Mark the Sparrow

by Clark Howard

  “For your information,” the foreman yelled after him, “’Miliano didn’t tell nobody where he was going. We just want you to know we wouldn’t tell you nothin’ even if we did know!”

  * * *

  An hour later, Cloud was in downtown Los Angeles, in a bar on Hill Street, nursing his second martini. It was two o’clock; he had been in town barely five hours and already he had come to a complete dead end. The Luza family had disappeared. And it was obvious why. Everywhere Cloud had looked for them, he had found the stigma of what had happened to the girl. Everyone had instantly identified the family with the daughter’s tragedy. The shadow of their shame was long and dark.

  Cloud leaned his forearm on the bar and sipped at his drink. The second martini, on a stomach that had long since digested breakfast, was beginning to make him feel warm. And he was tired. It had been a long day, even if it was still early afternoon.

  He tried to think of other ways to trace the Luzas. The father, and probably the son Ramon, were more than likely employed somewhere in the vast, sprawling megalopolis of Los Angeles county. There was a good chance that the elder Luza still worked in the meat-packing business. Maybe there was a meat-packers’ union that had records he could check.

  The son, Cloud reasoned, would have had to register for the draft too; but whether draft records were available for scrutiny or not was something Cloud did not know. The only records he knew were open to public examination were marriage licenses, business licenses, and voter registrations. Business licenses would probably be a long shot, but the other two might be definite possibilities. The father, mother, and brother might have registered to vote in their new precinct, and brother Ramón might have taken out a marriage license. For that matter, Glory Ann herself could have married; she was past twenty now.

  He checked the Registrar of Voters first, in a building just north of the Civic Center. A large ground-floor room contained thick, heavy volumes stored row upon row above long, slanted reference ledges. The room, as Cloud had learned when he worked for the Ledger, was open to the public. When he got there, he went directly to the L section. Pulling the very last L volume down, he thumbed through to the back of it and began going down the list. Another dead end. Emiliano Luza had not registered to vote, nor had Josefa Luza, nor Glory Ann Luza. He did find three Ramón Luzas registered, but none of them was the right age.

  Cloud drove next to the Hall of Records in the Civic Center. Because the business-license section was closest, he checked there first. Eighteen county business licenses had been issued to people named Luza—but none of them had the given names Cloud sought.

  He went next to the marriage-license section. During the preceding two years, eight Luzas had been parties to marriage licenses issued in Los Angeles county. None of them had given names of Ramón or Glory Ann. Cloud even checked for the names Emiliano and Josefa, in case the parents might have divorced and remarried. Still nothing.

  He was about to leave the marriage-license section when a thought suddenly came to the surface of his mind—a thought that had emerged from time to time ever since the day he and Lew Lach had interviewed Whitman in the county-jail visiting room.

  “Married?”

  “Not any more.”

  “Where’s your ex?”

  Whitman had shaken his head. “Forget it.”

  Forget it. Cloud suspected Whitman wanted her kept under such deep cover because he was afraid that his former partner would threaten her in some way to keep Whitman from naming him. Perhaps had already threatened her; maybe that was why Whitman would not let Cloud look for him. Cloud fervently wished there was some way he could trace that former partner without Whitman knowing about it …

  Maybe there was a way. If he could find Whitman’s ex-wife—talk to her quietly, without publicity, without revealing her whereabouts to anyone—perhaps he could learn the identity of the man Whitman himself so adamantly refused to name. It was an outside chance—but so was nearly everything else they had done. Cloud felt his enthusiasm returning. He went back to the marriage-license bureau’s master card index and found a card dated nearly six years earlier, indicating that a marriage license had been issued to Weldon Carpenter Whitman and Carol Ann Carter. Cloud felt a slight surge of excitement at the sight of the card; locating it was the first thing he had accomplished that day. He copied down the date and number of the li cense, and took the information up to the records counter.

  “May I see the application for this license, please?”

  The clerk looked at the date. “That’ll be on microfilm,” she said, handing Cloud a records-request form. “Fill this out, please, and then have a seat in the microfilm room right through that door.”

