L is for LAWLESS

by Sue Grafton

  The ancient stove was green enamel, trimmed in black, with four gas burners and a lift-up stove top. To the left of the door was an Eastlake cabinet with a retractable tin counter and a built-in flour bin and sifter. I could feel a wave of memory pushing at me. Somewhere I’d seen a room like this, maybe Grand’s house in Lompoc when I was four. In my mind’s eye, I could still picture the goods on the shelves: the Cut-Rite waxed paper box, the cylindrical dark blue Morton salt box with the girl under her umbrella (“When It Rains, It Pours”), Sanka coffee in a short orange can, Cream of Wheat, the tin of Hershey’s cocoa. Mrs. Raw-son’s larder was stocked with most of the same items, right down to the opaque mint-green glass jar with SUGAR printed across the front. The oversize matching screw-top salt and pepper shakers rested nearby.

  Ray’s mother was already busy clearing piles of newspapers from the kitchen chairs despite Ray’s protests. “Now, Ma, come on. You don’t have to do that. Give me that.”

  She smacked at his hand. “You quit. I can do this myself. If you’d told me you were coming, I’d have had the place picked up. Laura’s going to think I don’t know how to keep house.”

  He took a stack of papers from her and stuck them in a haphazard pile against the wall. Laura murmured something and excused herself, moving into the back room. I was hoping there was a bathroom close by that I could visit in due course. I pulled out a chair and sat down, doing some visual snooping while Ray and his mother tidied up.

  From where I sat, I could see part of the dining room with its built-in china cupboards. The room was crammed with junk, furniture and cardboard boxes making passage difficult. I caught sight of an old brown wood radio, a Zenith with a round dial set into a round-shouldered console the size of a chest of drawers. I could see the round shape of the underlying speaker where the worn fabric was stretched over it. The wallpaper pattern was a marvel of swirling brown leaves.

  The room beyond the dining room was probably the parlor with its two windows onto the street and a proper front door. The kitchen smelled like a combination of moth balls and strong coffee sitting on the stove too long. I heard the shriek of plumbing, the flush mechanism suggestive of a waterfall thundering from a great height. When Laura emerged from the back room sometime later, she’d shed her belly harness. She was probably uncomfortable with the idea of having to explain her “condition” if her grandmother took notice.

  I tuned in to the old woman, who was still grumbling good-naturedly about the unexpected visit. “I don’t know how you expect me to cook up any kind of supper without the fixings on hand.”

  “Well, I’m telling you how,” Ray said patiently. “You put together a list of what you need and we’ll whip over to the market and be back in two shakes.”

  “I have a list working if I can find it,” she said, poking through loose papers in the center of the table. “Freida Green, my neighbor two doors down, she’s been carrying me to the market once a week when she goes. Here now. What’s that say?”

  Ray took the list and read aloud in a faky tone, “Says pork chops with milk gravy, yams, fried apples and onions, corn bread…”

  She reached for the paper, but he held it out of reach. “I never. It does not. Let me see that. Is that what you want, son?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He handed her the paper.

  “Well, I can do that. I have yams out yonder, and I believe I still have some of them pole beans and stewed tomatoes I put up last summer. I just baked a batch of peanut-butter cookies. We can have them for dessert if you’ll pick up a quart of vanilla ice cream. I want real. I don’t want iced milk.” She was writing as she spoke, large, angular letters drifting across the page.

  “Sounds good to me. What do you think, Kinsey?” he asked.

  “Sounds great.”

  “Oh, forevermore. Kinsey. Shame on me for my bad manners. I forgot all about you, honey. What can I get you? I might have a can of soda pop here somewhere. Take a look in the pantry and don’t mind the state it’s in. I been meaning to clean that out, but hadn’t got to it.”

  “Actually, I’d love to borrow your phone, and a pen and scratch paper, if you don’t mind.”

  “You go and help yourself as long as you don’t call Paris, France. I’m on fixed income and that telephone costs too much as it is. Here’s you a piece of paper. Laura, why don’t you show her where the telephone is. Right in there beside the bed. I’ll get busy with this list.”

