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  “What’re you thinking?” she said, not looking at me.

  “Will the city still be here tomorrow?”

  “The question is, will the National Guard be here tomorrow?” she said. It was a good question. The Guard had been delayed. The police didn’t have enough manpower and seemed to lack a plan. It was a damned good question. But it wasn’t what I was thinking about.

  “What will you do the rest of the day?”

  “Guess I’ll try and work the case.”

  “Did that woman we met on the stairs hire you?”

  “Yeah, but it’s a quick job. Some dude’s stalking her. Just gotta put the fear of God—or someone—in him.”

  “I imagine you could do that quite well.”

  I wasn’t sure if that was a compliment or not. “What about you? What’ll you do?” I was hoping she’d say she wanted to stay with me. Of course, I hadn’t said that I wanted to spend the afternoon with her, so it was probably asking too much. Maybe we were both scared.

  “I need to check on my mom. See if she’s all right. Then I want to check on my apartment.”

  “I’d like to come by your mom’s again, look at those letters.”

  “I don’t think today’s a good day.”

  “No, you’re probably right.” I had fucked myself, for a change. I didn’t know if I’d ever see her again. At least socially. I knew I might run into her at her mother’s. We never did order food.

  Craylock’s house was in Rancho Park, on Tennessee, a block west of the Twentieth Century-Fox studios. It was an expensive one-story Spanish job, not unlike my own house. A new jet black BMW sat in the driveway. Pickup car, I thought. She hadn’t mentioned what he did for a living; it must have been something where he could charge people more than he was worth. A doctor. Plumber maybe.

  The riots hadn’t stretched this far west, yet. It was a good neighborhood, if there was still such a thing in L.A. I used to live only a couple blocks from Craylock’s before I moved back into my folks’ house. The first street north of Pico. The Olympic marathon runners had run down Pico just across the alley behind my apartment. I watched from my breakfast area window. It was a different L.A. then. It wasn’t that long ago.

  I walked to Craylock’s front door. Rang the bell. A pretty-boy handsome man in his late thirties or early forties answered. His dark hair was slicked back, the way Tyrone Power used to wear his. I guessed the fashion had returned. He wore a polo shirt with an alligator, naturally. Dockers pants and Gucci loafers. Dressed to kill. I perished the thought.

  “Gary Craylock?”

  “Yes.”

  “Laurie Hoffman asked me to come see you.”

  His eyes lit up at her name, but he still blocked the doorway. I didn’t want to go inside anyway. I thought it best to keep things formal and let him know I wasn’t his pal. I stood my ground.

  “Ms. Hoffman—”

  “—Ms. Hoffman. Laurie.”

  “Ms. Hoffman asked me to ask you to leave her alone.” The lighthouse in his eyes began to flicker. “She doesn’t want you coming by her house, leaving her notes, calling her. She doesn’t want you showing up at her work or any other place she might be.” The beacon died. He did a tactical retreat in his head. I could almost see the wheels spinning.

  “You can’t mean Laurie. My Laurie.”

  “Listen, pal, she isn’t your Laurie. She doesn’t want to be. Lay off. Stay away. I can’t make it any plainer.”

  “Or what? Maybe I should call the police. You’re threatening me.”

  I was threatening him.

  “Go ahead. But I think they might have better things to do today.”

  He knew they did. Besides, he didn’t need the police on his tail. I’d tell them about Laurie. About the restraining order. He may have been a pest. He didn’t appear to be an idiot.

  “There’s already a restraining order in place. You could be in a lot of trouble.”

  “Don’t threaten me. I don’t like being threatened.” His voice quivered. He was nervous. He knew he didn’t have a leg to stand on. Had to save face. It was a pretty face, too. One I’d just as soon have punched in the nose as looked at. I didn’t know the S.O.B. Didn’t need to. I knew the type. God’s gift to women. Hell, God’s gift to the world. Everyone should like him. Especially if he liked them. And get out of the way if they didn’t return it.

