A small, balding white man stood there at the threshold dressed in a cheap gray cotton suit. His only outstanding feature was a bright yellow and deep red pansy in the buttonhole of his lapel. Behind the small man was a slightly taller guy who was slender. He was dressed in rust-colored trousers and a similarly hued square-cut shirt. The blouse had the vague pattern of leaves across it, like a fleeting memory of autumn.
They were both white men. Neither one smiled.
“Mr. Rawlins?” the front man asked.
“That’s me.”
“My name is Mr. Jericho and this is my associate, Orrin Cause.”
“What can I do for you, Mr. Jericho?”
“May we come in?”
I considered the request. Orrin Cause gave me pause, no apologies for the rhyme. He had dead eyes and posture reminiscent of a dancer—a dancer of the dead.
“Sure,” I said. “Come on in.”
I got behind Niska’s desk and gestured for my guests to take the chairs that were there.
Jericho looked around the room while his associate stared at the wall behind my head.
Still taking in the room Jericho said, “It has been brought to my attention that a man I know has come to you with a problem concerning missing funds.”
Jericho’s eyes settled on mine as he achieved the last word.
“If you’re talking about a client of mine I can’t tell you what I’m doing for them or why.”
Cause’s left shoulder moved forward an inch or two.
“That is an honorable position, Mr. Rawlins,” Jericho said, “and I applaud you for it. But I’m afraid I have to press the question.”
“Maybe you could get this man you know to give me the okay,” I suggested.
Jericho smiled. I was not sure this was a good thing.
Seeing this duo together made me think of some two-headed mythological monster or demigod come to Earth to pass judgment or to quench a thirst for revenge.
“I believe you know a gentleman named Rufus Tyler,” Jericho suggested.
My tongue actually went dry. Rufus Tyler was more widely known as Charcoal Joe because of his skin color and his superior sketching abilities. Joe was the most feared and respected man in the black community, and beyond.
“Uh-huh,” was all I could utter.
“Why don’t you give him a call?”
“I don’t have Joe’s number.”
Orrin Cause stood and placed a slip of paper on Niska’s desk.
“You have to understand, Mr. Rawlins,” Jericho said. “I’m not a man who appreciates being rushed and I have no desire to hurry you. But in this case time is of the essence.”
There was something about the smaller man’s tone. It was the voice of someone who held the reins of authority. I took in a deep breath, picked up the slip of paper, exhaled, and then dialed.
There was one ring before the receiver was picked up.
“Yeah,” a man said.
“Let me talk to Joe,” I said.
“An’ who the fuck is this?”
“Easy Rawlins.”
A soundless moment passed and then: “Easy?”
“Hey, Joe. How you doin’?”
“Gettin’ ready to go down to the California Club. One of the governor’s men wants to talk.”
“I’m sitting here with a man named Jericho. He seems to think that you have something to tell me.”
“Jericho? That’s easy. He will never threaten you, so you have to make sure not to cross him because you will not make it to the other side of that street.”
“Huh. How’s your wife and son?”
“They okay. He’s off at school bein’ a genius and she’s more beautiful every day. How ’bout your li’l family?”
“They’re okay.”
“Remember, Easy. Walk softly, now.”
I hung up and practiced breathing again. Then I went into my speech.
I told Jericho about Craig Kilian and his untimely death; about Eddie Brock and his missing money. About a girl named Donata that I was still looking for and a man named Alonzo who was already dead.
“And what do you plan to do about all this?” Jericho asked.
“I plan to stay alive.”
That got the crime boss to smile again. He made a hand gesture that was familiar to Orrin Cause. The rust-clad gangster got to his feet, reached into a pocket, and came out with a fat envelope. This he deposited on my desk.
“That envelope contains two thousand six hundred and sixty-four dollars,” Jericho said. “That’s my lucky number. That’s what I’m giving you to keep me informed about what’s happening with your case.”
I didn’t reach for the money. I didn’t tell him that Donata/Roxanna had offered approximately thirty-eight times that much.
“You seem like you might have come from the country, Mr. Jericho. Is that true?”
He smiled again and nodded.
“Me too. I was born on a farm and lived around people who possessed what wealth the land had to offer but very little money. Those people traded in favors. You know what I mean?”
“I do.”
“So at the end of this thing with Brock and the money, if you are satisfied I might want to ask a small favor.”
Jericho gave me a curt nod, stood, and turned. He followed Orrin Cause through the front door.
38
Back in my office I decided on a .22 revolver for the rest of the Kilian affair. That caliber didn’t have much of a kick and I felt I might need to be accurate with each shot. There was too much threat for me to rely on manhood alone.
I made a call. After about a dozen rings I hung up. A few minutes later I repeated that process with the same results.
The next call was answered on the fourth ring.
“Pink Palace,” a mature woman’s voice warbled.
“Hey, Esther, she’s not answering her phone.”
“She’s gone, Easy. Said that you knew where to.”