  After five minutes, the counter clerk handed Cloud a reel of microfilm. “Take any available machine,” she said. “Instructions are on the card in each booth.”

  Cloud sat down in one of the viewing booths, threaded the film through the viewer, turned on the light, and adjusted the image on the screen. He moved the film forward until he reached the number he had copied down. And there it was: an application for a marriage license, one half of it filled out in a neat, feminine hand, the other in Weldon Whitman’s now-familiar writing.

  Cloud stared at the half of the form which had been filled out by Carol Ann Carter. He read it and re-read it, as if obligated to commit to memory its details: date of birth, place of birth, sex, race, religion, other now-inane facts. His eyes traced the neat, precise script of her handwriting: the penmanship was practiced, determined, exact. He knew without further thought that he was going to search for her.

  Cloud left the Civic Center and drove east on the San Bernardino Freeway toward Alhambra, a suburb seven miles northeast of Los Angeles, where Carol Carter had lived when she and Whitman applied for their license. As he drove, he lighted another cigarette and immediately felt acid begin to churn in his stomach. He promised himself that he would at least stop for a hamburger as soon as he had found out what leads the Alhambra address would produce.

  It was an old stucco house, long neglected. But to Robert Cloud, it might have been a palace, so buoyantly did it lift his spirits; for on a rusty, lidless mailbox, scribbled on a carelessly torn piece of paper held in place by an aged, yellowed strip of transparent tape, was the name Carter.

  There was no sound from within when he pushed the doorbell, so Cloud knocked gently on the glass pane in the door. When there was no answer he knocked again, a little louder. After his second knock, a curtain on the inside of the door was pulled back and a scowling middle-aged female face peered suspiciously at him.

  “Yeah, what do you want?”

  “Is Carol Carter in?” Cloud asked. The woman’s mouth dropped open in as much surprise as if Cloud had cursed at her. Almost angrily she let go of the curtain and snatched open the door.

  “Who are you?” she demanded with unconcealed suspicion.

  “My name is Robert Cloud,” he told her. “I’m a writer. I’m looking for Carol Carter in connection with a story I’m doing.”

  The woman’s eyes narrowed, showing dark lids and lower circles in a face that Cloud now saw was puffy and dough-colored. She clutched a soiled terrycloth robe together in front. “A story? On who?” she snorted. “That sex pervert she married?”

  “Partly on Weldon Whitman, yes. Are you Carol’s mother?”

  “I used to be,” the woman said loftily, “Before I disowned her.”

  “Mrs. Carter, do you suppose I could come in and talk to you for a few minutes?”

  “Not about Carol,” she said flatly. “I’m not going to talk about Carol. I already told you that I disowned her.”

  “About Weldon Whitman then. Will you talk about him?”

  “Sure. If I don’t have to say nothing good about him.”

  She let Cloud in. The living room of the house looked as if it had come out of the mind of Tennessee Williams: ancient lace doilies, a green frieze sofa and matching club chair, a round table with a tall lamp built in
to it, a lampshade with tassels hanging from its rim.

  Cloud sat in the club chair; he was at once engulfed by a musty, sour odor. “Mrs. Carter,” he began, “you sound like you really dislike Weldon Whitman. Would you mind telling me why?”

  Lowering her heavy body into a half-sprawl on the couch facing him, she gathered the terrycloth robe between her knees. “He’s a sex pervert and he stole my daughter from me.”

  “How did he steal her from you?”

  “He made her run away. He encouraged her to leave her own mother, her own flesh and blood. That’s why I disowned her. That’s why I won’t talk about her.”

  “Do you know where Carol is now, Mrs. Carter?”

  She shook her head wearily. “No. I couldn’t find her if my life depended on it.”

  “She doesn’t keep in touch with you at all?”

  Again the weary shake of the head. “No. Why should she? I told you I’ve disowned her. She knows it too.”

  “When was the last time you saw her?” Cloud asked.

