Cinnamon Kiss er-10

by Walter Mosley

  “The Clarks had to reschedule for Friday, sir. He’s had an emergency dental problem. He says that he’ll need to rest after that.”

  “Fine,” Haffernon said. “Call my wife and tell her that I will be coming to the opera after all.”

  “Yes sir,” the woman said. “Mr. Phillipo decided to leave the country. His company will settle.”

  “Good, Dina. I can’t be interrupted for anything except family.”

  “Yes sir.”

  She opened a door behind the three desks and Haffernon stepped in. In passing I caught the assistant’s eye and gave her a quick nod. She smiled at me and let her head drift to the side, letting me know that the counterculture had infiltrated every pore of the city.

  h a f f e r n o n h a d a b i g d e s k under a picture window but he took me into a corner where he had a rose-colored couch with a matching stuffed chair. He took the chair and waved me onto the sofa.

  “What is your business with me, Mr. Rawlins?” he asked.

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  I hesitated, relishing the fact that I had this man by the short hairs. I knew this because he had told Dina not to bother him for anything but the blood of blood. When powerful white men like that make time for you there’s something serious going on.

  “What problem did Axel Bowers come to you with?” I asked.

  “Who are you, Mr. Rawlins?”

  “Private detective from down in L.A.,” I said, feeling somehow like a fraud but knowing I was not.

  “And what do Axel’s . . . problems, as you call them, have to do with your client?”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I’m looking for Axel and your name popped up. Have you seen Mr. Bowers lately?”

  “Who are you working for?”

  “Confidential,” I said with the apology in my face.

  “You walk in here, ask me about the son of one of my best friends and business associates, and refuse to tell me who wants to know?”

  “I’m looking for a woman named Philomena Cargill,” I said.

  “She’s a black woman, lover of your friend’s son. He’s gone. She’s gone. It came to my attention that you and he were in negotia-tions about something that had to do with his father. I figured that if he was off looking into that problem that you might know where he was. He, in turn, might know about Philomena.”

  Haffernon sat back in his chair and clasped his hands. His stare was a spectacle to behold. He had cornflower-blue eyes and black brows that arced like descending birds of prey.

  This was a white man whom other white men feared. He was wealthy and powerful. He was used to getting his way. Maybe if I hadn’t been fighting for my daughter’s life I would have felt the weight of that stare. But as it was I felt safe from any threat he could make. My greatest fear flowed in a little girl’s veins.

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  “You have no idea who you’re messing with,” he said, believing the threatening gaze had worked.

  “Do you know Philomena?” I asked.

  “What information do you have about me and Axel?”

  “All I know is that a hippie I met said that Axel has been spending time in Cairo. That same man said that Axel had asked you about his father and Egypt.”

  His right eye twitched. I was sure that there were Supreme Court justices who couldn’t have had that effect on Leonard Haffernon. I lost control of myself and smirked.

  “Who do you work for, Mr. Rawlins?” he asked again.

  “Are you a collector, Mr. Haffernon?”

  “What?”

  “That hippie told me that Axel collected Nazi memorabilia.

  Daggers, photographs. Do you collect anything like that?”

  Haffernon stood then.

  “Please leave.”

  I stood also. “Sure.”

  I sauntered toward the door not sure of why I was being so tough on this powerful white man. I had baited him out of instinct. I wondered if I was being a fool.

  o u t s i d e h i s o f f i c e I asked Dina for a pencil and paper.

  I wrote down my name and the phone of my motel and handed it to her. She looked up at me in wonder, a small smile on her lips.

  “I wish it was for you,” I said. “But give it to your boss. When he calms down he might want to give me a call.”

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  16

  Iate a very late lunch at a stand-up fried clam booth on Fish-erman’s Wharf. It was beautiful there. The smell of the ocean and the fish market reminded me of Galveston when I was a boy. At any other time in my life those few scraps of fried flour over chewy clam flesh would have been soothing. But I didn’t want to feel good until I knew that Feather was going to be okay. She and Jesus were all I had left.

  I went to a pay phone and made the collect call.

  Benny answered and accepted.

  “Hi, Mr. Rawlins,” she said, a little breathless.

  “Where’s Bonnie, Benita?”

  “She went out shoppin’ for a wheelchair to take Feather with.

  Me an’ Juice just hangin’ out here an’ makin’ sure Feather okay.

  She sleep. You want me to wake her up?”

  “No, honey. Let her sleep.”

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  “You wanna talk to Juice?”

  “You know, Benita, I really like you,” I said.

  “I like you too, Mr. Rawlins.”

  “And I know how messed up you were when Mouse did you like he did.”

  She didn’t say anything to that.

  “And I care very deeply about my children . . .” I let the words trail off.

  For a few moments there was silence on the line. And then in a whisper Benita Flag said, “I love ’im, Mr. Rawlins. I do. He’s just a boy, I know, but he better than any man I ever met. He sweet an’

  he know how to treat me. I didn’t mean to do nuthin’ wrong.”

