A Little Yellow Dog er-5

by Walter Mosley

  After leaving the home of the Coke family in his late teens Conrad had become a butler. His wife, Irene, was an Italian cook. Conrad only worked until his middle years, when chronic weakness and a mild confusion set in. Early on, Simona’s mother died, leaving her daughter and slightly doddering husband to fend for themselves in the San Fernando Valley.

  Their house was small but impeccably well kept. The mums and honeysuckle made me jealous. The oranges were the pride of their race.

  “Hello,” Mr. Eng said. He’d come to the door in a full butler’s tux with vest and bow tie. He was two inches taller than I but a full forty pounds lighter. He wavered a little on his feet, reminding me of a reed or a tall stalk of wheat.

  “Mr. Eng?”

  “Yes,” he said through a bright smile. The question in his eyes found no words.

  “Is Simona in, sir? My name is Mr. Rawlins. We work together.”

  “She’s very sad today,” he confided in me. “You know children shouldn’t stay in. Old people have to stay out of the sun. But children need it.” His smile was wonderful.

  “May I see Simona?”

  “Just a moment,” he said. He turned and wandered into the small house.

  He left the door open and I came in. I wasn’t spying on Simona but if I happened to see something you couldn’t blame me for that.

  All that I saw was beauty. The pale violet walls and sunny green-and-yellow carpets. The furniture was constructed from cherry. There was silver and glass here and there and light coming from every window. Passing a framed mirror on the wall I saw my own smiling face.

  “Mr. Rawlins.” Her voice broke the smile.

  I turned and said, “Hey, Simona. How are you?”

  She was wearing a gray sweatshirt with tight exercise pants and red tennis shoes.

  “What are you doing here?” Her father had kept all of the manners to himself.

  “The police came to see me this morning.” I decided to keep the lie in place, not knowing whether Jorge had called or not.

  “About the killing?”

  “About you.”

  Simona looked around to see if her father was anywhere near. “Can we go outside, Mr. Rawlins?”

  “Sure.”

  We cut across the front lawn to an old wooden gate that had a doorway but no door. Ivylike vines made a roof for the corridor that led toward the back of the low house.

  The yard was a large plot. It was surrounded by three high walls from the neighbors but was still sunny. The lawn bulged toward the middle; a fake well built from weathered pine was placed at the highest point. Simona sat on the grass near the well and motioned for me to join her.

  “Nice place,” I said.

  “My dad works around the house all day,” she said. “He likes … doing things more than talking or looking at the TV.”

  “Did he decorate from memory?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “From China?”

  “I don’t know really,” she answered, a little perplexed. “He left before he was five. He always says that he doesn’t remember anything, but then …” She looked around her.

  I yanked a blade of grass from the lawn.

  “What did they say?” she asked. “The police, I mean.”

  “That they thought you knew more about that man they found than you said.”

  “Why?”

  “They didn’t say,” I said. “You know that cop Sanchez has a hard eye.”

  Simona shivered and nodded. “I know, but … I don’t see what he could want with me.”

  “You don’t have to lie to me, Simona. I already told Jorge that the cops had been asking about you. He told me that you knew that man,” I said. “I told him that I didn’t think you had anything to do with anything anywhere near somebody gettin’ killed. I don’t, but I figured I better come out here and warn you about what they were saying.”

  Simona was biting her lip. She shifted her position and I noticed how shapely her legs looked in those close-fitting pants.

  She noticed me noticing and shifted into a more modest pose.

  “You’re right, Mr. Rawlins,” she said. Maybe it was just to get my eyes back on her face. “I wouldn’t be involved. I hadn’t seen Roman in over a year.”

  “Roman?”

  “That was his name. He was Mrs. Turner’s brother-in-law.”

  “So you really knew him?” I was amazed that a young coed, from this manicured little house, would actually lie to the police.

  “He came to one of these parties that Mrs. Turner used to give—more like teas, actually.”