  “Three years ago,” the woman said. Cloud noticed her lip tremble slightly when she said it.

  “Was she living with Weldon then?” he asked. He kept his voice controlled, but his mind was racing. Three years ago was a few months before the Spotlight Bandit crimes.

  “She couldn’t have been living with him,” Mrs. Carter said. “He was in prison.”

  Or just ready to get out, Cloud thought. “Do you have any idea where she might be working?”

  “Probably in some hamburger joint somewheres,” the old woman said. “All she’s ever done is wait tables or carhop. She don’t know nothing else. Didn’t finish her last year of high school even. Last time I heard, she was working as a counter girl in the Donald’s Drive-in up in South Pasadena. A lady friend of mind was visiting her sister up there one afternoon and they stopped in for a bite to eat. Carol was the one who waited on them. She was probably working to support that pervert she was married to.”

  “Why do you keep calling Whitman a pervert, Mrs. Carter? Is it because of what you’ve read about the Spotlight Bandit?”

  The old woman snorted. “I don’t have to read no newspaper to be able to call him a pervert. I’ve heard about things he done to girls right here in Alhambra, things he never got caught for because them and their families was too ashamed to file charges.”

  “What kind of things, Mrs. Carter?”

  “Just things,” she said indignantly. “I don’t want to talk about them. They happened after him and Carol had split up, though, so it’s no reflection on her, you hear?”

  “Sure.” Cloud nodded and rose to leave. “Do you know of any other place I can start looking for her besides Donald’s Drive-in?”

  “No. I wouldn’t even know that if it hadn’t been for my lady friend. Carol, she quit telling me things years ago. That’s another reason why I disowned her.”

  Cloud went to the door to let himself out. As he was about to go, the woman spoke to him again.

  “Mister—?”

  He paused and turned back.

  “If you do find her will you tell her something for me?”

  “Sure.”

  “Tell her that her mother is all alone,” she said in as agonized a voice as Cloud had ever heard. “Tell her she ought to come see me some time and not leave me to just—just …” Her voice trailed off to nothing. Across the room, Cloud could see wetness starting in her eyes.

  “I’ll tell her,” he said quietly.

  At Donald’s Drive-in in South Pasadena, the first thing Cloud did was to wolf down two big Donaldburgers and a chocolate shake, eating so fast that for a moment he felt slightly nauseated. It was now nearly five o’clock. When Cloud finished eating, he smoked a cigarette and then asked to see the manager. A cheerful little man with a cherubic face came over to the booth.

  “I’m the manager,” he said. “Barry Woodbury. What can I do for you?”

  “I’m looking for a girl that worked here about three years ago,” Cloud said. “Were you here then?”

  “Sure was.” The manager slid into the seat facing him.

  “The girl I’m trying to locate is Carol Carter. Do you remember her?”

  “Sure do. Great little gal. Real hustler when the counter got busy.”

  “She’s not still with you by any chance, is she?”

  “She may still be with the chain,” Woodbury said. “She transferred to another branch so she could be close to school.”

  “What school was that?”

  “I’m not real sure. It was one of those adult-education programs where you go nights to get a high-school diploma.”

  Cloud nodded. “Is there a main office you can call to find out if she’s still working for the chain?”

  “Yeah, I guess so,” the manager said, a little hesitantly now. “What are you trying to find her for, anyway?”

  “It’s kind of personal,” Cloud said, “but I’ll tell you since you’re going to all this trouble to help me. Carol used to be married, before she came to work here. The man she was married to may be dying. I want to get in touch with her about it.”

  “That’s too bad,” Woodbury said. “He must be a pretty young guy, too.”

  “Too young to die,” Cloud replied.

  “Yeah.” Woodbury stood up, looking slightly uncomfortable, “I’ll go make that call.”

