White Heat Read online

  He led me to her bedroom. A Mexican flag hung over the bed, Mexican pottery and a brightly colored shawl decorated the dresser. He pulled a small box, little bigger than a shoebox, from under the bed. Put it in my hands.

  “Take it.”

  I hesitated.

  “You wonder, how I can trust you? I don’t know you. Maybe you are the one who attacked her. Maybe you had cards printed saying you are private detective.”

  I didn’t say anything. I was too busy thinking that, while I had nothing to do with Pilar’s attack, I might just as well have been the one who attacked and killed Teddie.

  “You have an open, honest face. But that is not why I am willing to trust you with these things. I do not think you are the attacker. He would be nervous. You are not. Maybe you are a very good actor. I don’t think so. So maybe you will find Teddie Matson’s killer. And maybe along the way you will look for and find my Pilar. I have some money I can give you.” He reached for his wallet.

  “Later.” I would look. I wouldn’t take his money. I didn’t tell him then. I would if I found anything.

  “And you tell her to come home. It is not me she is hiding from. I will protect her.” He sat on the edge of the bed. Didn’t care if I saw him weeping openly.

  “Do you have any idea where she might be? An old girlfriend she might have gone to stay with. Anything?”

  He kept weeping as he pulled another box from under the bed. This one was bigger. Stuffed to the gills with letters and cards. “These are her personal mails, from friends, not fans. Maybe there is something in there. I read through everything after she left but couldn’t come up with anything. I called her friends. They didn’t know anything or wouldn’t tell.” He went to her desk, opened the center drawer, pulled out a small address book. Handed it to me. “These are her friends. Her best friend Anna Martinez.”

  “Boyfriend?”

  “No good punk. Se llama Ramon Martinez.”

  “Related to Anna?”

  “Sí, her brother.”

  I left Cruz in Pilar’s bedroom. Found my own way out. The punks were waiting for me in Cruz’s driveway.

  “Get lost, amigo?” One of them grinned, a gold frame sparkling around one tooth.

  “You need a sunburn to be in this neighborhood.”

  “Who writes your dialogue? You need a rewrite man.”

  “Very funny. Very funny.”

  Tom Bond, my buddy in the L.A. Sheriff’s, had more occasion than I to come down to this part of town. He said these kids would just as soon kill you as look at you. These two didn’t have weapons showing. I thought I saw a bulge in one of their waistbands. That’s what flashed my brain at that moment.

  “What’chu doin’ here, man? Lookin’ for some dark meat?” They laughed.

  “Don’ white boys like white meat?” Gold frame leaned on my car.

  “Get off my car. Get outta my way.”

  “Tough guy.”

  “It ain’t no time to be doin’ your thing here, man. You’re outnumbered. Might be only two of us here, but everywhere you turn you gonna see people look like us.”

  “I don’t give a shit what you look like. Get off my car.” I stepped toward the driver’s door. Gold frame didn’t budge. I pushed him aside. His amigo dove for my knees. I was ready, lurching out of the way. My own leg came up kneeing the diver in the nose. He careened back into the car, sliding to the pavement. Blood spilled from his nose. Pivoting on my heel, I heard the unmistakable racking of an automatic slide. Turned to face down a blue steel 9mm semi-auto.

  “What now, gringo? Might be your country, but it’s my street. My gun.” He was only a couple feet away from me and he was in love with his tough talk. While he savored the words, I swung my foot high. High enough to broadside his face—hard. It shook him up. He didn’t drop the gun, until I rammed my finger into his eye. That did the trick. I stuck the gun in my belt. I’d get rid of it later, where no one would ever find it.

  “Tell the ACLU you were just an innocent victim.” I got in the car. Drove off. I wondered if he’d slap me with a suit. I thought I was sounding more like Jack than ever.

  Drove by Craylock’s on the way home. Not sure why. It wasn’t on the way. A thought zapped me, Craylock was a stalker. I wondered if the Weasel was a stalker, not just a celebrity stalker, but a plain-old-brown-paper-bag-vanilla-flavored stalker. Thought I might call Tom Bond, check out stalkers.