  It wasn’t that he really thought he was so wonderful. It was that he doubted it. Doubting yourself can make you crazy. Make you look for love and reassurance and respect in every quarter. When you don’t get it, you get pissed. Maybe punch someone out. Maybe yell at strangers on the freeway. Maybe yell at the people closest to you and push them away. Maybe if you’re crazy enough you go into a McDonald’s or a schoolroom and open fire with a semi-auto rifle.

  I knew all about wanting respect from every quarter.

  CHAPTER 15

  I left Craylock standing in his doorway. He had the forlorn look of a lost puppy. I went home. Tried calling my insurance company about the Firebird. Constant busy signal. Played catch with Baron a while. I threw a tennis ball across the yard, Baron fetched it. When he was tired of the game, he gnawed on the ball. He went through five or six balls a week. Maybe one a day. I crashed on the raft in the pool. Baron crashed next to the pool, after a short swim. Sun glared down at me through the smoky haze. Ugly. Angry. Squinting. Me. It.

  The water was cool. The raft cut through a layer of gray ash on the water’s surface. No dragonflies. Dead? Scared off by the smoke? Siren bleat. Music. L.A. in the ’90s. Wasn’t the town I grew up in. Wasn’t the town anyone grew up in.

  Get on with it. I had a case to solve. A client to please. The worst client in the world—me. Where to turn? I needed to see those letters again. Timing wasn’t right to go to South Central. I didn’t know if I could get down there with the National Guard arriving and the police staking out turf. The roads might have been closed. Wanted to see Rita again. Warren was another story. I didn’t think he could hurt me. I didn’t want to hurt him. If it came to it, I knew I would. Thought of Tiny. Call him when I get out of the pool.

  Stainless steel jabbed into the raft’s cupholder. Better than mountain spring water on a brisk L.A. spring day like today. Seven rounds in the mag. One in the chamber. Wet and wild. California funtime. Will a gun work after it’s been in the water? Ask the SEALs.

  Leads. None. Nothing. Nada—there’s a ’90s L.A. word for you. Hip. Flip. Hip Hop.

  Where to turn? Letters. The William Tell Motel. Weasel. Grinning. Like he’s about to drool spit. Paid me cash. Paid the motel cash.

  Why the William Tell? Did he know it? Did he like the overture? Like the Lone Ranger? Chance? Significance? Nothing came to mind.

  The Perlmans. Maybe the old lady would remember something else. Maybe she wasn’t telling all to begin with.

  Damn riot. Cramps my style. Already too much time lost on Teddie’s case. Trail getting colder with each passing day. Nothing like a riot to make the Weasel’s day. Drool dribbling, must be laughing to himself.

  Black chicks? That his gig? Black movie stars? TV stars? Check into it. See if any other good-looking black actresses got harassed. Scary letters. Calls. Followed. If that doesn’t work spread the search wide.

  Go back to Mama Matson’s. Those letters. The only tangible piece of anything so far; hardly enough to warrant calling it evidence.

  Sun glaring. Squinting.

  Drive by shooters laughing at silly boys and girls playing in the street.

  How stupid of them.

  Crack.

  It wasn’t meant for you.

  For your older brother.

  Bang.

  You’re dead.

  My little girl was killed—

  My sister raped.

  Mother shot.

  Father strong-armed, robbed.

  Son murdered.

  Spanish.

  Korean.

  Chinese. How many dialects?

  Japanese.


  Tagalog.

  Polish.

  Yiddish.

  Street jive. A language to itself. Only for the initiated.

  English?

  Tears streaming.

  Hate burning.

  Getting a hamburger is an exercise in survival.

  Driving—forget it.

  Armed. Better be.

  Fear.

  Anxiety.

  Alarm.

  Panic.

  Terror.

  Frenzy.

  Hysteria.

  Rampage.

  Riot.

  Riot.

  Chaos.

  Confusion.

  Commotion.

  Pandemonium.

  Mayhem.

  Anarchy.

  Riot.

  Never Never Land: Kids who’ll never grow up. Lost to a bullet. Lost to a gang. Lost to themselves.

  Scared?

  Scared shitless. Scared to death—

  L.A. for the ’90s. La La Land.

  California dreamin’.

