April didn’t press me; in fact, her tone brightened, as if she was happy I was letting her go. She didn’t ask if she could tag along—not that I would have invited her—and the sudden, stinging chasm between us didn’t just hurt because I was losing an important ally. I grasped the sun-warmed receiver for a long time, trying to think of what to say. I was sick of trying to convince people I wasn’t a killer, and April needed more from me anyway. But what?
April broke the silence. “Remember how I told you that Lieuteanant Nelson was my dad’s student at FAMU?”
I was glad she was talking to me again. “Yeah. Go, Rattlers.”
She went on. “Well…sometimes teachers and students keep in touch.”
“He said something to your father?”
“Not yet, maybe—but I think he might. Looking out for his prof’s kid.” April’s discomfort made her sound like she was Chela’s age. She was a Daddy’s girl.
My chest tightened. Through the window, I saw Chela laughing at something the man beside her said, far too loudly. I could hear her through the glass. “Would you feel more comfortable if…we cut off contact?” I said. Those were the last words I had expected to hear out of my mouth when I called April.
“I don’t know, Tennyson. Like you said, you have to go. We’ll talk later.”
The click of the telephone felt like a physical blow. She had been craving reassurances, and instead I’d given her a chance to cut loose.
“Fuck,”I said. The meeting with my father had gone so well that I’d never considered a bad turn with April. But I couldn’t blame her. I couldn’t even blame Nelson. The only person to blame was staring back at me in the reflection of the café’s window with a silent telephone receiver pressed to his ear as if a voice would magically appear to grant him a wish.
Andwasn’t it better for April if she kept away from me?
By the time I got back inside Wired, the man beside Chela had abandoned his computer, leaning toward her with his legs spread wide, his hands dangling between his knees. I could see his hunger for Chela in his eyes as he talked to her.
“This girl is fourteen years old,” I said, loudly enough to turn heads. “Move on.”
The man’s face and neck shot full of blood. He raised his hands as if I’d leveled a pump-action shotgun at him, leaping from his seat. He nearly stumbled into the door as he left the café, and I heard the clerk snicker. Chela gave me a look that rivaled Lorenzo’s death stare in front of my house.
I could have been more tactful with the guy, maybe. But I was in a bad mood.
“Let’s go,” I told Chela.
“We wereTALKING about hismovie,” Chela said. “You have control issues. Take me to Mother’s—RIGHT NOW.”She screamed the last words, a full-blown temper tantrum. Observers looked away uncomfortably, assuming we were father and daughter; oblivious to the magnitude of the custody battle between Mother and me.
I had to get Chela quiet. If someone called the police, I was done.
“Chela? I don’t need a scene right now,” I said softly, with emphasized eye contact. “Can we…?” I nodded toward the hallway leading to the café’s restrooms.
She raised her eyebrows. “Get me a nonfat latte, and we’ll talk. Double shot.”
With Chela, nothing came for free.
While Chela listened with folded arms, I assured her I would take her back to Mother’s if she wanted me to—but I didn’t have time right now. It was part stalling, maybe part inevitability. I might be taking her back home the long way, in the end. After a melodramatic sigh, Chela slung on her Gucci purse. “So whereare we going?”
I still wasn’t sure. My appointment with Tyra was in less than an hour, across town, and I wanted Chela near Tyra even less than I wanted her near Mother. Tyra scared me, and all my instincts told me that it wouldn’t be safe to let Chela wait in the car. I made a mental map of the area, and suddenly I had my answer:
“Somewhere you can catch up on your reading.”
As usual, James was in the rear storeroom when I got to Eso Won bookstore in Leimert Park. Booksellers are some of the hardest-working people I know. I’m anactor, and I feel sorry for booksellers trying to squeeze out a living. In the long shadow of Amazon and the chain stores, selling books looks more like a mission than a business.
