“You pushy nigger,” I repeated, just to be sure.
“If that’s what he said.”
“And then the phone call came?”
“The same night,” she said. “Not from Hankins. The other one.”
I wanted to groan. She had no idea who the man was who had confronted her husband in the parking lot, or had called on the phone. But I did.
Dad had found his writing pad, too. He scribbled and held it up for me: DISTINGUISHING MARKS?
“Can you tell me anything else about the way this man looked?” I asked Laura. “Did your husband mention any distinguishing marks?”
“Just that big scar,” she said.
“A scar?”
“Yeah, a big one on his chest. His shirt got torn in the fight. It was like from heart surgery? A pair of lines.”
“Intersecting?”
“Parallel.”
My heart jumped. “Could it have been an H?”
Dad nodded, smiling. He was thinking the same thing.
“Chad said it was a scar, but I guess so. High on his chest.”
I told Dad what I wanted to do as soon as I got off of the phone with Laura Ebersole, and he agreed to help me work it out. But first, more research.
I missed April’s quick mind to trade ideas with, but it was the middle of the night in South Africa, and she’d never returned my earlier call. For both reasons, I wasn’t going to call her back. Maybe she had decided she was tired of talking to me, or maybe she had never gotten back to her room to receive the message. I wasn’t sure which scenario bothered me more.
I would have to get used to doing things on my own again.
I brought a cup of green tea into my screening room and sat at my computer. Since there was a giant movie screen behind me, I put on Shaft to play in the background. Dad had taken me to see Shaft at an art theater when I was fifteen, and it blew my mind. The theme song alone powered me through my fatigue. Hell, just like five million other black men, I thought Isaac was singing about me.
I paid for access to two membership sites to expand my research capabilities: The Los Angeles Times archives and Factiva. I bought a two-hundred-article Annual Pass to the Times, figuring I would use it again, and Factiva is a business news site run by Dow Jones, with access to business journals and wire services. Knowledge is power.
My investment wasn’t wasted. After an hour at my desk, a story emerged:
For starters, Laura Ebersole hadn’t told me everything she should have about her husband. His name had come up in a civil trial when a business partner was sued for breach of contract after a real estate deal gone awry in the Valley. A defendant was quoted calling Ebersole “nothing but a bully,” accusing him of intimidation tactics. Change the name, and the article could have been about Donald Hankins.
Ebersole and Hankins both liked to play rough.
LAPD might have done more than threaten Laura Ebersole with a long DUI sentence—they might have had other dirt on Chad, too. If she’d kept making accusations about Hankins, evidence of her husband’s past wrongdoing might have begun to surface in the news, too. After his death, the only thing Chad Ebersole had left to lose was his name. She’d given up.
Predictably, there had been a loud collision from the moment Hankins and his former business partner made a play for the property adjoining Ebersole’s in Hollywood—a half a block’s worth of land where Hankins’s crony wanted to build a boutique hotel, changing the zoning from residential to commercial. The change would have had a wide impact, effectively killing Ebersole’s plans to refurbish the apartment building he owned on the corner.
There had been a shouting match on the street between Ebersole and one of the lawyers for the company with Hankins’s backing, Page/Tiger Properties. According to a short article in the Los Angeles Times on May 12, 1999, a Hankins staff member promised to seek charges against Ebersole after he “stormed” into the councilman’s office to berate him with the “N-word.” No charges had been filed, but Ebersole had made the news, at least for a day. Two weeks later, Ebersole’s death had been reported on the California page: MAN DIES IN HOLLYWOOD HILLS CRASH. The story had been short, with much discussion of the night’s rainfall and none at all about the possibility that Ebersole’s death wasn’t accidental.