  “Who would go to those parties?” I asked. “I mean, were there other people from the school there?”

  “Mr. Langdon went,” she said and then she frowned. “Miss Charford and Miss Hollings too—Mr. Preston came once. She used to have them every six weeks or so, but that was a long time ago.”

  “How come she stopped?”

  Simona let the lids of her eyes get heavy, so they almost closed—that was her way of getting dramatic.

  “It was after Roman came,” she said. “Idabell’s husband brought him to that first tea but pretty soon Roman was having parties of his own. Holland didn’t want to have the teas anymore, he wanted to go to Roman’s parties.”

  “I guess Roman didn’t have finger sandwiches, huh?”

  “No,” she said softly. “They would smoke marijuana sometimes. I mean, I never did, I only had some wine, but some of them would. And Roman … well, Roman …”

  “How well did you know him?” It was the right question at the right moment.

  “He spoke French,” she said as if that should have explained everything. “He was very sweet. At least he was at first. But then, when I couldn’t help him, he just dropped me. If it wasn’t for Jorge I don’t know what I would have done. I couldn’t eat or work …”

  “What did he want?” I heard my voice. It was softer than chamois cloth.

  “Huh?”

  “Roman. What did he want from you?”

  “I don’t know. He liked it that I spoke French. At first I thought he was lonely for that. His parents spoke French in the house when he was a boy. But then he wanted me to go to Paris with him. He said that I could study at the Sorbonne. I told him that I couldn’t go. He said that if I wanted to be a teacher it would help a lot if I studied in Europe. But I told him that I couldn’t leave my father alone for even a week. And that we needed my salary.”

  “So what’d he say to that?”

  “He said that he’d come up with the money I needed. That scared me and I said no. We went out a few times after that but then he just never called again.”

  “Where did Roman have his parties?” I asked.

  That was one question too many. Simona looked into my eyes wondering if I might not have a reason for being out there; a reason of my own.

  “I don’t remember,” she said. “I never drove. Different places, you know.”

  A large jay landed on the ground near us. She cocked her head in our direction and then proceeded to gouge an earthworm from the lawn.

  “Can I get you something, Mr. Rawlins?” Simona asked.

  I could see her father, in his butler’s suit, standing inside the back door of the house. He was watching us. Suddenly I got the impression that the simple-headed old man had an antique pistol in his pocket. All I had to do was grab Simona trying to make her tell me where the parties were held. I’d grab her and he’d squeeze off a lucky shot that would lodge in my brain. It would be ruled self-defense; a father saving his daughter from rape out by the old fake well.

  “When will you be coming back in to work?” I asked.

  “Tomorrow,” she said. “Mr. Rawlins?”

  “Yeah.” I stood up.

  “Do you think that the police knew that I was at those pot parties?”

  “No. But if there were other teachers from the school around there, then you better tell the sergeant that you were there. Tell him that you were in sh
ock when you saw your old boyfriend and that you couldn’t bring yourself to say that you knew’im. Sanchez won’t like it but in the long run it’ll be better for you.”

  “You really think so?” the young woman asked.

  “Uh-huh. And, Simona?”

  “Yes, Mr. Rawlins?”

  “The cops’d be mad if they knew I came down here to warn you. Maybe you shouldn’t mention it.”

  She looked at me and nodded. But who knew what she thought?

  CHAPTER 15

  I’M A BOOK READER. There’s always a book on my night-stand; sometimes more than one. At that time I was reading Dr. No by Ian Fleming and The Earth by Emile Zola.

  I love literature but the phone book was still my favorite reading. It was the ledger of my world. Holland and Roman Gasteau were right next to each other in the G’s. They were born one after the other, in school they were seated in the same row. Their mother probably dressed them the same and they died on the same day.

  Roman lived in an apartment building down on La Brea, not too far from my house. I drove by in the late afternoon. It was a great block of a building with two police cars parked out front. I even saw the back of Sanchez’s head in the open arcade that led to the atrium.