I’ve been going to Eso Won for years. My tastes are for expensive art and photography books for my coffee table, but since my income dropped I’ve been browsing more than buying until they go on sale. I never like to leave empty-handed, so I’m quick to pick up black DVDs: 1943’sCabin in the Sky with Ethel Waters, Eddie “Rochester” Anderson, Lena Horne, Butterfly McQueen, and Louis Armstrong;Carmen with Dorothy Dandridge; Carl Franklin’sOne False Move; and documentaries like the History Channel’sSave Our History: Voices of Civil Rights. My father always said you can’t know where you’re going until you know where you’ve been.
Eso Won also isn’t a bad place to network. A couple of years ago, I spent forty-five minutes talking craft with a black actor on a hit series who happened to be there with his wife, and that conversation led to a guest spot. The work didn’t come a minute too soon, either—which is the case any time I can get work. Eso Won has always felt lucky to me.
The store was nearly empty when I got there with Chela on a weekday afternoon. Oversized posters featuring book covers from Cornel West, Walter Mosley, Octavia E. Butler, and Terry McMillan loomed above us on the walls. The tables near the cash register were empty, so I pointed them out to her.
“What am I supposed to dohere ?” she said. Every sentence had an accented word to drive home her complaints. Now I understood why Dad used to tell me to stop whining or go get him his belt.
“They’re called books,” I said. “Pick a couple from the shelves, start reading, and I’ll buy them for you when I come back.”
“You’re shitting me,” she said. “How long am I supposed to sit here?”
“I shouldn’t be more than a couple hours.” I didn’t know what Tyra had in mind, but I would have to let her know I couldn’t hang out with her all day.
“Two hours? Then you should’ve taken me over the Magic Johnson Theater, because I amnot going to—”
I didn’t have to say another word. My eyes hushed Chela. She sucked her teeth.
“Whassup, Ten?” said Terrell, the new part-timer behind the register. He was white-haired although he probably wasn’t older than forty-five, a former schoolteacher who could talk about black science fiction all day and all night. He was deep.
I asked Terrell to keep an eye on Chela, privately handing him April’s telephone number in case Chela took off or I wasn’t back by closing time. April might not be able to do anything, but it was either April’s number or Mother’s. I had run out of resources.
Terrell winked at Chela, ignoring her puckered face. “Come on back with me, kiddo. I guarantee you I can find you something you’ll like.”
“I doubt that,” Chela muttered, but she followed him anyway. Chela looked back at me over her shoulder, looking small and nervous. She was more shy than I would have guessed, considering her affiliation with Mother. But then again, Mother’s gigs were just an act, a persona for the clients. In real life, Chela wasn’t comfortable around strangers.
“I’ll get back as soon as I can,” I called after her, and she waved dismissively.
Then, I left the sanctuary of Eso Won to face whatever was waiting for me next. When I turned onto Crenshaw, the million-dollar-plus homes gleamed like treasure on high in Baldwin Hills, but I wouldn’t be climbing up that far to get to The Jungle.
It took four minutes for my car’s GPS to find the address Tyra had given me, so I pulled up in front of the building nearly a half-hour early. I didn’t stop, but I drove slowly as I scanned the territory. The street had a schizophrenic quality: simple but well-kept 1950s-era homes on one side, complete shambles on the other.
The two-story apartment complex where Tyra wanted to meet was half a block deep, squat an
d bullied into submission. The building’s paint was literally gray, or else it was so weatherworn and sun-bleached that all color had bled away. The structure was horseshoe-shaped, but with sharp corners, and I could see the long courtyard hidden behind rusting wrought-iron gates. The grass grew so high in the courtyard—and in all of the crevices where enough time, persistence, and neglect had allowed weeds to muscle through—that the complex looked like it was being swallowed into the ground. The building also looked bombed-out, since the units on the top second floor on the north side had already been stripped of their rooftop, replaced with unsightly tarp, and there was so much razor wire around the perimeter that the site could have doubled for a concentration camp. Signs against trespassing plastered the fences like concert posters.
But I understood the security measures: An abandoned building this big could be a crack palace, drawing consumers from miles around. I felt sorry for the homeowners across the street whose living rooms and front porches stared straight into the whole insult. I guessed neighborhood outrage was responsible for the site’s only bright spot: a jubilant billboard picturing full-color condominiums beneath a promise that the Newly Refurbished Baldwin Chateau Villas would be open by last month.