“That I do. How much I owe you?”
“Nothing this time, darling. Lola took me out drinking every night. She showed me more about this area than I could guess and I’ve lived here fourteen years.”
“Thanks for making room.”
“I hope she’s okay.”
“Me too.”
With that thought in mind I dialed yet another number and asked a question. After that I cleaned and oiled my .22, washed my face and hands, then decided to take a walk around the block.
The front lawn of the urban farmers’ house wasn’t cut, but they kept it watered. In among the long blades of grass were tiny yellow flowers teeming with the insects that loved them. The big front window used American flags for curtains. A few houses down the dark sedan had not moved.
I went to a Winchell’s doughnut shop and got a bear claw and a large cup of coffee, black.
He was standing out in front of our outside office door by the time I returned.
“Easy,” he said.
My friend wore a tan-and-brown tweed jacket and dark brown trousers. His checkered white, lime, and dark green shirt was open at the collar. Thinner than I and an inch or two taller, Fearless Jones had a friendly smile, a slight limp, and a right hook that Sonny Liston would be cautious of.
We shook hands and slapped shoulders.
“What you into, brother?” he asked me.
“You must be gettin’ old, Fearless.”
“Why you say that?”
“Because the man I knew down Texas never looked before he leaped.”
“You’ont have to tell me,” he said on a grin.
“Let me put it like this,” I said. “It’s so bad that I needed to call on you.”
“All right, then. You ret to go?”
“What you drivin’?”
“That Ford Edsel you gimme. I had it painted purple, though. That’s my favorite color.”
Back in those days the ride through the desert was both bleak and beautiful. We had to pass through Claremont and Redlands fir
st, but once we were past those cityscapes there was just buff-colored ground and a Joshua tree here and there.
“So you sayin’ the man hired you is dead?” Fearless asked from behind the wheel of his purple Ford.
“Yeah. That’s right.”
“Then why don’t you just walk away?”
“Mainly because of the gangster, that Brock. But even if it wasn’t for him I’d want to see this thing through.”
“Is that smart, Brother Easy?”
“Is it smart to stand up against four men because they insulted a woman in your presence?”
Fearless laughed and said, “But I knew I could beat them.”
It was midafternoon by the time we reached the Summer Sands, a gated apartment complex at the northern end of Palm Springs. The compound had high adobe walls and a big iron gate with an armed guard lounging under the shade of a huge metal umbrella that was painted orange.
“Can I help you?” the big-bellied, fifty-something white man asked Fearless.
Mr. Jones turned to me and asked, “Who is it you said?”
“Lola Thigman-Kilian,” I called out.
“Does she expect you?”
“Yep.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Coming to see Lola Thigman-Kilian.”
“But what’s your business with her?”
Staring the sweating white man in the eye I said, “I’m her florist.”
He didn’t like me, I didn’t like him, and Fearless just didn’t care.
“Can we come in?” my friend asked.
The guardian sighed and said, “Unit twenty-two.”
He went to a cubbyhole in the wall and reached in. A moment later the iron gate slid to the left.
“Who ya lookin’ fah?” a woman called out in a shrill voice. Her accent was from New York like my friend Izzy Abromovitz. I fought next to Izzy from Italy, through France, and into Germany—where Izzy died.
Fearless had parked out in front of unit twenty-two, a dark red door in a long pink building. No one answered our knock.
“Lola,” I said, answering the nosy New Yorker.
“Oh.” The woman seemed a little disappointed, or maybe jealous. “She’s down by the pool. That’s where she is every day in her swimsuit. Never swims. Just lolls around drinkin’ martinis.”
“Which way is that?” I asked.
“That way.” She waved her hand like batting at a fly but I got the idea.
There was a broad swath of impossibly white tile between the main building and the blue pool. Two or three dozen sunbathers sat and reclined on the chaise lounges sipping on drinks and chatting, sleeping, or pretending to sleep. There was even one man reading a newspaper.
Lola was installed next to the water, laid back and completely relaxed. No one was swimming and the water looked somehow synthetic.
Lola’s bathing suit was navy and her skin an ivory hue. You could see in her curves, and how she moved them, how some men get lost on their way home.
“Mr. Rawlins,” she exclaimed when my friend and I walked up.
“Lola.”
“And who is this?” she asked, getting an eyeful of Fearless.
“Fearless Jones,” I said. “An associate of mine.”
“Come, join me.” Sitting up to make space on the lounger, she offered Fearless the spot next to her. I grabbed a nearby aluminum-and-green nylon chair.
“Do you have news for me?” she asked when we were all settled.
If you had just met her and didn’t look too close, everything about Lola seemed happy, satisfied. But a second glance would hint at the weight around her eyes that whispered sorrow and maybe even a touch of remorse.
“I don’t have any report yet,” I said. “I came out here because I want to put it all together.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s like this,” I said. “Craig hired me because he said he got into a fight with a man he didn’t know over a woman he never met.”
“Okay, but, so what?”
