13
Cox Bar was in a back alley off of Hooper. It was no more than a ramshackle hut but that was the place you would most likely find Raymond Alexander. Big Ginny Wright, the proprietor, was standing behind a high table used for a bar. She stood under a murky lamp that seemed to spread darkness instead of light. There was a pool table in the corner and a few chairs set around the room.
There were electric fans blowing from every side but it was still hot in there.
A small woman sat on a high stool at the far end of the tablebar, nursing a beer and staring off into space.
“Easy,” Ginny said. “How you, baby?”
“I’ve been better.”
Ginny laughed. “Me too. With these fools runnin’ the streets I been thinkin’ of movin’ back down to Texas. At least there you know what to expect.”
“Mr. Rawlins?” The young woman who had been drinking the beer had come up to me. She was slight and medium brown, the same color as Ginny.
“Yeah?”
“You remember me?” she asked. “I’m Benita, Benita Flag.”
I realized that I had met her before—with Mouse. She was beautiful then, wearing a little pink dress and red heels. Her hair, I remembered, was done up like a complex sculpture made of seashells. Now the hair was coarse and unkempt. She wore jeans and a stained white blouse that had been buttoned wrong.
“You seen Raymond?” she asked me.
“No.”
“’Cause he ain’t called me in two weeks and I’m worried he got hurt in all that’s happened. You know Ray wouldn’t just sit inside. I’m worried that maybe he got shot again.”
Mouse had been shot a few times in his life but the last wound was because he was helping me. For a long while I thought that he’d died and that I was the cause of his death.
“Can you help me find him?” Benita asked.
Ginny’s impatient sigh told me that Benita was just one more girlfriend that Mouse had let slide.
“I haven’t seen ’im in weeks, Benita. Really.”
She stared in my face, looking for a map to her boyfriend.
“I told her that even his wife don’t know where he is,” Ginny said. “But she just sit there drinkin’ beer and hopin’ he gonna walk in.”
Benita ignored Ginny’s barbs.
“Tell him to call me if you see him, Easy. I got to see him.”
“Excuse me, Benita,” Ginny said, “but Easy come in here to see me. I know that ’cause he don’t drink, so he must have somethin’ on his mind.”
Benita didn’t like being dismissed. She gave Ginny a hard look but then moved back to her lonely stool and flat beer.
“Raymond be lucky if that one don’t shoot ’im,” Ginny said in a low voice.
The comment unsettled me. It reminded me that the life we lived had always been perched at the edge of violence. That violence was Newell and Mouse and whoever killed Nola Payne. It was a constant threat eating away at happiness and any feeling of well-being.
“Do you know where Mouse is?” I asked, also in a soft voice.
Ginny studied me then. She scratched the mole at the left side of her mouth and snuffled.
“I could get him to call you,” she said. “But that’s all. Raymond’s workin’.”
Work for Mouse was never legal. The only time he ever held a real job was when he worked for me at Truth.
“That’s fine, Miss Wright. Tell him I need his help.”
“I’ll tell ’im but you know he’s busy and he ain’t got no time to be helpin’ you.”
Ginny wasn’t one of Mouse’s girlfriends but that didn’t matter. She was past sixty, three hundred pounds, and rough as lava stone, but she had a soft spot for Mouse just like Benita did. She believed, as did most of Raymond’s women, that she had the last word on him.
“All he has to do is call,” I said.
“All right.”
“Maybe you could help me too, Gin.”
“How’s that?”
“You ever hear of a man name of Loverboy?”
“Oh yeah,” Ginny said. “He’s what they call a prime suspect if ever your car is gone from its garage.”
“You wouldn’t happen to know where he work at?” I asked.
I knew she’d have the answer. Ginny had a mind like a steel trap. Nothing ever escaped her notice or her memory. She was so good at counting cards that Raymond was the only one I knew that would gamble with her. And when it came to her customers she knew every one of their histories all the way back to Africa—almost.
“He in Watts over near Menlo and Hoover. You know the junkyard over there?”
“Sure do.”
“It’s a house with a green roof across the street from there. It’s got a double garage in back. That’s where Loverboy and Craig Reynolds make over the cars for sale.”
“What’s Loverboy’s real name?”
“Nate Shelby,” Ginny said. “It sure is. But be careful, Easy. ’Cause you know Nate don’t play.”
Ginny’s last words stayed with me in the car. I rode with them all the way to West L.A., thinking that I wouldn’t go up against the car thief until I was sure of my footing.
MARIANNE PLUMP WAS sitting at her post behind the reception desk at the Miller Neurological Sanatorium. It was about two in the afternoon. A young white man and an older woman were sitting on a small blue sofa set against the wall directly across from her. They both eyed me with fear.
“Miss Plump,” I said.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Rawlins,” she said with certainty.
She met my eye and even smiled. Overnight she had thought about our conversation and the morning brought on a resolution to live life the way she saw it.
That’s what I surmised anyway.
“May I see Miss Landry?” I asked.
“She’s in H-twelve. Dr. Dommer said that it was fine.”