So much for promises.
I kept driving, my heart pummeling my throat. If I’d ever had any question that Tyra had sent me out here to set me up, it was answered. I hoped the building had looked much better when Serena lived there.
I thought about heading straight back to Eso Won, but instead I took a drive around the block, scanning for both police cars and anyone who looked unfriendly. A well-preserved older black woman pulling weeds from the base of her mature magnolia tree eyed me carefully as I drove, and she didn’t return my smile. She knew I didn’t belong. Maybe she thought I was a developer or a politician, and neither would be welcome in her sight.
I was surprised by the absence of police. In the areas bordering the apartment building, I’d seen a police car at almost every turn, as if they were touring on a timer. But the street Tyra had chosen was quiet; almost serene. Maybe the street had some hard-won peace, even in sight of the ultimate monument to the neighborhood’s decline.
I finally parked across the street from the abandoned apartments, in front of a blue Craftsman with an empty driveway and the lights turned off behind the burglar bars. Stragglers from the knots of high school kids walking home from school made it as far as my car, most of them ignoring me as they passed my window. The girls wore bare midriffs and too-tight jeans, and the boys were dressed like an NBA All-Star team, laughing as they tested their newly deepened voices. The kids walked with the same carefree meander I remember from that age; nowhere to go and nothing to do, enjoying their last stop before adulthood. A strategically timed ice cream truck appeared around the corner, tinkling atonal music as it crawled with the promise of sweet and cold on a hot afternoon.How can I find this for Chela somewhere?
It was twenty to three. After looking around to make sure I wasn’t being watched, I reached under my seat for Glaze’s Smith & Wesson. As I grabbed the butt of the gun, my fingertips pulsed. Another look around, and I slipped the gun into the front of my pants, where the cold metal sank into my stomach. It was bulky, so I had worn a loose-fitting shirt to keep the weapon out of sight. The Beemer’s AC was blowing lukecool air on me, but now I was sweating.
Movement in my rearview mirror caught my eye. I tensed until I saw three high school boys rounding the corner behind me, hunched over what looked like a box of CDs. The tallest of them whooped, excited by what he found.
I glanced away from them, back across the street toward the apartment building to see if anyone else had driven up while I wasn’t looking.
The rap on my driver’s-side window almost made me jump out of my skin.
My hand made it to the gun in my pants, grasping tight, even before my head fully turned. When I looked up, I saw one of the high school kids standing over me, his free hand outstretched to sayWhat’s up? In his other, he held the box of CDs.
It was Devon Biggs.
POW.
I heard a gunshot so loud that I didn’t realize it was only in my imagination. When I saw the face at my window, I expected to die with the last flash of knowledge that Tyra and Devon Biggs had set me up somehow.
But I blinked, and the sound faded. Just impatient knocking on my window. “Hey, man—you deaf?” he said. “What the hell are you doing here?”’
He didn’t look any happier to see me than I was to see him.
FOURTEEN
IN A WHITE NIKE BASEBALL CAP,low-hanging baggy jeans, and Lakers jersey, Devon Biggs blended with the kids in a way that seemed deliberate, and my hand hugged the butt of the gun beneath my shirt. I wasn’t ready to let go, but I wasn’t ready to pull it out either. I didn’t move, except to roll my window down. Slowly.
The boys Biggs was walking with loped on without him, calling outThanks, D over their shoulders. He waved back to the kids, but Biggs’s eyes didn’t leave me.
“Tyra asked me to meet her here,” I said.
He cocked his head, skeptical. “Three o’clock?” he said.
I nodded. Tyra had calledboth of us to meet her?
Biggs’s stance was cautious as he checked my face for lies. Then he cursed and threw the box of CDs to the ground. “That bitch is always playing games. She begged me to come over here and meet her, talking about how much she misses Reenie, so let’s walk through the old building. Blah, blah, blah. Three o’clock, she says. I should have known she was up to some shit. And I brought her a gift!”
