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  My fingers gently drifted across her caramel-colored skin. Would I be making love to her if her skin was ebony?

  We lay wrapped in each other’s arms, cradling each other tight. Holding strong against the storm raging outside. She my protection, me hers. k.d. lang singing her crystal clear voice out on the CD player, helping to muffle the outside world even more.

  No riots.

  No Teddie.

  No Warren.

  No Jack.

  No Pilar.

  No Laurie.

  No father.

  No black.

  No white.

  “What’re you thinking?”

  “I’m wondering what I’m doing here. Why I came back.”

  “I was wondering that too.”

  “Maybe it’s best not to think about it,” she said.

  “Maybe it’s best not to think about anything.” I bit into her neck. She pulled away.

  “I don’t want to be an ostrich. I hardly know you. Hell is breaking out all over. But do I stay with my mother? Do I go to a friend’s? Do I go home? No. I go to the house of a man I hardly know. A white man. Something’s missing.”

  “You’re being too analytical. Who was it who said ‘don’t be too profound in analyzing history, for often the causes are superficial.’ Maybe you just like me.”

  She tried to stifle a laugh. Couldn’t. “Maybe I do.” This time she didn’t pull away. We drew closer together, if that was possible. No kissing. No anything. Just holding each other tight.

  “I like your house,” she said, finally.

  “It’s solid.”

  “It’s beautiful. Hardwood floors, real plaster walls. Spanish tile in the hall. Tile in the bathroom. Scrollwork along the ceiling.” She knocked on the wall. “Solid? That’s all you can say about it?”

  “Hell, if it wasn’t for my parents, I wouldn’t have this house. Might even be living in a cardboard box or under a freeway off ramp.” I paused, stared at the walls. “This was their house.”

  She heard the guilt in my voice. “They’re gone?”

  I didn’t respond. Looked away.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “Don’t be. You didn’t know them.”

  “Not very nice people, huh?”

  I pulled back. Separated now by a sea of blue sheets. She sat up on one elbow, looking into my eyes.

  “I guess I shouldn’t be talking about that. But my father was no great shakes either. He left when I was fourteen. I was glad to see him go. Used to beat Warren to a pulp just for the fun of it. He was unhappy with his own life, his station in life—couldn’t hold a job. Mom worked. Worked hard. But daddy couldn’t cut it, so he took it out on poor Warren.”

  “Maybe that’s where some of his anger comes from.”

  “He doesn’t blame daddy.”

  “He blames whitey.”

  “Says that if the white man hadn’t held us down none of it would’ve happened.”

  “Why don’t you blame whitey?”

  “Maybe I do.” She looked at me intensely, the brown coals of her eyes challenging me.

  “If you did you wouldn’t be here.”

  There was a long silence, as if she was debating whether or not to come clean, to tell me something. “What’s the point of blaming anyone else? We each of us have to live our own lives. Be responsible for ourselves. No one else can be responsible for us. No one else gives a damn. I’m a black woman trying to make it in a white man’s world. It’s not easy. I’ve seen prejudice. So what should I do? Holler racist.? KKK? Wait for a lynching?”

  “What do you do?”

  “The best damn job I can. Not because I’m black. Not because I’m trying to prove something. Because I’m me. And I have to do the best I can for me. No more. No less. And you know what?”

  “What?”

  “I always get by. Still, I suppose it’s easier for you.”

  “Why, ’cause I’m white? You don’t know anything about me. Nothing at all.”

  “Maybe more than you think.”

  “Nothing.”

  “Then why don’t you tell me.”

  “You sit here spouting off how you don’t care about this and that, about the KKK or racism and all. And then what do you come back with? ‘It’s easier for you.’”

  “I shouldn’t have said it. You’re right and I’m sorry. I would like to know you better. Tell me something you never told anyone else.”