As I moved toward the swinging door, the young man piped up.
“Excuse me, miss, but we’ve been waiting here for over half an hour.”
“The doctor is still with a patient,” Marianne said, not in an unfriendly tone.
“Then why is he going in?” the young man replied.
“Listen, friend,” I said. “You don’t want to go where I’m going. Believe that.”
He looked away from me and I laughed.
“You might turn your head, man, but I’ll still be here.”
Marianne Plump covered her mouth to stifle her grin.
I pushed open the door and never saw the young man or old woman again.
14
Geneva Landry was staring at the wall in front of her, wrapped in a cotton robe, and seated in a chair beside the high hospital bed. Whatever it was she saw, it had nothing to do with that room. The chair was made from chrome and blue padding. Sparrows chattered in a tree outside the window. Sunlight flooded the room without heating it. That was because of the air-conditioning.
Geneva hadn’t turned when I opened her door.
“Miss Landry.”
“Yes?” she asked, keeping her eye on the bare wall.
“My name is Easy Rawlins,” I said, moving into her line of vision.
When I blocked her view of the wall she winced.
“Hello.”
“I see they took you out of that straitjacket.”
She nodded and crossed her chest with her arms, caressing her shoulders with weak, ashen fingers.
“Why they got me in here, Mr. Rawlins?”
“May I sit down, ma’am?”
“Yes.”
I sat at the foot of the mattress.
“Do you remember what happened to Nola?”
I regretted the question when grief knotted up in her face.
“Yes.”
“The police are worried that if a white man killed her, the riots will start up again.”
“He did kill her,” she said. “And there’s nothin’ they can do about that.”
She glanced at me and then looked away.
“Did you see him do it, ma’am?”
“Are you the law, Mr. Rawlins?”
“No ma’am. I’m just tryin’ to find the man killed your niece.”
“But you not a policeman?”
“No. Why?”
“Because that’s what that sloppy cop asked me this morning. He kept askin’ if I saw her get killed. I told him that if I did he wouldn’t have to be lookin’ for the man ’cause I woulda kilt him myself.”
Her hands were pulling at the shiny arms of the chair.
“That was Detective Suggs?” I asked.
“I guess it was.”
“He’s the one wanted me to talk to you and to ask around about who it was that hurt Nola.”
“Killed her,” the distraught woman said. “He killed her. Shot Li’l Scarlet in her eye.”
“What did you call her?” I asked.
“Li’l Scarlet,” Geneva said. “Her daddy, my brother, called her that because’a her red hair. When she was a child she was just a peanut and so everybody called her Li’l Scarlet. Li’l Scarlet Payne.”
I nodded and smiled. I placed my hand on hers but she pulled away.
“Did Nola have a gun, Miss Landry?”
“No. Of course not. She wasn’t that kind’a girl. She went to church and praised Jesus. It was a sin to kill her.”
“Did she keep an address book?”
“She had a small green tin I gave her when she came here from Mississippi. It was for a little holiday whiskey cake. It was just the right size for the note cards she kept. That way she said if somebody’s numbers changed she could just write up a new card and not have to scratch it out. She was very clean, Mr. Rawlins.”
“I know she was.”
“Are you gonna find that white man?”
“Yes I am. Do you want me to talk to the doctor about taking you home?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are you afraid to go home?”
“I don’t know. I mean I don’t think so, not afraid of nobody but . . . when I’m alone . . .”
“Do you have a husband or some family? Maybe I could tell them that you’re okay. Maybe they can come and see you.”
“My husband had a heart attack and Nola was my family after that,” she said. “It’s just that I get lost when there’s nobody around, like I don’t know where I am. There’s a nice colored nurse at night who sits with me.”
“So you want to stay here for a while?”
“I don’t know,” she said.
“Did Nola have a boyfriend?” I asked.
“A piece’a one,” she said. “I mean Toby wasn’t around too much and she broke up with him about every other week.”
“Where does this Toby live?”
“In the big gray slum.”
I knew the building. It was a block down from the Imperial Highway. An empty lot that some real estate syndicate turned into a series of five twelve-story apartment buildings. The quality of the building was substandard and the rents were too much for our neighborhood. Between the high turnover and the crumbling walls the place became known as the big gray slum.
“What’s Toby’s last name?”
“McDaniels.”
I hesitated to ask the next question.
“Did you talk to your niece when the riots were going on, Miss Landry?”
“Every day and every night. We didn’t see each other ’cause I was too scared to go out and she was nursin’ that white man she saved.”
“How did she save him?”
“Rioters beat on him and he ran. He ran past Nola’s front door and she called to him . . . called to him. She took him upstairs and tended to his wounds and then he killed her.”
“Did she tell you his name?”
“Pete. All she ever called him was Pete.”
Geneva Landry turned back to the wall, looking for a way back to Nola. Her hands gripped the arms of her chair and big veins stood out on her dark temples.
“I should have told her about them white men,” she said. “I shoulda told her.”
“Told her what?” I asked.
“Never mind,” Geneva Landry said. “It doesn’t matter now.”