  I drove on, trying to think of a way into Roman’s life.

  Jesus and Feather weren’t at the house when I got there. Usually he’d go to her school after practice and bring her home. Sometimes I’d pick her up. Feather loved it when I came by the school. I liked meeting her. But I had to pass that day. I sat down and tried to think out the problem. Did Holland really threaten to kill Pharaoh? If he did, was that why his brother came to the school? Why did Idabell leave? And why lie about the dog?

  The dog?

  Where was that damned dog? I still planned to get rid of him. I had softened up a little, though. My new plan was to take him out to my old friend Primo. Primo would know somebody who wanted a dog.

  I got up and looked around the house. There was no sign of him anywhere except for a small gift he’d left on my slipper. It was a dry turd so I figured that he’d done it in the morning.

  He wasn’t in the yard. Or, if he had been, he’d slipped out through the bushes into the Horns’ property.

  I was about to go next door when it struck me—why was I looking for that damn dog? He didn’t know anything, and if he did know, and he could talk, he wouldn’t have told me. That dog hated me more than any other solitary being ever had.

  AN HOUR LATER I had a plan.

  Feather came running in the front door.

  “Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!”

  Pharaoh dashed in at her heels. He was yelping happily until he saw me. Then he crouched down and growled. Jesus walked in over him.

  “Hi, Dad,” my son said.

  “Where’d that dog come from?” I asked Feather. I could tell that my voice had a sharp edge because a scared look came over her face.

  “We left him over with Mr. Horn,” Jesus said. “He was crying so much this morning when we were leaving that Feather wanted to take him to school. But then I said that maybe Mr. Horn wouldn’t mind.”

  “That’s an awful lot to ask of your neighbor,” I said.

  “Uh-uh,” Feather whined. “Mr. Horn like Frenchie. He said so, huh, Juice?”

  Jesus nodded. He looked at me and then looked away. There was still that money in the box upstairs to talk about. But Jesus was too afraid to bring it up—so was I.

  I let them settle in. Pharaoh followed me around the house staying at the corners and watching my every move. That dog got under my skin.

  After a while I said to Jesus, “Take that ole wagon’a Feather’s and go on down to Mr. Hong’s shop. Get me a box of steaks. Two-pound porterhouse steaks. The aged stuff. Tell’im t’put’em on my bill.”

  Jesus nodded and went to get the wagon from the garage.

  “Honey,” I said to Feather.

  “Yeah?” She was watching Pharaoh watch me. “Frenchie like you, Daddy.”

  “Oh? Why you say that?”

  “ ’Cause he always wanna look at you.”

  That devil dog had everybody fooled but me.

  “Honey,” I said again.

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You know I would keep little heartache here if I could. But he belongs to somebody else who loves him even more than you do.”

  “I’ll feed him, Daddy. I’ll build him a house in the backyard.”

  “But honey, it’s not that. I know that you’d take care of him. But he’s not ours. Do you understand that?”

  “Yeah,” she said through pouting lips. “Can I go play now?”

  “Don’t you want to tell me what happened in school today?”

  “No. I wanna go play with Frenchie.”

  MR. HONG SENT a few bottles of barbecue sauce along with the steaks. He had no idea of how devious my mind was at that time.

  THE POLICE CARS were gone from in front of Roman Gasteau’s building by the time I returned. I took the white carton of steaks from the trunk of my car and went into the external entranceway through a corridor of coral-colored plaster. Once inside I went from door to door. The inner walls of the atrium were also coral. They shone from electric lights and doors that opened on evening TVs. There was talking and music and shows playing. In the courtyard children darted and screamed among the rubber plants and dwarf palms.

  My plan was simple. I was Brad Koogan, a name borrowed from a friend who died at the Battle of the Bulge. Brad was going from one apartment to another trying to sell two-pound porterhouse steaks for a dollar each. He got the steaks from a truck driver friend of his. My reasoning ran like this: If somebody thought that I stole those steaks but they were still willing to do business with me, then they might know something about Roman and the circles he ran in.