  It took me a while to respond. Took me a while to get the courage up, not just to say it, to admit it out loud: “I’m a fuckup,” I said. “Excuse my language. No, don’t excuse my language. It’s what I am. Might as well call a sp—”

  She laughed. So did I. We moved a little closer again. Not too close, but closer. Less ocean of blue between us.

  “That’s what I am, a fuckup. I’ve fucked up almost everything I’ve tried in my life.”

  “I’ve seen you. You’re a hard working private detective.”

  “Not a very good one.” I was thinking of Teddie more than anything. I didn’t want to tell her. Couldn’t.

  “I see you working your cases—hard.”

  “I try.”

  “You make the mortgage on the house.”

  “Barely. Okay, I’m an okay private dick.”

  “You said ‘almost,’ you fucked up almost everything in your life.”

  “I didn’t fuck up the Navy. In fact, I was damned good there.”

  “Why didn’t you stay in?”

  “My father. He thought I fucked up just by joining the service. Thought I could do better. Like him. Wanted me to be a businessman. But a nine-to-fiver wasn’t for me.”

  “Your heart wasn’t in it.”

  “Damn straight. I did spend some time after college working as an investigator for an insurance company. That’s what gave me the background to become a P.I. But then I decided to go into the Navy.”

  “Why don’t you go back to the Navy?”

  “Too late now. I’ve lost the fire. I could never do what I was doing, at least I don’t think so.”

  “And what was that?”

  “SEAL Team. You know, join the Navy, see the world.”

  “Pretty heavy duty stuff. Does it help you in being a detective?”

  “There’s some crossover stuff and if there is any strong-arming that needs getting done, I can do it.”

  “Before the Navy, did you have a goal?”

  “The Razor’s Edge.”

  “What?”

  “The Razor’s Edge. I wanted to explore the world like Larry Darrell in The Razor’s Edge.”

  “Why didn’t you ?”

  “My dad thought it was a waste of time. I figured a good compromise was the Navy. Thought he’d think I was finally a man.”

  “Why’d you care so much about what he thought? Why were you rebelling so hard?”

  “Nothing I ever did was right. Everything was my fault. Hell, I couldn’t even go to school without a hassle. He wanted me to work for him. When I told him school was my job he beat the shit out of me.” I could feel the veins in my neck sticking out, the blood rushing in my head. My tone got angrier. Louder. Couldn’t control it. “But hell, he was never there when I needed him. He hated the fact that I collected butterflies.”

  “Can’t go on blaming him forever.”

  There was a silence. I was thinking about the Navy. Finally said, “I liked the Navy. Did see a lot of the world. Saw a lot of shit too. I shouldda done my twenty.”

  “You can still see the world.”

  “It’s not so easy. I’ve got the house now. Gotten used to creature comforts. I’m not twenty-one anymore.”

  “Who is? Then be the best damned detective you can be.”

  I didn’t say anything. After several minutes of silence, I turned to her: “I’ll tell you something I haven’t told anyone, not even Jack.” Another silence.“My father’s not dead. He’s in a rest home. Alzheimer’s. I had to put him there two years ago.” I paused, collecti
ng myself. “I never visit him, never call. I just pay the bills.”

  She took me in her arms, holding me close to her breast, stroking my hair. It was comforting. Baron loped back and forth a couple feet away.

  “I always hoped my father would die first. Didn’t happen that way. Mom died in a car accident. Always hoped they’d get divorced. I’d lay in my bedroom and listen to them arguing at night. Bitch this and fuck that. Every bad word I know I learned from him calling it to my mom. I’d pray they’d get divorced. They never did. And he laid the blame for everything that went wrong on me. I was the cause of all their troubles. Never took any responsibility for himself. Never even gave a thought that his temper, his perfectionism, his insecurity, might be the cause of it all. Had to blame someone else. Always. We never got along, my dad and I.”

  “He made you think you’re a fuckup.”

  “What else could I believe? He was my dad.”

  “But that was a long time ago.” She took my hand in hers. “You’re not a fuckup, Duke. I know.”