  Ray said, “I also promised she could throw some clothes in the washing machine. You have detergent?”

  “In the utility room,” she said, pointing toward the door.

  I took the proffered pen and paper and moved into the bedroom, which was as stuffy as a coat closet. The only light emanated from a small bathroom that opened on the left. Heavy drapes were pinned together over windows with the shades drawn. The double-bed mattress sagged in an iron bedstead piled with hand-tied quilts. The room would have been perfect in a 1940s home furnishings diorama at the state fair. All the surfaces were coated with a fine layer of dust. In fact, nothing in the house had seemed terribly clean, probably the by-product of the old woman’s poor eyesight.

  The old black dial telephone sat beside a crook-neck lamp on the bed table, amid large-print books, pill bottles, lotions, and ointments. I flipped the light on and dialed Information, picking up the numbers for both United and American Airlines. I called United first, listening to the usual reassurances until my “call could be answered in the order it was received.” Out of deference to Ray’s mom, I refrained from searching her bed table drawer while I waited for the agent to pick up on his end. I did scan the room, looking for the belly harness. Had to be around here somewhere.

  The agent finally came on the line and helped me get the reservations I needed. There was a flight from Louisville to Chicago at 7:12 p.m., arriving at 7:22, which reflected the hour’s time difference. After a brief layover, I then connected to a flight departing from Chicago at 8:14 p.m., arriving in Los Angeles at 10:24, California time. The flight to Santa Teresa left at 11:00 and arrived forty-five minutes later. That last connection was tight, but the agent swore the arrival and departure gates would be close to one another. Since I was traveling without luggage, he didn’t think it would be a problem. He did advise me to get to the airport an hour in advance of flight tune so I could pay for the ticket.

  He’d just put me on hold when Ray stuck his head in the door, a clean towel in one hand. “That’s for you,” he said, tossing it on the bed. “When you finish your call, you can hop in the shower. There’s a robe hanging on the door. Ma says she’ll throw your clothes in the wash when you’re ready.”

  I put a palm across the mouthpiece and said, “Thanks. I’ll bring ‘em right out. What about the stuff in the car?”

  “She’s got that already. I brought everything in.”

  He started to depart and stuck his head around the door again. “Oh. I almost forgot. Ma says there’s a one-hour cleaners in the same mall as the market. You want to give me your jacket, I can drop it off before we go shopping and pick it up on the way back.”

  The agent had come back on the line and was already busy reconfirming the flight arrangements while I nodded enthusiastically to Ray. With the receiver still tucked in the crook of my neck, I emptied the pockets of my blazer and handed it to him. He waved and withdrew while I finished up the call.

  I headed for the bathroom, where with a quick search I uncovered the belly harness tucked down in the clothes hamper. I hauled it out and inspected it, impressed by the ingenuity of the construction. The housing resembled an oversize catcher’s face mask, a convex frame made of semiflexible plastic tubing, wrapped with padding, into which countless bound packets of currency had been packed. Heavy canvas straps secured the harness once in place. I checked a couple of packets, riffling through five-, ten-, twenty-, and fifty-dollar notes of varying sizes. Many bills seemed unfamiliar and I had to assume were no longer in circulation. Several packets appeared to be literally in mint
condition. It grieved me to think of Laura covering day-to-day expenses with bank notes that a serious collector would have paid dearly for. Ray was a fool to stand by while his daughter threw it all away. Who knew how much money still remained to be uncovered?

  I tucked the harness down in the hamper. I’m big on closure and not good at leaving so many questions unanswered. However, (she said) this was not my concern. In six hours, I’d be heading for California. If there were additional monies in a stash somewhere, that was strictly Ray’s business. There was a blue chenille bathrobe hanging on a hook on the back of the door. I stripped out of the borrowed denim dress and underwear, pulled the robe on, and carried my dirty clothes out to the kitchen. Ray and Laura had apparently left on their errand. I could see yams on the stove, simmering in a dark blue-and-white-speckled enamel pan. Quart Mason jars of tomatoes and green beans had been pulled off the pantry shelves and placed on the counter. Briefly, I pondered the possibilities of botulism poisoning arising from improperly preserved foods, but what the heck, the mortality rate is only sixty-five percent. Ray’s mother probably wouldn’t have attained such a ripe old age if she hadn’t perfected her canning skills.