  “Murder City U.S.A.,” Jack said after I told him about my dream. “Animals. They’re all fuckin’ animals. I don’t care what the fucking bleeding hearts say. These people are responsible for themselves. Hell, half of ’em don’t even belong here. Goddamn illegal aliens.”

  The dream: a kaleidoscope of images. Flashes. Light. Dark. Brown. Yellow. White. Black. Missing blue. Heart pounding, sweating dream. Shouldn’t have told Jack. Had to tell someone. He popped by. Harley lullaby charging down the driveway, waking me not so gently. Do not go gently into that good night. I promised myself I wouldn’t.

  “Segue.” I wasn’t in the mood. Teddie filled my waking dreams, if not the sleeping ones.

  I told Jack about my lack of leads while I got dressed.

  “Brown babes. Don’t forget the brown babes. They’re not a subgenre of black. They’re separate entities. Coconuts. Not Oreos.”

  “Shut up.”

  “These fucks are burning your hometown down. Don’t you care?”

  “I care about finding this girl’s killer.”

  “Hey, bud, if you’re so damn sensitive you better get it right. She ain’t a girl. She’s a woman. Don’t wanna be politically incorrect.”

  “Sometimes you give me a pain in the—”

  “Sometimes I save your ass blind.”

  Touché. I had no comeback for that. Sometimes he did.

  We had roast beef sandwiches for lunch. The meat was deli-cut thin, the bagels onion, a couple days old. I thought about asking him how come he ate bagels. What was the point? Mustard oozed out the sides of his bagel.

  “I heard ’bout this Mex actress.” Nothing else came. He chomped on his sandwich.

  “Yeah, so.”

  “So lemme eat, will ya?” He spooned more mustard on the edge of the sandwich. A bright yellow mustache instantly grew on his upper lip. A Chia mustache. Just add water. “I heard ’bout this Mex bitch, or to be politically correct, puta. Got her ass whupped good.”

  “I don’t remember hearing about anything like that.”

  “Was hushed up. I don’t remember why.”

  “What show was she in?”

  “Don’t remember.”

  “You’re a big help.”

  “Hey, man, I don’t need the sarcasm. I’m tryin’ to help you. Mighta been a small story on some back page of the Times. About a year or two ago. Check it out. All I remember is she wanted some part, it was going to a Caucasian. She protested, along with a bunch-a her sisters. I mean, hell, acting’s acting right? So any actress should be able to play the part. But no, they gotta make a stink.”

  “Get to the point.”

  “She got beat one night after the protest. That’s all I remember. ’Bout a year ago. Maybe longer.”

  A few minutes later, a plume of gunmetal gray smoke belched out of the Harley lullaby machine, wafting skyward, joining the ever-present smog and riot smoke.

  Would the libraries be open? A phone call would have sufficed. I was itchy. Had to get outta there. Hopped in the car and went to the John C. Freemont branch. Open. I searched the L.A. Times on microfilm. What a pain. Checked all of ’91. Nothing. Should I go back as far as ’90? What else did I have to do?

  The library was closing early. I had about an hour left. I didn’t have that much patience. I had started with December of ’91, working my way backwards. I was at July, 1990. About to give up. Something caught my eye.

  A photo. An actress. Kind of cute. Dark-skinned. Originally from Mexico City. A fan had tried to get close to her. Too close. He was in love with her. He thought she was in love with him.

  Coincidence?

  How’d he find her? Find her family? Told them he was an old friend?

  Sound familiar?

  Coincidence?

  Probably an M.O. used by a lot of Weasels. Could it be my Weasel?

  Another article a month or so later, which I’d missed the first time around, said she’d split town. No trace. No trace of the suspect either. A white male. No firm description. But about my Weasel’s age?

  Coincidence?

  CHAPTER 16

  The girl’s family wasn’t hard to trace. East L.A. I could hit El Tepeyac on the way home. By the time I got there I figured there wouldn’t be a line half way around the block. I drove across the Macy Street bridge, over the L.A. River. It was like going to another country. Thinking like that made me think of Jack. I didn’t want to think like him. Sometimes I couldn’t help it. Signs were in Spanish and English, some not even in English. Street vendors sold tacos, not hot dogs, Jalisco, not Good Humor ice cream. All that’s not what got me. The streets were filthy. Trash everywhere. Empty garbage cans. Trash piled up under bus stop benches, solid. Graffiti on the walls, dirt and litter, everywhere.