I wanted to ask her more but she seemed so vulnerable in her chair. It was as if she were wasting away as she sat there staring at the wall and regretting words she never spoke.
MELVIN SUGGS WAS waiting for me in the white hall.
“So whataya think?” he asked me.
“She says that Nola didn’t own a gun.”
“Yeah.”
“Nobody saw the white man go into Nola’s apartment,” I added. “And Geneva didn’t see her niece get killed.”
“You think she’s makin’ it up?” Suggs asked.
“No.”
“No,” he repeated, nodding at the floor.
“What are the visiting hours here at night, Detective Suggs?”
“Early evening. Why?”
“Could you ask Dr. Dommer to have them let me in if I come by after then?”
“Yeah but . . . I mean, you already talked to her.”
“She needs some company. If I have the time, maybe . . .” I shrugged and Suggs did too.
It wasn’t that he didn’t like me or was unconcerned about his job. He just didn’t have much sympathy for the woman and her situation. She was a witness or a suspect but nothing more than that.
15
The only one home when I got there was Frenchie the dog. He barked from the moment I walked in the door. It was a high-pitched, yapping sort of a bark that told me who my mother was and who my father was and how badly my butt stank. Accepting the abuse, I read the newspaper while sitting on the love seat in the no-man’s-land between the kitchen and the living room.
The police had opened fire on a Muslim mosque on Fifty-sixth and South Broadway. They rushed the building and found nineteen men sprawled on the blood-stained floor. No one was shot, the article said, but they were lacerated by flying glass.
The reason given for the attack was that a shot was fired from an upper floor of the building. But the real reason was in the adjacent article saying that twelve of fifteen thousand National Guardsmen had been pulled out of Los Angeles overnight. The police were afraid of losing their authority, so they responded with deadly force.
Nola’s death took on a new importance as I read the reports. I didn’t want the police killing our dark-skinned citizens any more than the deputy commissioner wanted to rekindle the riots. Gerald Jordan and I probably wouldn’t agree about what time the sun rose in the morning but we were together on wanting to find Little Scarlet’s killer.
Gemini 5 had lifted off by then and the Marines claimed to have killed 550 Vietcong guerrillas in a coordinated attack. Martin Luther King had been in Watts talking about the aftermath of the riots with Negro leaders, and astrophysicists were worried that an asteroid named Icarus would collide with Earth in three years’ time.
To some people that space rock would have come as a blessing from God. Something sent down to Earth to shake off the invisible chains and manacles holding down five people for every one that’s walking around free.
The school bus brought Feather home a few minutes shy of four and Bonnie came home only moments later. Those kids were less hers than mine but she loved them as much as two blood mothers. The fact that she was a few minutes late made her very unhappy. But Feather didn’t notice because she had me there. And she was a daddy’s girl from the word go.
Feather read to me from her textbook. It was a story about an old walrus who had to swim five thousand miles from somewhere in South America to Antarctica. Along the way the walrus saw all kinds of amazing things in the water and on the shore. He saw whales as big as islands and sea birds of every size and shape.
Feather started reading her lessons out loud because that’s what I had done with her brother when he dropped out of school. She loved Jesus more than anyone else in the world and patterned herself after him even though she was a much bette
r student.
After the reading we talked and after that we watched TV as a family. I had my hand on Bonnie’s thigh and my mind a little further up than that but our night of passion was not to be.
The phone rang at 8:30, half an hour after Feather had gone to bed and in the middle of the dishes. I thought it would be Juice telling us that he was staying with friends at the shore but it wasn’t.
“Easy,” Bonnie said after answering the line. “It’s Raymond.”
Taking the phone I said, “Hey, Mouse.”
“Hey, Easy. You callin’ for a discount?”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“I figure you musta heard that I’m in business and you callin’ in for some cut-rate prices.”
“What kinda business?”
“Sellin’,” he said impatiently.
“Sellin’ what?”
“You name it, Ease. I got everything from steaks to Smirnoff, from stuffed chairs to diamond rings.”
It made perfect sense that Mouse would have been a part of the black market that had to grow up out of the riots. He had already been in the business of moving merchandise stolen by people he knew who worked at various warehouses. A looting event like the riots would have presented itself as a golden opportunity. And Raymond Alexander wasn’t one to let an opportunity go to waste.
“I don’t want to buy anything, Ray.”
“Then why you callin’?”
“I need some help, man.”
“Help?”
“I’m lookin’ into this thing and I might need somebody to stand at my back.”
“Easy, I’m doin’ business here, brother. I can’t be runnin’ around like it was a party. I got to be at work.”
I smiled to myself. If Raymond were going out to rob a bank, he’d have EttaMae make him a sandwich for lunch on the run.
“That’s okay, man. You all right?”
“I got money comin’ outta my pockets, they so full.”
“Okay. I’ll call you later.”
“Hold up, Ease.”
“What?”
“You in trouble?”
“Naw. Don’t worry. It’s just somethin’ I’m lookin’ into.”
Little Scarlet er-9 Page 7