  The door to the utility porch was open. That room wasn’t insulated and the air pouring out of it was frigid. Ray’s mother went about her business as if unaware of the chill. An early-model washer and dryer were arranged against the wall to the left. Tucked between them was a battered canister-style vacuum cleaner shaped like the nose cone of a spaceship. “I’m about to hop in the shower, Mrs. Rawson. Can I give you these?” I asked.

  “There you are,” she said. “I was just loading the few things Laura give me. You can call me Helen if you like,” she added. “My late husband used to call me Hell on Wheels.”

  I watched as she felt for the measuring cup, tucking her thumb over the rim so she could feel how far up the side the detergent had come. “I’ve been considered legally blind for years, and my eyes is getting worse. I can still make my way around as long as people don’t go putting things in my path. I’m scheduled for surgery, but I had to wait until Ray come home to help out. Anyway, I’m just yammering on. I don’t mean to keep you.”

  “This is fine,” I said. “Can I help with anything?”

  “Oh no, honey. Go ahead and get your shower. You can keep that robe on ‘til your clothes is done. Won’t take long with these old machines. My friend, Freida Green, has new and it takes her three times as long to run a load through and uses twicet the water. Soon as I’m done with this, I’m going to put some corn bread together. I hope you like to eat.”

  “Absolutely. I’ll be out shortly and give you a hand.”

  The shower was a mixed blessing. The water pressure was paltry, the hot and cold fluctuating wildly in response to cycles of the washing machine. I did manage to scrub myself thoroughly, washing my hair in a cumulus cloud of soapsuds, lathering and rinsing until I felt fresh again. I dried myself off and pulled on Helen’s robe. I slipped into my Reeboks, my fastidious streak preventing me from walking around barefoot on floors only marginally clean. I’m generally not vain about my appearance, but I could hardly wait to get back into my own clothes.

  Before returning to the kitchen, I used my telephone credit card to put in a long-distance call to Henry. He was apparently out somewhere, but his machine picked up. I said, “Henry, this is Kinsey. I’m in Louisville, Kentucky. It’s after one o’clock here and I’ve got a flight out at seven. I don’t know what time we’ll be heading for the airport, but I should be here for the next couple of hours. If it’s possible, I need to have you meet me at the airport. I’m almost out of cash and I don’t have a way to get my car out of hock. I can try borrowing the money here, but these people don’t seem all that dependable. If I don’t hear from you before I leave, I’ll call you as soon as I get to Los Angeles.” I checked the telephone number written on the round cardboard disk in the middle of the dial, reciting Helen’s number to him before I hung up. I ran a comb through my hair and moved back into the kitchen, where Helen put me to work setting the kitchen table.

  Ray and Laura came back with my blazer, in a clear plastic cleaning bag, and an armload each of groceries, which we unpacked and put away. I hung my blazer on the knob just inside the bedroom door. Laura followed me, moving on into the bathroom to take her shower. The wash must have been done because I could hear the dryer rumbling against the wall. As soon as the load was dry, I’d pull my clothes out and get dressed.

  In the meantime, Helen showed me how to peel and mash the yams while she cut apples and onions into quarters and put them in the frying pan with butter. Like a fly on the wall, I kept myself quiet, listening to Ray and his mother chat while she put supper together. “Freida Green’s house got broke into here about four months ago. That’s when I had all them burglar bars put on. We had a neighborhood meeting with these two police officers, told us what to do in case of attack. Freida and her friend, Minnie Paxton, took a self-defense course. Said they learned how to scream and how to kick out real hard sideways. The point is to break a fellow’s kneecap and take him down. Freida was practicing and fell flat on her back. Cracked her tailbone big as life. Minnie laughed so hard she nearly peed herself ‘til she saw how bad Freida was hurt. She had to set on a bag of ice for a month, poor thing.”