  It didn’t matter then though. What did matter was getting through roadblocks and not getting my rental car or myself smashed. It wasn’t as hard as I’d figured. The National Guard still wasn’t fully deployed. Most of the rioting was happening farther south and farther west.

  I pulled up in front of a ticky-tacky house on Folsom Street. Parked. A couple punks eyeballed me. I glanced their way, went about my business. Headed to the door. Small white frame house. Paint peeling in places. Overall in pretty good shape. New Honda Accord in the driveway. Knock-knock.

  A small man opened the door. Henna-colored skin, sagging at the edges. Small white mustache. Zinc-gray hair. Half-moons under his eyes you could drop a penny into and it wouldn’t fall. Baggy brown pants, cuffs. Yellow, viscous eyes. Huaraches. Looked like he was just off the farm. Looked old. Tired.

  “Yes,” he said. No trace of accent. I felt foolish for thinking he looked like a recent arrival.

  “My name’s Duke Rogers. I want to talk to Pilar Cruz’s family.”

  “Who are you?” Teary eyes. Because of the smoke and smog? Because of what I asked?

  “I’m a private detective. I’m looking—” I handed him my card.

  “—for Pilar’s attacker?”

  “No, I’m sorry.”

  “For Pilar herself? Someone has hired you to find her.”

  “No. She’s only peripherally involved.”

  He peered around me. “Your car?”

  I nodded.

  “Be careful. Damn pachucos’ll take everything but the car alarm if you’re not careful,” he said using the argot of his day.

  “Why don’t they just take the whole car?”

  “They’ll do that too. Pull it into my driveway.”

  After I did, he invited me into the house. He had just fixed lunch. Invited me to join him. We sat in the kitchen, eating chorizo and beans. Fresh salsa with cilantro. Homemade. I wouldn’t be stopping at El Tepeyac on the way home.

  “Eat. Mas?”

  He reminded me of my grandmother. He reminded me of all grandmothers.

  “Pilar was my daughter. I am Ben Cruz.”

  I stopped chewing. He saw.

  “You are thinking I look old. How d
oes this old man have such a lovely young daughter? I am not that old, señor. I am older than my years. Losing my daughter, losing my wife, that will do it to you.”

  I didn’t know what to say. I had some feeling for his loss. Not much. I didn’t know him. Didn’t know his wife or daughter. What do you say in a situation like this? “I’m sorry.”

  “The police don’t care. She’s Mexican. They put her case in some file cabinet or computer somewhere. Low priority. They don’t care. You’re the first person’s come around here asking me about her in over a year. At first there were a few fans. They came by—I don’t know how they knew where to find me—or they sent cards. She could have made it big.”

  Teddie Matson had made it big and was on the road to making it bigger. It was no protection for her. It might have been her downfall, along with me.

  “I’m trying to find the man who killed Teddie Matson.”

  “A terrible thing. Similar to the attack on Pilar.”

  “That’s what I was thinking. I was wondering if there was anything you could tell me. Anything at all that might help me in my search. You said that some fans came by after she left.”

  “Yes. There were a handful.”

  “Who were they?”

  “Some were from a Latina actress group. They wanted to find her. Help her. I couldn’t help them. I didn’t know where she went myself. They didn’t believe me. After a couple of visits they gave up.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “There were a couple of young men that came by. Maybe three or four. It is hard to remember.”

  “You’ve got to try. Tell me about them. Were any of them white?”

  “Two were Mexicans. I think the other two were white.”

  I asked him to describe the white ones to me. One of them sounded like he might fit the Weasel’s description. “Do you have any idea how to find them? Did they leave anything?”

  “I will give you everything. She was not a very big star. Not a star at all. She had a couple of bit parts on TV and did a couple plays. She was known in the Hispanic community more than the general community.”