“Is there any other way I can see these issues?”
“They’re also online. Let’s go look.”
Together they got behind a terminal and searched for the desired issues.
The situation was the same. The online issues, too, were missing.
“This is freaky,” the librarian said. She suggested that Karissa try some other libraries. Karissa thanked her and left. A disturbing development, she thought.
She decided to drive back to the east side via the 10 and entered downtown to visit the Los Angeles Public Library on 5th Street. But after checking the catalog, she found that there was only online access with ProQuest, the same service used by UCLA. They would be the same files. Just to make sure she wasn’t going mad, Karissa searched for the missing issues and, sure enough, they weren’t there.
Somehow, someone had erased articles from 1952 about Hank Marley.
The library closed at five on Sunday, so Karissa stopped in Little Tokyo downtown for dinner at Kura Revolving Sushi, a restaurant where various plates of nigiri moved on a conveyor belt by one’s seat and she could pick whatever she wanted and pay by the plate. Karissa sat at the bar, so as not to take up a full table, and found herself next to a Caucasian man around her age, dressed as if he had just come from the beach.
During the meal, she noticed that he kept glancing at her. Finally, after he had paid his bill and was ready to leave, he got up the nerve to say, “Excuse me, I was just curious, are you, what, Middle Eastern?”
Oh, no, here we go again, Karissa thought.
“No, I’m not.”
“Oh, sorry. You’re mixed, aren’t you, what, part black and part white?”
“I’m biracial, yes.”
“That’s interesting. Well, I think you’re gorgeous. Very exotic looking, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
“Actually, I do.”
“It was a compliment.”
“Not really.”
“Oh. Well, sorry.” He got up.
“You want to touch my hair, too?” she asked.
With that, he turned and started to leave, but then swirled around to face her again. “You know, I was going to offer to buy your dinner and see if you’d like to have coffee when you were done, but now I won’t.”
“My loss, then. Have a good evening.”
“Bitch,” he said, and left the restaurant.
Karissa sighed heavily, took a moment to breathe, and finished her meal.
It was dusk when she pulled into her driveway in West Adams Heights. Instead of entering through the garage entrance into the house, she walked around to the front yard to pick up the newspaper she had neglected to retrieve that morning. She looked up at the porch and saw pieces of mail sticking out of the slot in the door, stuck.
As she went up the steps to the porch, she suddenly had a sensation that she was being watched. Karissa turned to look out to the street and saw a black SUV sitting at the curb across the road. It was now too dark to discern clearly what the make and model was, but she didn’t know brands of cars by sight anyway. What concerned her more was the silhouette of a man who was sitting in the passenger seat. The orange dot of an ember at the end of a cigarette glowed against the shadow. His hand moved the cigarette and flicked the ashes to the asphalt through the open window.
He was watching her.
She dug her cell phone out of her purse. Karissa was ready to dial 911, but she stopped and asked herself if she was overreacting. The man could be waiting for someone. He could be totally harmless, and perhaps he wasn’t actively watching her. He’d probably only just spotted her crossing the yard. But after the incident at the restaurant and the creepy guy at the World Stage the other night, Karissa felt justified in her paranoia. She went ahead and dialed the numbers. She was put on hold, of course, and she unlocked the front door and entered the house from the porch. After locking the door behind her, she walked through the foyer to the kitchen and made sure the door to the garage was locked.
When the dispatcher finally came on the phone, she reported that a suspicious person was sitting in his car in front of her house. She was told a patrol car would swing by in a few minutes.
Karissa hung up, went to the front of the house, and looked out a window.
The SUV was gone. Now she would appear foolish to the cops who showed up.
Her phone rang, startling her. The caller ID indicated it was Marcello.
“Hey,” she answered.
“Hello there. Did you have a productive day?”
“Just uncovered more mysteries. How about you?”
“Well, I just got some bad news. Ray Webster died today.”
“Oh, no.”
“Yeah. Butch told me. Apparently, that cardiac incident the other day was pretty serious.”