  She pulled me closer yet, if that was possible. Didn’t say anything, just let me know she was there. I made a promise to myself to be the best damned detective I could be. I made a stronger vow to get Teddie’s killer, no matter what it took, including my own life.

  CHAPTER 19

  Rita didn’t stay long. Just long enough. Soon after she left, I heard someone coming up my walk. Gun in belt, I headed outside. It was Sing, the mailman.

  “Good morning, Mister Rogers,” he said. Baron barked from inside the house, held back by my hand. Sing saw the gun in my waistband. His eyes narrowed, as if he was X-raying it to see if it was loaded.

  “I didn’t think the mail would be delivered today.”

  “Through sleet and snow and L.A. riot,” he grinned. “Actually in some parts of city if they want mail they have go to post office. No delivery. We dedicated. Not loco,” he said in Spanish-tinged Korean-pidgin English and laughed out loud.

  “Multicultural humor,” I said.

  He handed me the mail, which had to be sniffed and approved by Baron. It was pretty thin. Not the usual lot of junk mail and other fun stuff. Mostly bills. I flipped through them as he walked to the next house to bring mail and mirth on a pretty mirthless day. There was one item that wasn’t a bill. A plain white envelope. No return address. My address was neatly typed on it, correct down to the last zip plus four digits. I sliced it open as soon as I got inside with my downsized Ka-Bar look-alike letter opener that Jack had given me. It didn’t say much.

  “Lay off. I know where you live. Let sleeping dogs lie. Or they will lie. You too.”

  That’s all it said. It could have been from anyone. A former client, not all of whom were quite reputable? Someone I’d found for a client? My first thought was the Weasel. But how would he know where I lived? How would he know I was even after him? It wasn’t exactly making the headlines. Next thought was Craylock, but would he have had time to mail a letter? They were the two most recent cases. Neither was exactly a goody-two-shoes. I didn’t give it much thought other than to tell myself I’d have a chat with Craylock one of these days. He hadn’t been violent with Laurie yet. I doubted he’d get violent with me. And I just couldn’t believe the Weasel could find me. Still, if the Weasel had found Teddie what was to say he couldn’t find me?

  The phone rang. I jumped half a foot into the air. Was it the riots, the threat letter? The days of rage? I didn’t know. What I did know was that my nerves were on edge. A glass of straight Scotch would help that.

  “Duke, Duke, Duke, Duke of Earl, Earl, Earl,” the tired voice sang over the phone.

  “Hey, Tom, when’re you gonna get it right? It’s Duke, Duke, Duke, Duke of Rogers, man.”

  Tommy tried hard to laugh. All that came out was a small choke.

  “Having fun?” I said.

  “Hey, the ads said the Sheriff’s would be an adventure.”

  “Kinda like Disneyland?”

  “For the young at heart. Too bad I ain’t so young anymore. Jenny said you called, important.”

  “Could’ve waited till Disneyland closed. I’m on a stalker case. Couple of ’em actually. Wanted to see if you could run some stats for me.”

  “No problem. But you’ll have to wait till the South Central Olympics are over. Computers are all tied up now and much as I’d like to help you and take some stalkers off the streets, it’s low priority now.”

  Crack!

  “What was that?” I said.

  “Gunshot.”

  “I knew that. What’s going on?”

  “Gotta go. I’m at a CP, shouldn’t even be on the phone. Talk to you in a couple days, if I don’t get my ass shot off.” He hung up. I lit out. Wasn’t really sure where I was headed. Didn’t have a plan. I could try to track down the Martinezes. Or I could bring Pilar’s letters down to Mrs. Matson’s and compare and contrast them. That’s what I decided to do. The Martinezes would happen tomorrow. Maybe the riots would cool off by then. I knew the situation at the Matson’s: unpleasant. But I could handle it. The Martinezes were an unknown. They would have to wait.

