“Yeah, so, I’m going to head back to my apartment, grab a few things. Just thought I’d let you know.”
“Is it safe? You know, for you to go there?”
Eddie scratched his head. “Yeah, it’ll be fine. They probably think I skipped town already, or they got bored looking.”
“Okay.”
The way she was looking at him made him nervous.
“So, yeah, I’ll see you later, I guess?” he said. “You wanna go grab some food?”
She glanced away. “Yeah, maybe. I was going to look some more for my friend today. She liked art, was always drawing stuff. I was thinking I could ask around art galleries, see if people recognize her, maybe know where she lives. At least she liked it when I knew her …” A shadow of sadness swept across her face.
“Yeah, yeah, that sounds like a good idea. I could help you if you want? Or, maybe you wanna do that by yourself. I’m easy.” Christ, he could hear himself.
Dakota smiled. “Yeah, I’d like that. I’ll wait here for you. I guess you won’t be long?”
It surprised him. “I’ll be as fast as an L.A. cabbie can be persuaded to drive. It’s not far.”
He waved goodbye, that gorgeous smile imprinted in his mind, and stood by the road to wait for the cab.
In his Chevy, parked in the parking lot of the motel, Rufus watched a man knock on the door of the woman, named Dakota he reminded himself, who had been asking around about the girl killed with Bill. The man was slim with a shaved head and the walk of a two-bit thug used to looking over his shoulder. Rufus watched the woman, Dakota, smile at him. She had a look about her, at least half a nigger. Now she was shutting the door as the man walked away.
Rufus waited until the man got into a cab, then waited some more. Twenty minutes passed and no one else entered or left the woman’s motel room.
Rufus placed his Stetson on his head and exited the car. He walked toward the motel room and tried the door. Locked. He glanced behind and, seeing no one, knocked on the door.
“That was quick—” Dakota said as the door opened. She looked up at him, surprise cutting her off. Up close he saw she wasn’t half anything, but full Indian. Not very dark, though.
“Good morning, lady. I got some questions that need answering. I suggest you step aside and let me in so I don’t got to hurt that pretty li’l face o’ yours.”
She moved her mouth wordlessly.
“I won’t ask you again.”
Dakota blinked and stepped back into the room, looking dazed. Rufus went inside and shut the door.
“Sit down,” he said, extending an arm toward the bed, the duvet on top in a messy heap. The air was a little thick in here, and smelled of perfume.
The woman stood there, looking unsure. He saw now that she was young.
“I got no reason to hurt you if you answer my questions. I ain’t got many.”
“Okay,” Dakota said, talking now, easing herself into obedience.
“Sit down.”
She sat.
Rufus removed his hat and placed it on the little table at the end of the room. He pulled a chair out from under the table and fell into it with a sigh.
“I’m goin’ be straight with you. I don’t think you got the answers I’m looking for, but I may ’s’well ask.”
“I don’t think so either.”
“What you think I’m here to ask you ’bout?”
“I think you have the wrong person.”
“Is your name Dakota?”
Her eyes widened a little.
“You was at a strip club called the Pink Room yesterday, asking questions ’bout a girl worked there?”
Her eyes widened a little more.
“Now that we’re on the same page, I’m goin’ ask you why you was asking ’bout that girl, and you goin’ tell me. Ready?”
Dakota nodded.
“Why you asking ’bout that girl?”
“I’m trying to find her. I came here, to Los Angeles, to repair our relationship. I hoped she’d still be working there, at the club, but she’s not.”
“You know where she is?” He threw it out there and watched her face. Nothing.
“No, and I have no idea where to look.”
He saw she meant it.
“Is she … in trouble?” Dakota said.
She’ll never be in trouble again, he thought of saying. “Not with me.”
He could see she didn’t know what to make of that.
He said, “Three men came to the club, tried to take you out of there. That correct?”
“Take me out of there?”
“That’s what I said.”