“Oh, gee, I’m sorry to hear that. We need to redouble our efforts to find his son. Does Butch know how to reach him?”
“I asked,” Marcello said. “He had a number for him, but it’s no longer good.”
“Sounds like Gregory Webster doesn’t want to be found,” Karissa said. “What’s that about?”
“Who knows. Anyway, Ray’s funeral is in a few days. Gregory will probably be there, don’t you think?”
“Can we go?”
“I don’t see why not if it’s a public funeral. I’ll find out from Butch.”
Karissa tossed and turned and slept fitfully, but she awoke with a start at 3:05 a.m. She got out of bed, went to the bathroom, and splashed cold water on her sweating face. It had been a nightmare that, of course, she couldn’t recall much of now. She remembered the emotions in it, though—an urgent need to hide from something or someone that was looking for her. Her parents were both present in the dream, but they couldn’t help her. It was a recurring dream that Karissa always had whenever she felt stressed or worried.
Karissa had never known her real parents. Her adoptive parents, a white couple, were warm, God-fearing souls who had given her a wonderful upbringing. She was an only child in the household, although there was once a time when they had considered adopting another. It never happened. Karissa had a sudden desire to phone her parents in Sacramento—but that, too, was out of the question. Her father, Thomas Glover, had died of a freak heart condition when Karissa was in her thirties. Her mother, Belinda Glover, had succumbed to breast cancer only six years ago. Sometimes it saddened her that she had no real family left.
Although she had asked on several occasions what they knew about her birth parents, the answer was always a big zero. The adoption agency had told them Karissa was an orphan. She had been left at the doorstep one morning, a toddler secured by a belt in a basket, accompanied only by her Julia rag doll and a note that said she was eighteen months old and that her parents had been killed. An accident? No one knew.
Karissa had no memory of those earlier years. She had assumed a traumatic event at that age could be somewhat recalled, but according to a therapist she had seen during college, it was entirely possible that her brain had blocked it out. Karissa chose not to be hypnotized, which may or may not have induced some memories. The problem was a mind that young simply didn’t have the maturity to understand the incident and put it into a cohesive narrative.
Julia was the only link Karissa had to those early times. The rag doll that now sat on Blair’s dresser was the single memento from her short life with her real parents. She’d taken good care of it throughout the years, periodically repairing any tears in the fabric and cleaning the dress that bore the stitched name Julia.
Unable to sleep, Karissa picked up the doll and went downstairs, poured a small glass of red wine for herself, and sat in the parlor with Julia, the ghost of Blair Kendrick, and other phantoms of the past.
17
THE MOVIE
The next montage, scored by dramatic orchestral rearrangements of the main theme, reveals Blair receiving a phone call at the studio, becoming alarmed, and rushing out to her car. She drives recklessly through the dark Hollywood
streets until she reaches Sugar Hill. Ray and Loretta Webster greet her at their house.
“I had just finished shooting some nights scenes, and we’d wrapped for the day when I got the call from Ray. Hank was hurt. He was hurt bad. I had to get to him. My love … my love …! What did they do to you? Oh my God …!”
The Websters take her into Hank’s bedroom and Blair stifles a scream. She then indicates that she will take over and thanks them.
Blair returned to Hank’s bedroom, carrying the bowl of ice and more cloths. Earlier, she had tried to convince him to go to the hospital, but he stubbornly refused. He was convinced nothing was broken.
“You could have internal injuries,” she said as she sat on the bed next to him. “They kicked you in the stomach. Hank, when you went to the bathroom, was there any blood?”
“No, I don’t think so,” he said weakly.
“Well, keep an eye out for that.” She wrapped some ice in a rag and gently massaged the red bruises on his face. “This will help the swelling go down. Does it help the pain?”
“Yes. I feel fine now.”
“Ha. That whiskey I gave you is what you’re feeling. Hank, honey, you’re going to be sore for days. How are your hands? They didn’t hurt your piano-playing fingers, did they?”