  Knocked on Craylock’s door. Not happy to see me.

  “Get the fuck outta here. I’ll get a restraining order on you.”

  I strong-armed him into the foyer of his house. I hadn’t seen the inside before. Crummy art on the wall. Streaks of paint, mostly black, white, gray—how politically incorrect, where’s brown, black, red, yellow?—that didn’t make any sense. Ponderous. Someone like Craylock figures he doesn’t understand it, it must, therefore, be meaningful.

  “Whadda you want?”

  “I want to talk.”

  “About what?”

  “Stalking.”

  CHAPTER 17

  I started through the entry hall toward the living room or den. He cut me off, steering me toward the kitchen. Expensive tastes. Real hardwood cabinets. None of that paste-on stuff. Newly tiled counters. Hazy sun streaks shot in through a window box filled with green stuff. A mini herb and vegetable garden right there in the kitchen. He motioned for me to sit at the counter that divided the kitchen from the breakfast room. I chose to stand. So did he. A siren whizzed by outside. The first one I’d heard in a long time, say about five minutes.

  He offered me orange juice.“I’m not a stalker.”

  “Some people have other opinions.”

  “Some people lead people on. I may be in love, but I’m no stalker. I’m just a romantic guy, like to make my woman feel special.” He smiled a slight smile, trying to be friendly. Trying to disarm me. I wasn’t about to be disarmed. “Laurie and I are friends.”

  Yeah, right. Friends.

  “If you’re friends, why don’t you leave her alone when she wants to be left alone?”

  “She doesn’t want to be left alone.”

  “That’s not the way I hear it.”

  “She’s playing hard to get.”

  I was trying to figure out how to get direct answers to questions about stalking. But it was impossible. He was smitten. In his mind, she was playing hard to get. He wouldn’t take no for an answer.

  “We’re friends.”

  “You think that by giving her gifts you can win her?”

  “I would never buy a woman’s love, or interest. I give them to her to show my affection.”

  Affection? Affectation.

  “How’d you meet her?” I knew the answer. I wanted his version.

  “I answered her personal ad in the back of Los Angeles Magazine.”

  I never could understand people placing those ads. Every man is an intellectual hunk with a good sense of humor. Hung, no doubt. Every woman is into long walks on the beach, reading, and gorgeous. Hung up, no doubt. There should be truth in advertising laws about personal ads.

  Was he dangerous? The kitchen didn’t seem to have anything unusual about it. Carving knife set. Everybody has one. I started through the breakfast room to the dining room, hoping to get to the rest of the house. He cut me off again. It wasn’t the time to push it.

  “I should call the cops on you. But I’m fascinated.”

  “Guess I’m not the usual stiff you hang with.”

  “Definitely not. Much more unpolished. More real.”

  “Thanks. I wouldn’t wanna hang with the automatons you hang with.”

  “Oh, I don’t hang with anyone in particular. I’m a self-starter.”

  “Loner.”

  “Not a word I prefer.”

  But a good word to describe you. And maybe the Weasel. That limited the possibilities.

  “Besides, why do I need friends when I have Laurie?”

  Fantasy Island. Goof’s living in a parallel universe.
/>
  There was a glint in his eyes. A tiny speck of light, sparkling at the inside corners. Hard to tell if it was coming from the sun or somewhere inside him. Made him look demoniac. Possessed. Which I was sure he was, if not by the Devil then by devils within himself.

  He started toward me. I wheeled aside, ready. He went past me to the sink. Rinsed his glass.

  “Are you done psychoanalyzing me now?”

  “Sure, I’ll bill you.”

  He didn’t laugh. Didn’t crack a smile. The glint in his eyes grew steely. “I’m not used to being a guinea pig.”

  You smell like one. I didn’t tell him. I wanted to see the rest of his crib. Figured I’d do it when he wasn’t there. Might be of some interest. Tell me more about the Weasel. I could’ve strong-armed the goof. Probably wouldn’t have helped me get any more info from him. Would’ve helped me vent some bile though.