“Two men came into the club. The third was already in there. They tried to take him out of there.”
“What you do, get in the way?”
“I made it difficult for them.”
“Why?”
She looked down at her feet. “Honestly, I don’t know.”
Rufus watched her. Was she lying to him?
“I need more than that,” he said.
“The guy was charming, I felt sorry for him. I don’t know what to tell you.”
“You didn’t know who he was?”
“I don’t know anyone here.”
Rufus thought about it. Whole thing was getting complicated. He remembered the man knocking on her door. “He the same man you spoke to outside that door twenty-five minutes ago?”
Dakota narrowed her eyes. “What the hell do you want with me?” Giving him attitude now.
“Answer the question.”
“Yeah, it’s him.”
That’s who he needed to speak to.
“You know why you Indians lost your land?” he said.
The shock in her eyes. She’d kept her face blank, but the eyes gave it all away. The eyes always gave it all away.
“It’s ’cause you’re dumb. Weak. We shoulda killed all of you when we had the chance. Now you people linger like the last remnants of a disease in your li’l corners of this great country.”
Rufus shook his head. “Look at me, gettin’ all political with a redskin. He say when he was coming back?”
Dakota said nothing, giving him a hard stare now.
He lifted his jacket, let her see one of the daggers. “I could get this into one of your nipples from here. Easy.”
“Soon. He said he’ll be back soon.” Her gaze fixed on the knife.
Rufus nodded and let go of his jacket. “That’s what I thought. Got any whiskey?”
Dakota frowned. “Why?”
“I like to drink while I wait,” Rufus said, and settled back into the chair.
Floyd had been sitting in his wife’s Toyota—the S.U.V. Eddie would have recognized—outside Eddie’s apartment all morning, thinking that only an idiot would be dumb enough to show up at their own apartment after running out on Saul Benedict, but, lo and behold, that idiot shows up. He watched Eddie shut the door of the cab he’d just popped out of and enter the apartment block, glancing over his shoulder. But the cab didn’t leave. Eddie must’ve told the driver to wait. Floyd would have to follow the cab.
Eddie came out soon after with a backpack over one shoulder, looking pretty pleased with himself. Yeah, probably feeling like James Bond right now. Not for long.
Eddie got in the cab and it pulled away. Floyd turned the key in the ignition and followed.
They’d been driving for about ten minutes when the cab took an exit off the 134 and soon after pulled into an ugly motel, a faded sign announcing it as the “Starlight.” Eddie got out and the cab took off, Eddie heading for one of the motel rooms. He knocked on the door and a woman opened it. Floyd couldn’t see her clearly but he’d bet his balls it was that bitch from the club. Eddie disappeared inside. The door remained open.
Floyd drove slowly into the lot and parked beside an attractive classic Impala. He picked up his cell and dialed Sawyer, the man probably at home already having given up on asking around hotels for his “mentally disturbed brother-in-l
aw” named Eddie who may have just checked in and who he needed to find right now thank you very much, there’s a man’s life at stake here.
“Yeah?” Sawyer said.
“I found him.”
“Where?”
“A motel called the Starlight, off the one thirty-four.”
“Knew he’d be too cheap for one these hotels.”
“You a genius.”
“So my mom tells me.”
“City’s quiet tonight, huh?”
“What you mean?”
“I ain’t hearing a damn thing in the background. City must be a fuckin’ ghost town tonight.”
A pause.
“Yeah, pretty quiet,” Sawyer said.
“Cut the shit and get out here.”
Floyd hung up.
He waited in the car for sixty seconds and grabbed his gun from the glove compartment. Fuck it, it’s just Eddie and some woman in there. How difficult could it be?
When Dakota let him into the room the very last thing Eddie had expected to see, perched on a chair at the back of the room like a laborer at rest, was a gigantic cowboy with cold eyes and a hard stare. He did a double take, glancing between Dakota and the cowboy. His first, irrational thought was that this man was Dakota’s lover and that Dakota had slowly been reeling Eddie in to some long con, but that didn’t make a shred of sense, so he said, “Am I missing something here?”