Chief Randall had promised to sweep race out of LAPD politics, but it was obvious that some promises can’t be kept overnight. If Ebersole’s widow hounded them for six months—and even had a reporter from the Times calling on her behalf—someone should have looked into her story, especially after the incident at Hankins’s office. Instead, under pressure from the chief, LAPD had ignored her claim with all its might. Lieutenant Nelson probably wasn’t throwing T.D. Jackson’s case intentionally, but he was feeling heat from Chief Randall, too. Why?
Chief Randall and Donald Hankins were friends, Dad had said.
And Hankins’s role in pushing for LAPD funding in Sacramento couldn’t be overestimated—he had been voted the most pro-police member of the legislature, and he had rallied his supporters behind the proposition that funneled millions to LAPD. Suddenly, LAPD’s hiring freeze was over—and Chief Randall could hire an army.
So what if Chad Ebersole had help driving off a road?
So what if someone might have shot T.D. Jackson?
To Chief Lester Randall and Senator Donald Hankins, it worked out in the end. It was all for the public good. I could see how it might have happened.
Next, I moved on to Wallace Rubens.
Rather than a thug or a hit man, Rubens sounded more respectable than either Ebersole or Hankins. I would never have guessed an arrest for trespassing without the report from April’s friend Casey Burnside.
He’d been mentioned in the North Florida Business Journal in 2002, in an article entitled “10 People Behind the Scenes.” The photo was the most striking part: Wallace Rubens was a hulk of a man, broad in the face, shoulders, and chest. His grin was hearty and full-faced. He had been in his late fifties when the photo was taken, but his hair was mostly black. Still, his face was more deeply lined and looked older than either Jackson’s or Hankins’s. Since Rubens was dressed in a crisp Italian suit and stylish tie, there was no sign of the mark on his chest.
Still, I realized right away what Chad had meant when he told his wife about his eyes. Even when Wallace Rubens was grinning, his eyes seemed far from the surface. Sunken.
The rest of the piece was a mini biography. Rubens was the only one of the ten people profiled who didn’t list a college or university; in most cases, the others profiled had attended two or three institutions, listing both graduate and undergraduate degrees. This listed SoCal University very briefly, with a mention of “played football.” Not exactly Glory Days.
Name: Wallace Rubens. Hometown: Mercy, Florida. Bread and Butter: Restaurants, real estate, auto repair.
Auto repair: I’d bet he knew his way around a set of brakes.
Last Book Read: Dreams from My Father, by Barack Obama. Hobbies: Fishing, blues music. Affiliations: Mercy Rotary Club; First Baptist Church of Mercy.
If all else failed, I knew where to find him on Sunday mornings. Maybe.
But I couldn’t wait until Sunday.
All I dug up on Wallace Rubens was a few property listings throughout Florida and Georgia, and the Journal’s fluff piece, but I’d made up my mind as soon as Laura Ebersole hung up her phone. I did my best to get a good price on a flight to Florida, but it’s hard to avoid getting gouged when you book so late. I bought myself a first-class ticket, round-trip. I got the ticket for under two thousand dollars and considered myself lucky.
I just had to be back in time for Chela’s dance Saturday night; I had to be there to see her go in her dress. If Wallace Rubens was out of town, I’d find out what I could and come back another time.
But I had to try to see him in person. I had to know.
April called me just after midnight, while I was packing the leather duffel bag I use for weekend trips. In Johannesb
urg, it was seven in the morning. I pictured April arriving in her hotel room, hair tousled, after a night with someone else.
“I never notice my light flashing,” she said. “Is it too late to call?”
Never, I thought. “Let me call you back,” I said. “It’ll be on my dime.”
She didn’t argue. When I called April back, I told her about Carlyle Simms. And my suspicions of Donald Hankins. I had no client to protect, so I told her everything.
“Oh, Ten!” she said. She sounded breathless, as if she were gazing at a natural disaster unfolding before her eyes. “That’s big.”
“Yeah.”
“No, I mean really big. As in the story of a lifetime. Two lifetimes.” She laughed, giddy. The delight in April’s voice helped me imagine her smile, dimples and teeth. I smiled, too.