  I was about to leave, turned back. “Did it ever occur to you that Laurie may not be playing a game with you? That maybe she really doesn’t want you.”

  “You just don’t understand, do you?”

  What could I say to that? It was the second time in as many days that someone had said something like that to me. But he was right. I didn’t understand.

  I cut down to Pico, heading east. Things were pretty calm down here in Rancho Park. By about Fairfax, people were running wild in the street. Party time! Sales in almost every store.

  Turned north on Fairfax. Traffic commotion, tie up, near Wilshire. Cars blocking the intersection. Others going around them. No one paying attention to lights.

  Crash. Plate glass shattering.

  Get whitey.

  Get whitey.

  Screams.

  People rushing.

  Angry black faces.

  Shouting.

  Mad brown faces.

  Shrieks of terror.

  Scared white faces.

  Dodging.

  No cops in sight.

  Squeal of brakes.

  Mine.

  Stop now or hit the damn car in front of me.

  Nowhere to turn.

  No way to get around.

  Nissan 300-ZX mid-intersection.

  Lights change.

  No one moves. Cars anyway.

  People scrambling.

  Woman screaming.

  Dragged from car.

  Help. Someone help me.

  Power kick to the belly.

  Grab her purse.

  Rifle it.

  Out of my car.

  Running.

  Hand on the Firestar.

  Two men and a woman on her.

  People here and there on the sidewalk.

  Looking.

  Gaping.

  Gawking.

  No one helping.

  Some cheering muggers on.

  Stomp to the face.

  Blood.

  Glasses broken.

  Moaning.

  Blood.

  Safety off.

  No words.

  Why bother.

  Blam.

  Blam.

  Blam.

  I could have shot them.

  I fired over their heads.

  Crowds scatter.

  No cops in sight.

  Three rounds off. Four to go.

  Gun in right hand.

  Woman in left.

  Grab her license, credit cards. Keys.

  Drag her back to my car.

  Jam in reverse.

  Bumper kiss car behind me.

  Driver’s startled.

  Too scared to get out of his car.

  Pushing him back. My tires slipping on the asphalt.

  He jams it into reverse. Hits car behind him. Everyone’s trying to back up. Not a lot of room. Finally enough for me to back up, ease car to make U-turn.

  Cars on other side of road. But not as bad as my side.

  Make the turn.

  Got a ticket for pulling a U-ey once.

  No ticket this time.

  Woman coughs blood.

  Rented seat. Rented rug of rented car. Bloody.

  Jam it down Fairfax. Back the way I came.

  Double-park across street from Westside Hospital.

  Pistol in belt.

  Take woman with both hands.

  Dodge traffic across Fairfax.

  Honking at me. At my parked car.

  Pull her inside hospital.

  Nobody helps.

  “We don’t have an emergency doctor on duty. No emergency room,” bitch at front desk says.

  “This woman’s dying.”

  Set her down on lobby couch.

  Melodramatic. Only way to get action.

  Still no response.

  “Does she have insurance?”

  Gun flies from belt.

  Smells recently fired.

  Bitch notices.

  Safety still off.

  Barrel jammed on receptionist’s forehead.

  “Best insurance in the world.”

  “I’-I’ll call a doctor.”

  Life during wartime.

  I left the woman at the hospital, a doctor looking at her. At the very least, he said, her nose was busted and she’d have to have her jaw wired. Some fun. Not only free TVs, free-for-all. I didn’t hang around to tell them who I was. No need to get tied to the shooting at Fairfax and Wilshire, even if I didn’t shoot anyone. Probably would have gotten off. Though you don’t know these days. No need to hassle the paperwork. An Alice In Wonderland world, where the good guys are the bad guys and the bad guys good.

  I started thinking about Teddie. I felt numb. Pushed the guilt down inside, in a black hole where the rest of my guilt hid. Where the bile for my father lived. A seething reservoir inside me, waiting to explode.

  I pushed down hard on the accelerator, heading farther west. There wasn’t much traffic and no sign of cops. I could have gone ninety and gotten away with it.