  “That’s okay, girl,” I said. “I know what it is to fall.”

  “So you not mad?”

  “Let him down easy if you have to,” I said. “That’s all I can ask.”

  “Okay.”

  “And tell Feather I had to stay another day but that I will bring her back a big present because I had to be late.”

  We said our good-byes and I went to my car.

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  to the motel I picked up a couple of newspapers to keep my mind occupied.

  Vietnam was half of the newspaper. The army had ordered the evacuation of the Vietnamese city of Hue, where they were on the edge of revolt. Da Nang was threatening revolution and the Buddhists were demonstrating against Ky in Saigon.

  Jimmy Hoffa was on the truck manufacturers for the unions and some poor schnook in Detroit had been arrested for bank robbery when the tellers mistook his car for the robber’s getaway car. He was a white guy on crutches.

  I found that I couldn’t concentrate on the stories so I put the 1 0 4

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  paper down. I could feel the fear about Feather rising in my chest.

  In order to distract myself I tried to focus on Lee’s case. The man he wanted to talk to was dead. The papers the dead man had were gone — I had no idea where to. Cinnamon Cargill was probably dead also. Or maybe she was the killer. Maybe they were tripping together and he died, by accident, and she pressed him into the space below the brass elephant.

  I had the telephone numbers of an old folks’ home for rich people and a secretive man whose voice was effeminate, and I had a postcard.

  All in all that was a lot, but there was nothing I could do about it until the morning. That is unless Haffernon called. Haffernon knew about the trouble Axel was in. He might even have known about the young man’s death.

  I took out the Nazi Luger I’d stolen from the dead man’s treasure chest and placed it on the night table next to the bed.

  Then I sat back thinking about the few good ye
ars that I’d had with Bonnie and the kids. We had family picnics and long tearful nights helping the kids through the pain of growing up. But all of that was done. A specter had come over us and the life we’d known was gone.

  I tried to think about other things, other times. I tried to feel fear over the payroll robbery that Mouse wanted me to join in on. But all I could think about was the loss in my heart.

  At eleven o’clock I picked up the phone and dialed a number.

  “Hello?” she said.

  “Hi.”

  “Mr. Rawlins? Is that you?”

  “You’re a lawyer, right, Miss Aubec?”

  “You know I am. You were at my office this morning.”

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  “I know that’s what you said.”

  “I am a lawyer,” she said. There was no sleep in her voice or annoyance at my late-night call.

  “How does the law look on a man who commits a crime when he’s under great strain?”

  “That depends,” she said.

  “On what?”

  “Well . . . what is the crime?”

  “A bad one,” I said. “Armed robbery or maybe murder.”

  “Murder would be simpler,” she said. “You can murder someone in the heat of the moment, but a robbery is quite another thing. Unless the property you stole just fell into your lap the law would look upon it as a premeditated crime.”

  “Let’s say that it’s a man who’s about to lose everything, that if he didn’t rob that bank someone he loved might die.”

  “The courts are not all that sympathetic when it comes to crimes against property,” Cynthia said. “But you might have a case.”

  “In what situation?”

  “Well,” she said. “Your level of legal representation means a lot. A court-appointed attorney won’t do very much for you.”

  I already knew about the courts and their leanings toward the rich, but her honesty still was a comfort.

  “Then of course there’s race,” she said.

  “Black man’s not gonna get an even break, huh?”

  “No. Not really.”

  “I didn’t think so,” I said. And yet somehow hearing it said out loud made me feel better. “How does a young white girl like you know all this stuff?”

  “I’ve sent my share of innocent men to prison,” she said. “I worked in the prosecutor’s office before going into business with Axel.”

  “I guess you got to be a sinner to know a sin when you see it.”

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  “Why don’t you come over,” she suggested.

  “I wouldn’t be very good company.”

  “I don’t care,” she said. “You sound lonely. I’m here alone, wide awake.”

  “You know a man named Haffernon?” I asked then.

  “He was Axel’s father’s business partner. The families have been friends since the eighteen hundreds.”

  “Was?”

  “Axel’s father died eighteen months ago.”

  “What do you think of Haffernon?”

  “Leonard? He was born with a silver spoon up his ass. Always wears a suit, even when he’s at the beach, and the only time he ever laughs is when he’s with old school friends from Yale. I can’t stand him.”

  “What did Axel think of him?”

  “Did?”

  “Yeah,” I said coolly even though I could feel the sweat spread over my forehead. “Before today, right?”

  “Axel has a thing about his family,” Cynthia said, her voice clear and trusting still. “He thinks that they’re all like enlight-ened royalty. They did put money into our little law office.”

  “But Haffernon’s not family,” I said. “He didn’t put any money into your office did he?”

  “No.”

  “No what?”

  “He didn’t give us any money. He doesn’t have much sympathy for poor people. He’s not related to Axel either — by blood anyway.

  But the families are so close that Axel treats him like an uncle.”

  “I see.” Calm was returning to my breath and the sweat had subsided.