“He said he didn’t know her but you said that Craig introduced you to her some time ago and that she was having trouble with a boyfriend. If that was the case he could have been going out there planning to kill her man.”
“But then why would Craig hire you?”
“Maybe guilt,” I offered. “But more likely, after her boyfriend was dead Donata ran out on your son. When he hired me he wanted to find out where she might be.”
“She was naked and that man was slapping her. Craig did what any good man would do.”
“That’s the general story, but you can see how maybe it doesn’t hold together . . . not completely.”
“What other reason could he possibly have?” Lola asked. She was good at pretending to be honest.
“Money,” I said.
For a brief second Lola froze. She was gazing at something over my shoulder.
“Excuse me,” a man said.
He was tall and lean like Fearless. One might have called him a white man if he wasn’t wearing a suit truly that color.
“Yes, Mr. Graham?” Lola purred.
“Is anything wrong?” the man called Graham asked Clementine.
“Why, no. Why do you ask?”
“Um, these men are friends of yours?”
“This is Mr. Rawlins and Mr. Jones. They’re from LA.”
Before Graham could say any more I stood and held out a hand. After a moment’s hesitation he grasped it and gave me an abortive shake.
“Pleased to meet you, Mr. Graham. Lola and I are friends. She asked me to drop by if I got the chance and so here I am.”
“Are you planning to stay with us, Mr. Rawlins?”
“Plans haven’t gelled yet.”
He didn’t like the answer but I had a pretty good grip. He nodded and moved on as if his questions were merely out of courtesy.
“Motherfucker,” Lola said after Graham was past earshot. “They treat us like trash and then say thank you very much.”
Us.
“So, you were saying, Easy?”
“Donata worked at the Stephanopoulos Talent Agency, a place that’s owned and run by gangsters. She was also well-known at a sex club called the Dragon’s Eye. Because Craig lied, I have to wonder why any of what happened did happen. I’ve been thinking about it for days and the only thing that makes sense is you.”
“Me?”
“You were a stripper, right?”
“So?”
“Come on, Lola. We’re not virgins here. I’ve known a lot of people, women in the life. Once you’re in, you’re likely to keep a toe in the water.”
She wanted to lie but could see that I wasn’t having it.
“Okay,” she said. “Yes, I went to the Eye sometimes. It was the kind of a place where a man might buy you a drink and nobody looked down their nose at you. One night my car wouldn’t start and I didn’t have cab fare. I had to call Craig. He came and had a drink with me and Donata. After that he gave my car a jump.”
“Yeah, but, it’s not just her,” I said. “You knew Alonzo too, didn’t you?”
“He was a photographer,” she said, somewhat reluctantly. “He took a few pictures of me.”
“He also heisted an armored car.”
“I don’t know anything about that.”
I took out the hundred-dollar bills she had given me, placing them next to her martini glass.
“What’s that?” she asked.
“The money you gave me to pay for Craig’s investigation.” I was watching her closely.
“I don’t understand,” she said.
I sat there silently watching. But her confusion did not turn into fear.
“What?” she asked at last.
“The cops found a stack of hundreds like this in Craig’s apartment.”
She leaned away.
“When they ran the serial numbers they found them on a Treasury Department warrant,” I said. “From that armored car job in San Bernardino.”
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The aggrieved mother looked down at the money and then up at me. It slowly dawned on her how she was implicated in her son’s death.
“If you don’t tell me about it, there’s no way that I can protect you,” I said.
“I don’t know anything about a robbery. All I know is that Donata got this windfall and then her boyfriend, that Alonzo, took her money and put it with his. That’s what Craig told me.”
“Put it where?”
“I don’t know. She said that he said he put it somewhere safe. But when she wanted to get at it he kept putting her off.”
“Was Craig involved with this, um, windfall?”
“He gave me the hundred-dollar bills, but that was a while before he got in the fight with that man.”
“Did he know Alonzo?”
Lola looked away and said, “Definitely not. I knew him like you said, but I didn’t want Craig to know how I made my extra money. My son thought Alonzo was the straight-haired man.”
Staring bullets at her I asked, “What do you think, Mr. Jones?”
“I believe her,” my friend testified.
That was good enough for me.
39
We had drinks at a small place called the Malmar until the sun went down. There Fearless told stories about the old days and the war. I was at the front more than once in that conflagration, but Fearless spent most of his time behind German lines—causing all kinds of havoc. He didn’t regale us with tales of bloodshed, however. He talked about the countryside and the wildlife, about people he’d met and the solitude that only a terrorist could appreciate.
At nightfall Lola invited us to a club she knew called Venus Cove, an intimate nightspot that had only nine tables.
No one questioned a white woman accompanied by two black men being guided up to the front. We had steaks and bourbon with baked potatoes and broccoli cooked so long that you could have mashed its green stalks with a fork.
After dinner and four rounds of top-shelf whiskey, Lola’s defenses started to lag behind her words.
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