  The office was quiet. No messages. No mail. No nothing. Called Tom Bond at home. His wife said he was on duty. She was worried. I tried to calm her fears. Told her that he’d be all right. That it looked worse on TV.

  I lied.

  She said she’d have him call me if he called her.

  I sat back in my ergonomically correct desk chair, feet on the desk. Which probably defeated the ergonomic design of the chair. Thought about Craylock and the Weasel. Teddie Matson and Pilar Cruz.

  What was there to tie them all together? Both women had been in show biz. High profile targets. Even if Pilar hadn’t quite made it, she had been seen. I sued someone once. Made it to People’s Court. My fifteen minutes of fame. Segment lasted all of ten minutes. People recognized me for weeks afterward. If Pilar was on a couple of commercials that aired constantly, she’d be easily recognizable, especially if someone were looking. Teddie was on a hit TV series. Millions of people all over the country would know her.

  A thought hit me. What if Pilar’s commercials were local? If they weren’t national spots, I could narrow down the search geographically. Of course, that still didn’t mean that her stalker was the same as Teddie’s. It wasn’t much. It was all I had.

  Pulled the Firestar from my belt. Dropped the magazine and replaced it with a fresh, fully-loaded one. I wouldn’t have minded shooting those people, but I didn’t need the paperwork. I also didn’t want to be like Jack in that way. I would have felt justified in killing them, but there’s still a part of you that smarts. It’s never easy killing someone. Some people get used to it. Some have no conscience. Don’t even have to get used to it. It’s just another high.

  I had brought up the box with Pilar’s letters and skimmed through them. Nothing out of the ordinary. Fan mail. Puppy love sentiments. No threats. Nothing bordering on harassment. I was dying to compare notes with Teddie’s fan letters. Then I might be able to make some comparisons that would be helpful. That would have to wait. I turned on the call forwarding on my phone so my calls would be routed to the house. Hit the stairs. Thinking.

/>   I’d have to talk with Ramon and Anna Martinez. I wasn’t looking forward to meeting them. I didn’t think they’d appreciate being questioned by a white man. Especially now. But judging from some of Anna’s personal correspondence with Pilar, I figured if anyone knew her whereabouts it was Anna. Their letters were deep, introspective. Intimate. Almost sexual. Ramon’s notes were scribbled in a near-illegible hand. Talked of love and body parts. Of course, I didn’t have Pilar’s responses to them. Nor her responses to Anna. But it seemed to me that the real relationship here was not Ramon-plus-Pilar, but Anna-plus-Pilar. It was hard to tell if it had ever been sexually consummated. If it wasn’t, I was sure it came close.

  I wanted to find Pilar. Find Teddie’s killer. Keep Craylock off Laurie’s back.

  I wanted penance. Needed it.

  My first act of penance already completed: I didn’t kill those scumbags when I could have and gotten away with it.

  Except for Baron’s raucous greeting, my place was quiet when I got there. Smoke loomed in three directions. The sky was hazy. Gray. Dialed Martin Luther King Hospital. Tiny couldn’t talk. The nurse said he was improving. He’d be able to talk in a day or two.

  I wasn’t home long when the doorbell rang. Who the hell could it be?

  Rita was framed by the door. I was glad to see her. More glad than I showed. I invited her in. We collapsed into each other’s arms.

  CHAPTER 18

  We didn’t say anything. The sun was still high in the sky when we went to bed. Was it love or tension release? We glided in and out of each other in easy, smooth motions. Practiced motions. A thought shot through my mind: what was she doing here? Why had she come back in the middle of a riot?

  What was I doing here, making love—if that’s what it was—to a black woman when blacks and whites were at war with each other? Were we like Teddie in her school play, Romeo and Juliet, Capulet and Montague?

  Would we end up like Romeo and Juliet?

  I put it out of my mind, concentrating instead on the moment. Her eyes, her lips, her skin.

  Her eyes were heavy-lidded. Sultry. Heat-simmered brown embers. What was she thinking? It didn’t matter. We continued our cruise into the sea of Terra Incognita. Black heat. White heat. Until we were both spent.