  “Well, I don’t want to hear about you trying to kick some guy.”

  “No, no. I wouldn’t do that. Makes no sense for an old woman like me. Old people can’t always depend on physical strength. Even Freida said that. That’s why I had all them locks put in. Summertimes, I used to leave my doors standing open to let the breeze come through. Not no more. No sir.”

  “Hey, Ma. Before I forget. You have any mail here for me? I think my buddy in California might have sent me a package or a letter in care of this address.”

  “Well, yes. Now you mention it, I did receive something and set it aside. It come quite some time ago. I believe it’s here somewhere, if I can recollect where I put it. Take a look in that drawer yonder under all the junk.”

  Ray opened the drawer, pawing through odds and ends: lamp cords, batteries, pencils, bottle caps, coupons, hammer, screwdriver, cooking utensils. A handful of envelopes was crammed in at the back, but most were designated “Occupant.” There was only one piece of personal mail, addressed to Ray Rawson with no return address. He squinted at the postmark on the envelope. “This is it,” he said. He tore it open and pulled out a sympathy card with a black-and-white photograph of a graveyard pasted on the front. Inside, the message read:

  And I will give unto thee the keys of the kingdom of heaven: and whatsoever thou shah bind on earth shall be bound in heaven: and whatsoever thou shalt loose on earth shall be loosed in heaven. Matthew 16:19.

  Thinking of you in your hour of loss.

  On the back of the card, a small brass key was taped. Ray pulled it off, turning it over in his hand before he passed it to me. I studied first one side and then the other just as he had. It was an inch and a half long. The word Master was stamped on one side and the number M550 on the other. Shouldn’t be hard to remember. The number was my birthdate in abbreviated form. I said, “Probably for a padlock.”

  “What about the key you have?”

  “It’s in the bedroom. I’ll get it as soon as Laura’s finished in there.”

  Supper was almost on the table when Laura finally emerged. It looked as though she’d made a special effort with her hair and makeup despite the fact her grandmother couldn’t see all that well. While serving dishes were being filled at the stove, I stepped into the bedroom and picked up my Swiss Army knife from the pile of my belongings on the bed table. I slipped the jacket from the cleaners bag and used the small scissors to snip the stitches I’d put in the inside shoulder seam. I worked the key from the hole. This one was heavy, a good six inches long with an elongated round shaft. I held it closer to the table lamp, curious if this was also a Master. Lawless was stamped on the shaft, but there were no other identifying m
arks that I could see. Master padlocks I knew about. A Lawless I’d never heard of. Might be a local company or one that had since gone out of business.

  I returned to the kitchen table, where I sat down and handed the key to Ray.

  “What’s that for?” Laura asked as she took her seat.

  “I’m not sure, but I think it goes with this one,” Ray said. He laid the skeleton key beside the smaller key in the middle of the table. “This one Johnny left taped to the inside of his safe. Chester found it this week when they were cleaning out the apartment.”

  “Those are connected to the stash?”

  “I hope so. Otherwise, we’re out of luck,” he said.

  “How come?”

  “Because it’s the only link we have. Unless you have an idea where to look for a pile of money forty-some years after it was hid.”

  “I wouldn’t even know where to start,” she said.

  “Me neither. I was hoping Kinsey would help, but it looks like we’re running out of time,” he said, and then turned to his mother. “You want me to say grace, Ma?”

  Why did I feel guilty? I hadn’t done anything.

  The supper was a lavish testimony to old-fashioned southern cooking. This was the first food I’d had in days that wasn’t saturated with additives and preservatives. The sugar, sodium, and fat content left something to be desired, but I’m not exactly pious where food is concerned. I ate with vigor and concentration, only vaguely aware of the conversation going on around me until Ray’s voice went up. He had put his fork down and was staring at his daughter with a look of horror and dismay.