  “So?” Cynthia Aubec asked.

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  “So what?”

  “Are you coming over?”

  I felt the question as if it were a fist in my gut.

  “Really, Cynthia, I don’t think it’s a good idea for me tonight.”

  “I understand. I’m not your type, right?”

  “Honey, you’re the type. A figure like you got on you belongs in the art museum and up on the movie screen. It’s not that I don’t want to come, it’s just a bad time for me.”

  “So who is this man who might commit a crime under pressure?” she asked, switching tack as easily as Jesus would the single sail of his homemade boat.

  “Friend’a mine. A guy who’s got a lot on his mind.”

  “Maybe he needs a vacation,” Cynthia suggested. “Time away with a girl. Maybe on a beach.”

  “Yeah. In a few months that would be great.”

  “I’ll be here.”

  “You don’t even know my friend,” I said.

  “Would I like him?”

  “How would I know what you’d like?”

  “From talking to me do you think I’d like him?”

  That got me to laugh.

  “What’s so funny?” Cynthia asked.

  “You.”

  “Come over.”

  I began to think that it might be a good idea. It was late and there was nothing to hold me back.

  There came a knock at the door. A loud knock.

  “What’s that?” Cynthia asked.

  “Somebody at the door,” I said, reaching for the German auto-matic.

  “Who?”

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  “I gotta call you back, Cindy,” I said, making the contraction on her name naturally.

  “I live on Elm Street in Daly City,” she said and then she told me the numbers. “Come over anytime tonight.”

  There was another knock.

  “I’ll call,” I said and then I hung up.

  “Who is it?” I shouted at the door.

  “The Fuller Brush man,” a sensual voice replied.

  I opened the door and there stood Maya Adamant wrapped in a fake white fur coat.

  “Come on in,” I said.

  I had made all the connections before the door was closed.

  “So the Nazis brought you out of Mr. Lee’s den.”

  She moved to the bed, then turned to regard me. The way she sat down could not have been learned in finishing school.

  “Haffernon called Lee,” she said. “He was very upset and now Lee is too. I was out on a date when he called my answering service and they called the club. You’re supposed to be in Los Angeles looking for Miss Cargill.”

  I perched on the edge of the loungelike orange chair that came with my room. I couldn’t help leering. Maya’s coat opened a bit, exposing her short skirt and long legs. My talk with Cynthia had prepared me to appreciate a sight like that.

  “There was no reason for me to think that Philomena had left the Bay Area,” I said. “And even if she did she needn’t have gone down south. There’s Portland and Seattle. Hell, she could be in Mexico City.”

  “We didn’t ask you about Mexico City.”

  “If you know where she is why do you need me?” I asked.

  I forced my eyes up to hers. She smiled, appreciating my will power with a little pout.

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  “What is this about Nazi memorabilia?” she asked.

  “I met a guy who told me that Axel collected the stuff. I just figured that Haffernon might know about it.”

  “So you’ve guessed that Leonard Haffernon is our client?”

  “I don’t guess, Miss Adamant. I just ask questions and go where they lead me
.”

  “Who have you been talking to?” Her nostrils flared.

  “Hippies.”

  She sighed and shifted on the bed. “Have you found Philomena?”

  “Not yet,” I said. “She left her apartment in an awful hurry though. I doubt she took a change of underwear.”

  “It would have been nice to meet you under other circumstances, Mr. Rawlins.”

  “You’re right about that.”

  She stood up and smiled at my gaze.

  “Are you ready to go back to L.A.?”

  “First thing in the morning.”

  “Good.”

  She walked out the door. I watched her move on the stairs. It was a pleasurable sight.

  There was a car waiting for her on the street. She got into the passenger’s side. I wondered who her companion was as the dark sedan glided off.

  i w e n t t o b e d consciously not calling Bonnie or Cynthia or Maya. I pulled up the covers to my chin and stared at the window until the dawn light illuminated the dirty glass.

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  17

  That morning I headed out toward the San Francisco airport. Just at the mouth of the freeway on-ramp, with the entire sky at their backs, two young hippies stood with their thumbs out. I pulled to the side of the road and cranked down the window.

  “Hey man,” a sixteen- or seventeen-year-old red-bearded youth said with a grin. “Where you headed?”

  “Airport.”

  “Could you take us that far?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Hop in.”

  The boy got in the front seat and the girl, younger than he was, a very blond slip of a thing, got in the back with their backpacks.

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  than Feather. Just a child and here she was on the road with her man. I couldn’t pass them by.

  When I drove up the on-ramp a blue Chevy honked at me and then sped past. I didn’t think that I’d cut him off so I figured he was making a statement about drivers who picked up hitch-hikers.

  “Thanks, man,” the hippie boy said. “We been out there for an hour an’ all the straights just passed us by.”

  “Where you headed?” I asked.

  “Shasta,” the girl said. She leaned up against the seat between me and her boyfriend. I could see her grinning into my eyes through the rearview mirror.