The cowboy laughed—a deep, humorless laugh. “Tell him why I’m here.”
Eddie looked at Dakota. She seemed resigned. “He wants to ask you some questions.”
Eddie looked at the cowboy, totally lost. The strap of his backpack pressed into his shoulder.
“Tell him what about,” the cowboy said.
Eddie kept looking at the cowboy this time.
“He wants to ask you about his brother,” Dakota said.
“Tell him why,” the cowboy said.
“He was murdered.”
Eddie’s heart nearly came up his neck. The man was the embodiment of Texas; he should have connected that right away. Eddie kept his gaze on the cowboy, hoping his expression hadn’t given much away.
“I don’t know anything about any murder,” he said, and eyed the small TV on the table. Could he smash it over the guy’s head faster than the guy could stop him? He couldn’t see any gun on him.
The cowboy looked about to say something but instead gazed at something behind Eddie, a look of surprise coming over him.
Eddie turned to find Floyd standing there staring back at him, looking more confused than any of them.
“Y’all ’bout to fuck or what?” Floyd said.
“I’m still trying to figure that out,” Eddie said.
“Swingin’ party’s over,” Floyd said to Eddie. “You need to come with me ’fore this whole thing gets outta control.”
“Who’s the nigger?” the cowboy said.
“Who you callin’ nigger you redneck motherfucker?”
“I’m callin’ you nigger, nigger.”
Floyd paused for a moment, his angered expression morphing into one of deep thought.
“My wife, she likes to read,” he said. “Got a subscription to National Geographic. Keeps them on the coffee table, right next to the remote. I don’t know what she likes about them ’cause they bore me to tears, but sometimes, when I’m flicking through the TV and there ain’t nothing on but ads and bullshit, I’ll pick one those magazines up, flick through it. Mostly I just look at the pictures.”
Floyd took a couple steps toward the cowboy, drawing level with Dakota, looking down at the man sitting in the chair.
“One time the new issue sitting on top of the pile was a special issue about the concept of race. Two li’l girls in white dresses looked up at me on the cover, one white and one, like you say, a nigger. Under the photo it said those two li’l girls was twin sisters. I had to open that shit up, find out how something like that could happen. ’Cause if I ever have a kid—and believe me, I don’t wanna, but I can’t hold the wife off forever—I need to know if a little white baby might pop out. ’Cause if that can happen then lemme tell you this ain’t no country to be a black man walking around holding a li’l white girl’s hand. Shit, cops would shoot my ass before I got both legs out the door.”
Floyd took another step toward the cowboy, four feet from him now.
“Well, I did find out how those twins had different skin, but I found out something else, something that made me laugh. Really laugh. ’Cause I was thinking of all the dumb fuck rednecks like you with your white pride and your shiny heads and your fuckin’ rage. What I learned was that all human beings are, in fact, Africans.”
He glanced behind, grinning like a shark, and faced the cowboy again. “Sounds crazy, I know. But it’s true, it’s written. It’s history. Human beings came into existence in Africa three hundred thousand years ago, and they remained there, in Africa, for over two hundred thousand years. In fact, the D.N.A. of every human being alive today, which includes you, motherfucker, can be traced back to one person who lived in Africa sixty thousand years ago.”
Eddie looked at the cowboy. The man had a mean look in his eyes, sitting tense in the seat.
“You know what that means,” Floyd said. “But I’ll spell it out for you ’cause I know you dumb as shit. It means that you are, in fact, a nigger.” He let the word hang there. “You a nigger just like me. You got my nigger blood running through your veins. You got my nigger eyes and my nigger hands. And when you disrespect a nigger, my nigga, you disrespect yourself.”