“I’d love to give you that story as a present,” I said. “I’ll do my best.”
“Oooooooohhh…Why am I way over here?”
The question hung on the line. If April didn’t know, then I didn’t have the answer. Quickly, she went on. “Ten, please be careful. I’m serious. Rubens could be a stone hit man. We don’t know what else he’s done. He could be waiting for you.”
As certain as I felt that Wallace Rubens was worth talking to, I knew there were still holes in my theory tying him to T.D.’s death. It was hard to buy Rubens as a standard hit man, no matter what Laura Ebersole said, or how his eyes looked.
“Why would a well-to-do businessman do violence for a politician and risk going to prison?” I asked April. “Maybe it could happen once—the Ebersole thing might have just escalated out of control—but multiple times? That piece doesn’t sit right.”
“True. And I’ve got one for you…” April said. “If Hankins is planning to run for governor, he’ll need to get his campaign going. Why would someone who knows he’s under extra scrutiny order a hit at a time like this?”
“He loved his daughter. He was spurred by a miscarriage of justice.”
“Ten, come on—he’s still a politician. Think about it.”
I knew she was right. As a suspect, Rubens flew against logic on two counts. And Donald Hankins couldn’t have risen to his current station without rapier instincts as a politician.
But his daughter? That threw all logic out the window.
“I’m really proud of you,” April said. “Even though I’m petrified something will happen to you in Florida, I’m proud of the way you put this together, Ten.”
“Thanks, babe.”
We slid into a long silence before either of us realized it was coming.
“I’m flying into Tallahassee,” I said, trying to jump-start the conversation again. “I guess I could swing by and say hello to your parents.”
April’s silence told me that my humor had been lost on her.
“Joking,” I said.
“Oh.”
“Don’t worry, I won’t embarrass you by bothering your parents.” It flew out before I could think or pull it back. The way she’d said oh smarted. She hadn’t tried to mask her relief.
“What?” I hoped I could pretend I hadn’t said it, and she could pretend she hadn’t heard. I heard a tendril of anger in her voice. “Embarrass me how? You think I’m holding that over you?” She didn’t have to say what that was.
“April—please stop.” My voice was as gentle as rainfall because I didn’t want to argue.
“Stop what?”
Stop lying to yourself.
“I’m not the person you wanted me to be,” I told her. “Admit that to yourself. I fell short. I disappointed you. Don’t act like you have no idea what went wrong. Most people don’t mind their friends dropping in on their parents.”
“Ten, I’m very private…”
“You mean you hide things. There are some friends you tell them about; some you don’t. Does your father still think you’re a virgin?”
“No,” she said quickly. “I just don’t flaunt it in his face.”
A daddy’s girl. But I’d known that already. “Well, I wasn’t planning to show up and announce that we used to fuck.”
“Thank you for sounding so vulgar. If this is going to turn into drama, I can’t handle it right now, Ten. I’m on my way to school, and I’m packing. I got assigned a family to stay with, finally. Out in Soweto.”
“Will you have email?” I followed her lead. Neither of us wanted to fight.
“Yes, at school. But probably not at the house.”
I wanted to ask about her access to a telephone next, but it would have sounded exactly the way I meant it. Either she would keep calling me, or she wouldn’t; it was up to April now. And no matter what, the April I knew couldn’t keep away from a good story.
“Don’t worry,” April said quickly. “I’ll definitely call you to check on what happens in Florida. Just email me if you need any contacts from me.”
“What do you know about Mercy?”
“I’ve driven past, but I don’t think I’ve ever been there. It’s one of those small towns west of Tallahassee, like Midway and Quincy. The sticks. There were lots of tobacco growers out that way. Cotton. Citrus. To you, it’ll look a swamp with houses.”
“So…no Starbucks?”
“I bet you’ve got family in towns just like Mercy, city boy.”