“No, thank God. They spared me that horror.”
She wanted to cry. Blair hated to see him so battered. “And you sure you don’t know who they were?”
“Just white men. Probably from your studio.” He said it with venom in his voice.
That made her feel terrible. “They’re bastards, Hank. I bet Eldon Hirsch sent them. He must have gotten wind of us. Don’t you think?” Hank nodded. “In fact, I bet I know who it was. There’s this guy who works at the studio. His name is Buddy Franco. Did he have a crew cut, like he just got out of the army?” Hank nodded again. “Late thirties, maybe forty years old?” Again, the affirmative response. “That’s him. They say he’s a studio executive, but he’s really a fixer. He makes studio problems go away. That’s his job.”
She leaned over and opened the nightstand drawer. The revolver was still there. “Maybe you should carry this around with you to your gigs,” she said.
“Honey, if I did that and the police stopped me for any reason at all and found that, I’d go to prison for life. Hell, they might just go on and shoot me, no questions asked.”
She picked up the gun and held it in her hand, pointing it at the far wall. “I’m getting pretty good at hitting the targets, aren’t I?”
“Yes, you are. You’re a regular Annie Oakley.”
Blair laughed and put the gun back in the drawer. “Well, keep the thing handy here. You have a right to defend yourself.”
Hank cleared his throat and spoke. “Baby, we have to … we have to stop this.”
“What?”
He opened his eyes a little wider, despite the puffy, purpling flesh around them. “If we don’t stop seeing each other, they’ll be back. Honey, I … I don’t care what they do to me; it’s you I’m concerned about. They will ruin your career. I knew a fella once. This was back in Missouri. He and a white girl got together only one time. He was lynched by a mob, and she was killed by her own father.”
“That was Missouri. This is California, Hank. That’s not going to happen here. Not in 1948.”
“They gonna hurt you other ways.”
She laid her head on his chest. “Oh, Hank, I can’t bear the thought of not seeing you anymore, but I don’t think I could take seeing you hurt again, either. If it means keeping you out of harm’s way, then … then we just have to be more careful. We can’t be seen in public. We have to just see each other at our homes. The way we started out. We got too careless and too cocky, going out together where we could be spotted.” She raised her head and looked him in the eye. “I believe these crazy laws keeping apart people who love each other are going to change soon. If we can just hold out. That case is going to the California courts this fall.”
“They won’t win. The racism in this country runs too deep.”
“Hank, I’ll say it again. This is 1948. It’s time that we get rid of racism once and for all!”
Hank started to laugh in a soft, hoarse whisper, which caused him to cough.
“Take it easy, Hank. Here, have some water.” She handed him a glass that was on the nightstand.
“Baby,” he managed to say after taking a sip, “I told you before and I’ll tell you again. You’re naive. Racism’s not going away that easily. I think we’re going to have racism in this country for a long, long time. Probably forever.”
She held him by the upper arms, leaned in close to his face, and kissed him a few times around the sore spots. “So, what are you saying? Do you think we should stop seeing each other?” she asked softly.
“Yes, I do. For your protection.”
“I don’t care what the damned studio does to me. Fame is fleeting. If we do it, it’s for your protection. I’m not going to let them hurt you again. Oh, but Hank, it will be horrible without you.”
“I think we should try, baby.”
“Maybe you’re right.” Her eyes welled. “This is all my fault.”
“Don’t be silly.”
“Ray and Loretta probably blame me for what happened.”
“They don’t. Ray and Loretta like you a lot, and they respect how I feel about you. Get it out of your head that it’s anybody’s fault.”
She stood and paced the floor. “Oh, how I hate that creep Eldon Hirsch! All he wants is to get into my pants. That’s why he’s doing this. He’s jealous.”
“It’s in your contract, Blair. The morals clause.”