  While he waited, Cloud looked out the window at the night’s slow traffic. It was dark now and cars were backed up at all four traffic signals. Cloud still had no place to stay for the night. He had picked up the rental car at the airport and started right out looking for Glory Ann Luza. His suitcase was still in the trunk. Wondering idly where he was going to sleep that night made him think, for some reason, of Laurel. Actually, Whitman’s mother-in-law reminded him of Laurel, he realized. He thought of the home Whitman’s wife had come from, the same kind of home Laurel had worked so hard to get away from. Now Laurel had a good job and apartment … He wondered if she still lived at the same place. Then he thought that it really made no difference whether she did or not, because it was Monday, and on Mondays and Thursdays she did counseling in the evening. For extra money. He grunted softly.

  Barry Woodbury returned to interrupt his thoughts. “I found out a couple of things for you,” he said. “First off, Carol’s not with the company anymore. When she left here, she transferred to our downtown L.A. location, on Olive near Eighth—”

  Cloud sighed softly. That was a block from the bar he had been sitting in at two o’clock that afternoon.

  “Like I said, she was going to night school somewhere down in that area to get her high-school diploma. When she finally got it, about six months later, she quit hustling hamburgers to get a better job.”

  “Did they know where?” Cloud asked.

  “Not for sure,” Woodbury said. “She didn’t tell anybody where she was going, but her personnel record shows that about a week later there was an inquiry from General Telephone out in Santa Monica. She was applying for a job in the accounting department there. And I guess she must’ve got it, because that was the only place that ever called for a reference.”

  “Sounds like a good lead,” Cloud said. “I appreciate the help.”

  Woodbury smiled a good-natured smile as Cloud got up to leave. “Well, if you find her, tell her Barry Woodbury said hello.”

  “I’ll do that,” Cloud said.

  Cloud went outside and took several breaths of the cooling South Pasadena air. He lighted another cigarette, curled his lips in distaste at the staleness of it, but chose not to throw it away. He got into the car and waited patiently to pull into the freeway-bound traffic. There was no sense in rushing; it was a good twenty miles to Santa Monica, and there was nothing he could do there except find a motel for the night and check out his lead in the morning.

  The General Telephone Company, he thought as he drove along in the crawling traffic. The accounting department yet. That made Carol Carter’s mother wrong about one t
hing: there apparently was something Carol could do besides wait tables or carhop.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Shortly after nine the following morning, Cloud walked into the main office building of General Telephone Company and spoke to the receptionist.

  “I’d like to see Miss Carol Carter, please,” he said, adopting a straightforward, businesslike attitude. “I believe she’s in accounting.”

  “May I have your name, please?” the girl asked. Cloud gave her his name. “And who are you with, sir?”

  “Donald’s Hamburger Drive-ins,” Cloud lied. He could think of nothing else to say in the face of the unexpected question.

  “Would you have a seat, please, Mr. Cloud, and I’ll call Miss Carter.”

  Cloud sat down on one end of a modern couch next to a large potted plant. He opened a fresh pack of cigarettes and lighted one. He was smoking far too much lately, and it was beginning to bother him. He invariably had a dry, stuffy taste in his mouth; his sinuses seemed to be enlarged to the point of difficult breathing half the time; and he was developing a periodic hacking cough. Nevertheless he sat there smoking until he heard a voice next to him.

  “Mr. Cloud?”

  He looked up at a young woman who had approached without his noticing. She was a small woman but not slight, with shoulders wider than a woman’s should be, and a waist too narrow for the shoulders. A soft slide of blonde hair, parted slightly off-center, fell to each side of her face. She had a broad, solemn mouth that should have been her least attractive feature, but somehow was not. There was about her an instantly recognizable reserve.

  “I’m Carol Carter,” she said. “The receptionist said you were from Donald’s Hamburgers—”

  Cloud stood up. “I’m not,” he said. “I found you through the Donald chain. The name just came out when she asked who I was with.”

  Carol Carter frowned. “I’m afraid I don’t understand—” “I work for the Weldon Whitman Foundation, Miss Carter,” he said quietly.

  “Oh, my God—” The color vanished from her face.

  “It’s a group that’s trying to help Weldon. I suppose you know he’s in San Quentin condemned to die?”