I peered inside the box and noticed Serena’s face on a stack of CD covers. I didn’t recognize the photo or the title,Songs from the Chariot, so it wasn’t out yet. The black-and-white photo was a striking shot of Serena’s profile at a close angle, styled after the Egyptian Queen Nefertiti; much more artistic and self-reflective than her other CDs. Once Serena became a film star, she only had to record music she cared about, so she hadn’t released a CD in at least three years. “That new?” I said.
“It was supposed to drop next month, but the label’s rushing it. Funeral’s not till tomorrow, and the CDs are here today.” Biggs said it with both resentment and humor, almost chuckling. “White boys don’t waste time when it comes to printin’ green.”
After glancing around the street again—and I studied the half-dozen strolling kids more closely this time—I finally decided it was safe to get out of my car. Biggs noticed the movement of my right hand, the straightening of my shirt.
“You strapped?” he said.
I didn’t answer, but I didn’t deny it. Let him be cautious.
“Now I wish I was,” Biggs said. “I left my piece at home.”
Neither one of us trusted Tyra, or so it appeared. We didn’t trust each other, either. Biggs’s eyes flinched as he glanced down toward my belt.
“Afraid I’m going to shoot you?”
“I wasn’t, but now that you mention it, maybe I’ve got you all wrong.”
“If you mean that you thought I was the kind of brother who rolls over while he gets fucked,” I said, “then, yeah—you’ve got me all wrong.” This was my first opportunity to talk to Biggs outside his powerful domain, and since he knew I was armed, he might treat me with some respect for a change.
Fear flitted in his eyes. “Who said you’re getting fucked?”
“What did you tell Lieutenant Nelson about me?”
“I didn’t tell Nelson shit about you, but he won’t let you go. My assistant says I got another message from him right after I left today. Questions about Tennyson Hardwick. But I took off early to see Tyra, so fuck him.” He was already playing it as if we were old friends who had each other’s backs.
Maybe Devon Biggs was an actor, too. Maybe he was a good one.
“Jenk got killed,” I said.
Biggs only blinked, nodding. No news to him. “Yeah. That’s some sad shit. I guess the pushers and hos got tired of getting ripped off. Some people
ain’t meant to be cops.” He tugged on his cap’s brim, cutting the sun from his eyes.
“Nelson thinks I did it.”
Biggs stared at me, waiting for a punchline. He laughed.“You? Yeah, when I piss gasoline. What does Jenk have to do with you?”
“Nothing,” I said. “But LAPD politics have plenty to do with me.”
Biggs turned away from me, suddenly looking down the street, as if he’d heard a dog whistle. “Shit.”
My hand crept toward my gun. “What?”Here it comes, I thought. Somebody was about to come out blasting, conveniently giving Biggs enough time to duck.
“My mama’s calling me,” Biggs said.
“What?” I thought I’d heard him wrong.
He gestured his thumb down the street, toward the homes I had cruised by when I first arrived. A block and a half from us, the woman who had watched me drive past was on her feet, waving a towel from the sidewalk. I finally heard a thin voice in the wind:“Deeeeevvvvvvvv-onnnnn!”
Devon waved back. “Figures she’d be out in the yard,” he said through the gritted teeth of his phony smile. “Shit. I was gonna do a quick dodge and dash after I saw Tyra. That’s why I parked around the corner. But I guess she’s seen me now. I gotta go run over there real fast.”
I looked at my watch. Twelve minutes. “We need to talk before Tyra gets here.”
“Come on and walk with me. But you can’t go near my mama with a gun.”
I shrugged.Yeah, right. “I won’t tell if you won’t.”
“I’m serious, man.” Biggs sounded nervous, almost petulant. Just like me in my father’s presence, he was already regressing.
“Don’t worry, I won’t get you in trouble with your mom. Let’s walk.”
I began ambling toward the house down the street, my eyes jumping to anything that moved. Grudgingly, Biggs jogged to catch up with me. “This shit right here is messed up,” he said. “You and Tyra can both fuck off.”
“You kiss your mother with that mouth?”
“I’ve never needed to roll with a bodyguard, but I’m gonna hook myself up after today. I don’t know you, man. This is definitely messed up.”
Casanegra Page 23