She was right. My mother’s family had come to California from Georgia; my father’s family from Chicago, but the previous generation had come from North Carolina, where they had lived since slavery. I don’t remember my grandparents, who were all dead either before I was born or when I was young. I didn’t know my extended family well, mostly because of distance.
Suddenly, I realized that April and I had avoided the fight we’d almost had. I also realized that this was our longest conversation since she left.
“You haven’t told me what it’s like,” I said. “Are you changing the world?”
She laughed. “A little at a time, maybe. Mostly I’m just trying not get lost. Teaching is hard. But I have the most incredible students—you wouldn’t believe their stories, what their families have to sacrifice. It’s so different than back at home. These kids talk about going to school like it really means something. They expect school to take them somewhere.”
“American kids are hungry, too,” I said.
“It seems different. I feel so appreciated.”
“Of course. They’re happy that a rich American woman would take such an interest.”
“You know I’m not rich.”
“Please. Wasn’t that one of the first things you learned?”
“True, I’m blessed,” she said, and sighed. “Blessed and confused. I miss you.”
Missing me was harder than she thought it would be. That would have been my moment to strike, if I’d been stalking April like I stalked Melanie. But I didn’t want April to come back to me when she was confused. One of us might end up angry, and I was trying to keep anger far out of the whole thing.
“I miss you, too,” I said. “But I can’t think of what to do about that right now. Can you?”
“No,” she said, resigned. She paused. “Good luck in Florida. You deserve this one.”
“So do you.”
Our civility and warmth at the end didn’t help. After I hung up, I felt every one of the ten thousand miles between us.
TWENTY-THREE
THURSDAY, OCTOBER 30
The first flight I could get was Thursday, and I lost the day in the air.
Even leaving on a 7 A.M. flight, which meant I missed wishing Chela good-bye before she got up for school, I didn’t land in Tallahassee until after five. My second plane, from Atlanta to Tallahassee, was a little twenty-passenger jet parked out on the tarmac by its lonesome. We had to walk out. It was colder outside than I expected. Forty degrees, maybe cooler.
I wished I had brought a heavier jacket. Tallahassee isn’t Miami Beach.
Tallahassee’s tiny airport felt as if it was out in the wilderness, with a simple wooded road towar
d town. I was overjoyed when the first Applebee’s came into sight. April was right about me: I’m a city boy. I grew up in L.A., and I’ve traveled the world, so L.A. is small enough for me.
There was no satellite radio in the rental, so I had to listen to the local fare. The sharp, noticeable accents from radio station callers reminded me that I was in the South. Deep South. I bypassed the country stations and rested on soul. To me, Aretha blended best with the thin-trunked pines and ancient oak trees draped in moss. What the fuck am I doing here? I thought, and Aretha’s earthy clarion call reminded me that Melanie’s family was in misery. While Aretha sang about a bridge over troubled water, I hoped that bridge was me.
This is where it all began, I thought as I drove down that narrow road.
In a blink, I was in a fair-sized city. At rush hour. I found myself snarled in traffic on Capital Circle Drive in Tallahassee, which is northern Florida’s version of downtown Manhattan. It wasn’t L.A.’s 405 by a long shot, but Tallahassee’s traffic was no easier to navigate. The town was a mixture of brick façades, old colonial architecture, and strip malls, assembled around the soaring twenty-two-story state capitol building. Sitting in a lane that wasn’t moving, I passed the time by entering an address in my navigator: 14620 FILLMORE STREET.
The result surprised me: I was within ten minutes of where April’s parents lived.
Mercy was in another direction, headed out of town, but a detour wouldn’t take long.
I’m not sure why I’d looked up the address for William R. Forrest. Or why I wanted to stop by the house on Fillmore Street before I went searching for Mercy. But the sun would be setting soon, and suddenly I wanted to see where April had come from. Maybe I thought the sight of her house would teach me something. If I was going to fix whatever was wrong with me and April, if it could be fixed, I needed all the evidence as I could gather.
In the Night of the Heat Page 30