The cowboy sat still, his Rottweiler gaze fixed on Floyd, the man no doubt aware that Floyd could shoot him before he’d get to him but mad enough to risk it.
Neither of them moved, the silence of the room like a presence.
Faster than Eddie’s eyes could follow, Dakota grabbed the glass vase from the dresser beside her and brought it down over Floyd. It smashed against his skull, the sudden noise of it startling. Floyd hit the floor and next thing Eddie knew Dakota was rushing toward him.
“Run,” she said.
He didn’t need to be told twice.
They sprinted until they reached the road, Eddie’s lungs burning.
“He’s not coming,” Eddie said, panting.
He watched as the cowboy appeared in the doorway of the motel room, a black shape in the shade of the building, the large hat on his head looking almost absurd. The cowboy looked back at them for a moment before shutting the door and vanishing behind it.
“The hell?” Eddie said.
“Come on,” Dakota said, and continued down the road.
Eddie put the second strap of the backpack over his other shoulder and jogged after her, the sun a frying pan on his neck.
8 | The Pink Room
Strippers, as a rule, don’t like talking to cops, but seven years in vice before her three in homicide had taught Alison that they open up pretty quick when the cop asking them questions is a woman.
Alison sat at a table near the back of the club, a place called the Pink Room that seemed unsure of whether to present itself as seedy or classy. She sipped an over-salty margarita and observed the clientele: a mixture of chubby, middle-aged men, some of them with the aura of wealth about them; small groups of younger men, drunk and grinning; a few loners, spread about in pockets with their shoulders hunched and gazes glued to the dancers; and a man and woman in their mid-twenties at a table in the center of the room, watching the dancer closest to them. Bass synthesizers thumped out of the walls, a kaleidoscope of colors drifting across them. 8:00 p.m. and the place was heating up.
Alison had almost finished her drink by the time one of the dancers finished her set and approached the door to the dressing rooms, which Alison had intentionally sat beside.
“Can you help me with something?” Alison said as the dancer drew level with her.
“I’m not a server, honey,” the dancer said.
“And I’m not here for the tits,” Alison said, flashing he
r badge.
“I should have guessed. Whatever it is I don’t know anything about it.”
“A girl was murdered. Around your age.”
Uncertainty softened the dancer’s face.
“I’ll buy you a drink,” Alison said.
The dancer hesitated, and sat down. Alison got the server’s attention.
“You got five minutes,” the dancer said.
The server arrived. “What can I get for you?” she said.
“I’ll have another margarita,” Alison said.
“The usual, thanks honey,” the dancer said.
The server left.
“What’s your name?” Alison said.
“I don’t wanna go on record.”
“No record, just a few questions.”
The dancer looking at her, upright in the chair. Probably wasn’t even twenty-one, which was illegal with the place serving alcohol. Life had seemed so innocent to Alison at twenty-one, getting cheated on by assholes the equivalent to an apocalypse. But then she hadn’t grown up in Los Angeles, or fled here from somewhere else. Transferred from the small city of San Marcos ninety miles south, L.A. had come as a shock to the vice squad newbie—and the only female. Speaking with young women in places like this reminded her of that.
“My name’s Alison. I’m a homicide detective.”
“Mandy.”
“You work here a lot, Mandy?”
“Most evenings, six to eleven.”
“You like it?”
Mandy shrugged. “It’s a job. I’ve had worse. I make decent money.”
Alison nodded.
Mandy said, “The girl who was murdered … did she work here?”
“Why do you say that?”
“Girls leave suddenly sometimes and never come back. Some of them hang around with shitty guys.”
“Will you look at a picture of her for me, tell me if you recognize her?”
“I guess.”
“I have to warn you, this picture was taken after she was killed.”
“Oh.”
Alison reached into her bag and took out the case file. She found the photograph and placed it facedown onto the table.
The server returned with their drinks. Mandy swallowed half her whiskey in a gulp and relaxed into her chair. She looked at the photograph on the table.
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