  Nobody answered the first door I knocked on. Maybe they weren’t home or maybe they got a peep of me and decided that I was bad news.

  The next door was answered by an elderly black woman in a red-and-black-checkered robe. Thick bifocals dangled from her neck on a fake pearl necklace. She was small and almost bald.

  “Yes, mistah?” Her nearly toothless smile was down-home friendly.

  I hesitated for a moment because she was so old and frail. But the street is a wild place and compassion there is more dear than gold. I had to ask myself was this woman worth that much to me.

  My answer went like this:

  “Hi. My name is Brad Koogan. I’m sellin’ porterhouse steaks, two pounds each at a dollar apiece.”

  “Hi. My name’s Celia,” she said. “But, Mr. Koogan, I ain’t tackled a steak in over ten years.”

  “Celia,” a man’s voice called from the back of the apartment.

  When he came into view I saw that he was the male version of her, checkered robe and all.

  “Celia,” he said again.

  “Yes, Carl,” she answered, slightly perturbed. “I hear ya.”

  “Who is it?” he asked, looking right at me.

  “Brad Koogan, sir,” I said. “I’m sellin’ steaks.”

  “I don’t buy my meat offa the street, mistah,” he said.

  He was gruff but I liked him anyway. Celia was smiling at her man. I lost heart then.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” I said. “I’ll move on.”

  “What’s your name again?” Celia asked.

  “Koogan,” I said. “Brad Koogan.”

  “We’re the Blanders,” she told me.

  It was an apology for her husband’s rude behavior. I thought that when I’d gone they’d spend a good two hours enjoying themselves arguing back and forth about how she shouldn’t have opened the door to a stranger and how he should learn to be more courteous to people.

  I steeled myself to be more ruthless from then on.

  The next few doors were closed politely in my face. I was happy to know that there were so many honest people in the world but at the same time it cut into my ability to exploit the situation. I knew that some of the peop
le who closed their doors would call the landlord and ask him to keep hustlers away from them and their kids. If he was a good landlord, like I hoped that I was, he would come down to see what was going on—or he would call the cops.

  I had no desire to talk to the police, so I hurried on my way.

  Cassandra Vincent wanted three steaks but she didn’t know anyone who lived in the apartment building.

  Butch Mayhew wanted me to give him a sampler before he’d agreed to buy. When I told him no he tried to convince me by saying, “I’ll buy all of ’em if the one I taste ain’t tough.”

  I wasn’t fooled by Butch. He’d try to get me to leave him a steak to taste. If I refused he’d offer to cook it up right then and there. At least he’d get a few bites in.

  “You wanna taste, huh?” I asked.

  “Yeah.” Butch had something wrong with his back. His chest jutted forward and his stomach hollowed back toward his spine as if someone were trying to tickle him. He wore a tattered T-shirt and striped boxer shorts.

  “You could leave me a small one and go on,” he said. “An’ when you come back around I’ll buy what you got left—if the one I et is tender.”

  “That’s okay,” I said. “I’ll cook it for ya. Just show me the stove an’ I’ll burn it right now.”

  Butch had a two-burner Phillips-Regent gas stove. It was so crusty and greasy I was surprised that the jet caught the flame from my match. I had to fry the steak because the oven was beyond repair.

  “Smells good,” Butch said as he inhaled fumes of burning flesh.

  “You live here long?” I asked.

  “’Bout six months. But I’ll be gone two weeks after the first.”

  “Eviction day?”

  Butch grinned and cocked his head.

  “Say,” I said. “Tell me, did Roman Gasteau live here?”

  “Still do. Or maybe so. I ain’t seen’im in a few days.”

  “You know’im?”

  “To say hi. Hey, hey, why’ont you flip it ovah, you know I likes my meat bloody.”