“I know, I know. But lots of stars get away with stuff they’re not supposed to do. This is all about his precious ego. I hate him. I hate him and his stupid office. I hope he loses that coin collection he loves so much. That would hit him where it hurts.”
18
KARISSA
Ray Webster’s funeral was held at Spalding Mortuary on S. La Brea Avenue, a little over three miles from West Adams Heights. Marcello picked Karissa up in his red Corvette, and they rode together to the service, which was to take place at 10:30 in the morning. Marcello had checked with Butch, and the occasion was open to the public.
They parked in the small lot on S. Mansfield Avenue, a smaller street that diagonally intersected with La Brea where the funeral parlor stood.
“I hate funerals,” Marcello quietly said as they got out of the car. “Really hate them.”
They walked around to the front of the lightly tan-and-white structure and joined a few others who were just arriving as well. Karissa and Marcello followed them inside and signed the guest book that was on a podium by the chapel doors.
It wasn’t large, but it was a sufficiently comfortable sanctuary with two rows of pews, the ever-present gold cross on the wall at the front, and the open casket on display at the end of the aisle. The room had a bright, orange glow to it, due to the color of the wood paneling on the ceiling. Soft, recorded organ music consisting of hymns piped in through speakers.
Ray Webster lay peacefully inside the casket, dressed in a simple suit, his hands crossed over his chest.
Roughly twenty people were in attendance, all black. Marcello spotted Butch and the other members of his band—Hero, Carl, and Zach. They greeted each other and sat together in the same pew.
“I don’t see Gregory Webster—do you?” Karissa whispered to Marcello.
“Nuh-uh.”
Then, as if on cue, the family entered, which consisted of Gregory and a woman, presumably his wife, who appeared to be around the same age as her husband. She wore a black dress and he was in a dark suit. Another man, probably in his late forties or early fifties, walked on the opposite side of the woman with his arm around her. The trio solemnly made their way down the aisle to the front and sat in the first pew.
The service, led by a black minister in robes, moved relatively quickly. The minister led the mour
ners in a hymn, which was accompanied by an elderly woman at a piano behind the pulpit. She had silver-white hair and appeared to be as old as Ray Webster had been. Her playing was tentatively competent, and Karissa got the impression that she might have once been a decent pianist in her day.
The minister then delivered a short but respectful eulogy that highlighted how Webster had been a “good soul,” was a pillar of the community, and at one time was an admired musician. The minister acknowledged Ray’s son, Gregory, his wife Carol, and their son, William, who had flown in from New York. He also mentioned a great-niece—a Ms. Brantley—who was unable to attend the funeral but had sent some words of remembrance to be read aloud.
The whole thing was over in fifteen minutes. Instructions were given regarding interment at Angelus Rosedale Cemetery, which happened to be in West Adams Heights just north of I-10, not far from Karissa’s home.
“We’re not going to the cemetery, are we?” Marcello whispered to her.
She shook her head. “Not if I can get a word with Gregory.”
The three Websters got up and walked up the aisle to the exit before the rest of the attendees were dismissed. They stood together at the outer doors of the funeral home, shaking hands and greeting the visitors as they left. Karissa and Marcello bid the musicians goodbye and took their positions in line. Karissa overheard a woman ask if there was a repast being held anywhere, but the couple shook their heads.
When Karissa and Marcello stepped up, Gregory’s eyes widened. The same look he had given Karissa at the Vernon Healthcare Center came over his face.
“My condolences, Mr. Webster, Mrs. Webster,” Karissa said. Marcello repeated the same words, shaking Gregory’s and William’s hands. Karissa continued, “You don’t know us, but my name is Karissa Glover, and this is Marcello Storm. We’re filmmakers, and we’d like to talk to you sometime about your father, and specifically the years in the 1940s when he played with a musician named Hank Marley.”
Gregory and Carol shared a look that exhibited what could only be described in Karissa’s mind as fear.
Then the man aggressively shook his head and whispered, “No, no, not here—go, go, I can’t talk to you.”
Blues in the Dark Page 12
