, Frisk said, “Old Stony Goldsmith is a regular contributor to Sam Yorty’s campaign fund. He’s also involved with many city projects; after-school programs, charity donations, he even plans to build a new wing at L.A. Hospital.”

  “A regular robber baron.”

  Frisk didn’t like that jab. At least, I thought, he had some kind of value system.

  “Goldsmith is a very important citizen in City Hall’s eyes,” he said.

  Then our pressed sandwiches came. I was hungry and took a bite before commenting.

  “Goldsmith has a problem?” I asked.

  “America has a problem,” Frisk said. “With all these hippies, anarchists, communists, and criminals, we have to keep a close watch on our democracy if we want to stay being free.”

  This was a new topic of conversation between white men and black in America. There was a time, a time I could remember, when Negroes were not considered full citizens. Patriotism was not expected from us; and, in return, the majority of our people were denied the vote.

  While times were slowly changing, my memories remained. But I didn’t feel like arguing with Frisk. If he actually believed what he was saying there would be no changing his mind. Though I suspected, by the way he was talking, that he was just mouthing these catchphrases. He was a pragmatist saying the words that his superiors liked hearing.

  “So Goldsmith has a problem?” I asked again.

  “He has a daughter.”

  “And she has a problem or she is a problem,” I surmised.

  “She’s a student at UC Santa Barbara.”

  “Beautiful place.”

  “A hotbed of revolutionaries.”

  I took another bite of my Cuban sandwich. The pickles were what made it special. And Arturo used real Swiss cheese that gave it that sour tang.

  “I thought you needed my help,” I said.

  “I do. The mayor does.”

  “Are you working for the mayor or the c
ops?”

  “The police force answers to City Hall.”

  “Since when?”

  “Goldsmith has a problem,” Frisk said. “His daughter.”

  “And what can a man like me do to relieve his distress?”

  “It’s my job to find her and make sure that she gets home.”

  “Runaway, missing, or kidnapped?” I wasn’t in the mood for niceties.

  Frisk didn’t answer immediately. He pondered my question, leading me to wonder if he was making up a reply.

  “It’s uncertain,” he said at last.

  “I’m listening.”

  “Rosemary, that’s the Goldsmiths’ daughter’s name, has been missing from her dormitory for at least the last two weeks. No one has seen her.”

  “Boyfriend?”

  “A man called Foster telling him that if he ever wanted to see his daughter again that he’d have to come up with, with … a great deal of money.”

  “How much money?”

  “I’d rather not say.”

  “So it’s kidnapping,” I said.

  “Maybe. You see …” Frisk paused, trying to pull together the delicate skein of the tale. “Rosemary has been involved with various revolutionary and anti-American groups. It could be that one of them has actually abducted her, but she could also be in league with the people that called.”

  “But you don’t know.”

  “The call came from a pay phone at a gas station in West Los Angeles. She’d been missing for days before the demands were made.”

  “What does her father think?”

  “He isn’t sure. The last time he spoke to his daughter she was railing at him about his part in delivery systems dealing with napalm and the war; that and other things.”

  “What other things?”

  “Just leftist banter. She’s been brainwashed by communists and sees her father as some kind of monster.”

  “That could be a big problem,” I agreed. “You wouldn’t want to report a kidnapping and find out that the supposed victim is really an extortionist in disguise.”

  “He doesn’t want his daughter going to jail.”

  “I understand the problem, Mr. Frisk, but what could I possibly contribute to the investigation? I haven’t been to Santa Barbara in a while and I don’t know anyone up there.”

  The special assistant to the chief of police was tapping the indexfinger fingernail of his left hand on the green tiled surface of the counter. He was staring hard at me as if, after all of this, he was wondering if I was the right man for the job.

  “Because of that call we think that the trail might be down here in L.A.,” he said at last. “We have reports that Rosemary has been seen in Los Angeles with a man named Mantle, Robert Mantle.”

  “Battling Bob Mantle?”

  “You know him?”

  “I’ve seen him fight. I don’t think he ever won a round but he made it to the final bell in every match I ever saw, bloody as a slaughtered hog but still on his feet. I haven’t seen him for a while.”

  “He got hit too much and they banned him from the ring. We thought if you could get next to Mantle maybe he could point the way.”

  “What’s their relationship?”

  “That’s not clear.”

  “Do you know where I could find him?” I asked.

  “If I did I wouldn’t be talking to you, now would I?”

  “I thought maybe you needed a man like me to talk to Mantle because he might trust a brother.” If I was being hired as a Judas, I wanted him to say it out loud.

  “If I knew where he was I’d ask him myself.”

  “So you’re looking for this Rosemary Goldsmith,” I said.

  “Yes,” Frisk agreed, “but we need you to find Mantle. He’s the key to finding the girl.”

  “That may be,” I said, “but I’d like to talk to her parents before I go out looking for him.”

  “That wouldn’t be a good idea,” Frisk advised.

  “Why not? They’re the ones who’ll be paying me, right?”

  “Rosemary’s parents are separated. The call was to him. All communication with either the mother or the father must be done through my offices.”

  Something about his officious tone made me wary.

  “I’d like to see your LAPD ID,” I said.

  “What?”

  “You heard me, man. Show me some ID or we can end this conversation right here.”

  “You saw my card.”

  “Anybody could print up a fancy card. I need something with a picture on it. Something I recognize. I don’t know you, Mr. Frisk. You could just be playin’ me.”

  Frisk didn’t like my demand. He hesitated while I took another bite out of my sandwich, but finally he produced a wallet from his breast pocket and took out a laminated card with his picture, rank, and police affiliation stated clearly.

  “Sorry about that,” I said, “but you know there’s a lot of people out there like to pull the wool over your eyes.”

  “Will you take the job?”

  “I need two thousand dollars for expenses and four thousand down on my fee. You get the client to give me that and I will be on the job first thing in the morning.”

  “The money will be delivered to you later today,” he said.

  The fact that money was no object was the best reason I had for passing up the case. Nobody ever put down 50 percent up front—unless they were desperate; and desperation went hand in hand with danger.

  “What about those city inspectors?” I asked, pushing my bad luck.

  “I’ll make a call tomorrow.”

  “I should say no, but I got too much in the hopper to turn my back. You have the client send me the money and I’ll do my due diligence.”

  Frisk smiled and put out that hand again.

  Though reluctantly, this time I shook it.

  4

  Frisk went out the front door of the restaurant and down the aluminum stairs while I paid Manny for our lunch and the brown paper bag filled with food for my workers.

  “That man a friend of yours, Mr. Rawlins?” the short Cuban waiter asked.

  “Potential employer.”

  “When I used to be in the Cuban army I was a sentry for El Jefe.”

  “Castro?”

  “Sometimes the Russian KGB would come to talk about their secrets. They had dead eyes and only came after dark. Your friend looks like he could be one of them.”

  “He’s a cop.”

  “Oh,” the amber-skinned man said. “That’s why.”

  “Thanks, Manny,” I said. “See you soon.”

  On the short drive back to my new home Frisk addressed me as my employer.

  “You should check out Benoit’s Gym. Mantle does odd jobs there,” he said. “They might be connected to this.”

  “Benoit’s down on Crenshaw? The one run by Hardcase Latour?”

  “That’s it.”

  “What do you mean, connected?”

  “Nothing definite,” Frisk admitted. “It’s just that he spent a lot of time down there before the girl went missing.”

  “When’s the last time anybody saw Mantle?”

  “Almost two weeks.”

  “You got a picture of him and the girl?”

  By then we were pulling up in front of my place.

  Frisk’s pockets were chock-full of information. This time he pulled out a small leatherbound notebook with two photographs between its leaves. One was a reduced mug shot of Bob Mantle. He was holding a number card in front of his chest and sneering at the camera. Bob wasn’t a handsome man but even through that frown and broken nose he looked friendly. Dark-skinned like me, with a buzz cut and generous lips, he might have been twenty-eight, twenty-nine at the time of the arrest.

  The girl’s picture was more pedestrian. Smiling and pretty, she was not yet twenty, sitting at a restaurant table among friends. Through the window behind her was a fleet of docked yachts at some marina where the rich congregated. Her hair was brown and her sk
in pale and clear. She was attractive in a sexless way. Her hazel eyes had intelligence and depth. I imagined that she questioned everything those eyes lit upon.

  There was something odd about the photograph: It was printed, not developed. Maybe, I thought, it had been cut out of a yearbook and pasted to a stiff paper backing.

  “An odd couple,” I said.

  “Find him quickly, Easy, and that’ll lead to her. That’s the best scenario we can hope for.”

  The special assistant’s men had put a deep dent in the moving truck’s cargo. Two of them had doffed their jackets, one even loosened his tie. I brought the bag of sandwiches to the back of the van and called everybody out. They seemed to like the food. Feather took hers, along with an order of the plantains and one serving of beans and rice, to the kitchenette. The table and chairs were already set up there and she was a proper child.

  The cops were grateful but quiet. Using plastic dinnerware that Manny provided, they ate quickly and went back to work. Frisk, for his part, went to the car and sat alone thinking official thoughts and planning his future.

  After lunch we all, with the exception of Frisk, threw ourselves into the move. Percy Bidwell stopped trying to pressure me and even Jackson did a halfway decent job. By two o’clock everything was out of the van and in the house or the garage out back. Feather had organized the process so that every box and piece of furniture was in the room where it belonged.

  The cops left. Frisk didn’t talk to me again. I was a soldier and he a passing general. I hoped his elite planning included the money I’d asked for.

  I found Jesus in the backyard studying the high redwood fence that separated me from my neighbors.

  I walked up behind my son and put a hand on his shoulder.

  “A lot bigger than what we’re used to,” I said.

  “Not as big as that house Auntie Jewelle had us in.”

  “But we didn’t own that.”

  “It’s real nice, Dad.”

  My son. When I found him he was the pet of a child molester who believed he was untouchable. The pedophile was long dead and Jesus had become a man that any nation would have been proud to call citizen.