  Mrs. Matson didn’t seem particularly glad to see me. She also wasn’t particularly unglad. She sat me at the dining room table this time, with a glass of lemonade, and gave me the boxes of Teddie’s correspondence, including the personal stuff. She hadn’t seen Warren since the day before. I was just as glad about that. I had hoped that Rita might be there. She wasn’t.

  The ride down had been uneventful. Still, it seemed like all there was in the city anymore was smoke, sirens and some gunshots, but the police and National Guard were better organized now. It wasn’t like it had been the first day of the riots.

  I poured over the letters, first Pilar’s box—it was smaller. Then Teddie’s boxes. Anything that seemed similar to something in one of the letters to Pilar I put aside. After three or four hours, the double check pile was beginning to grow. There were about a dozen letters or cards in it. And I still had three other boxes of Teddie’s to go through. My eyes were starting to blur. My temples ached. It was after curfew. I didn’t think I’d have much trouble getting home. I’d tell the cops I was stuck somewhere, afraid to come out, and now that I had the chance I was heading home. There were a million things I could make up to tell them. I decided what the hell, I’ll just stay the night, if Mrs. Matson would let me. I didn’t ask her. I just kept working.

  Lots of mash notes. Lots of hearts and flowers and “you’re the one for me” stuff, from both men and women. A few gifts: some flowers, long dead, dried and rotted. Brittle to the touch and falling back to the earth, dust to dust style, when I touched them. Most of the flowers were roses or carnations. But there were two that looked like orchids, one for each woman. Could they be from the same guy? And was he a big spender? I put those cards aside.

  Teddie’s said, “Only being with you can put out the fire in my heart. Sparks fly whenever I see you.”

  Pilar’s, attached to a Smokey the Bear teddy bear, said: “You’ll need Smokey to put out the fire when the sparks start flying between us.”

  Close enough for me. The signatures on each were illegible. Neither had a return address or envelope. I had a friend who did forensic work for the city on occasion. I made a note to call her, stuck these two cards and orchids in my coat pocket.

  Mrs. Matson, in a flowery robe now, poked her head in: “It’s late. Would you like to curl up on the couch, Mr. Rogers?”

  “Maybe in a while. I think I’d like to keep working.”

  “I hope you find something.”

  “Me too.”

  She walked off. “Me too.” She couldn’t know how much. It was my atonement. Atonement for being a lousy detective. For not having my heart in my job. Not doing what I wanted to do. For not living my own life.

  A few minutes later the back door flew open. Warren, gritty with sweat and ash, charged in. He looked at me from the corner of his eye as he barged past, off to some other part of the house. N
ot a word. Not a grunt. No kind of acknowledgment for the white devil in his dining room.

  I kept at my work until I fell asleep around 3:00 a.m. I had tried to stay awake as I didn’t want Warren sneaking up on me. He didn’t. When I awoke again around seven, my gun was still on me. The letters hadn’t been touched. It was only four hours’ sleep. It felt wonderful.

  Mrs. Matson was already in the kitchen. Glorious smells permeated the house. The smells of food that we’re not supposed to eat anymore—real food: bacon, eggs, hash browns, nice and greasy. Love is the food that you put on the table. I wondered why it hadn’t worked for Warren. She came into the dining room. “Breakfast’s almost ready,” she said.

  I was more than ready. Famished. Couldn’t remember the last time I had eaten. She put plates and glasses out on the breakfast room table. I set the silverware. Three places. Mrs. Matson, Warren and me. I squeezed fresh oranges in an electric juicer as she finished up the bacon, eggs and spuds. The bouquet of smells made my stomach growl something fierce. Mrs. Matson smiled at me. I smiled back sheepishly.

  Everything was ready and on the table, enough to feed an army of private detectives.

  “Come and get it,” Mrs. Matson shouted.

  Footsteps echoed throughout the house. Warren padded toward us. Mrs. Matson and I were already seated. Waiting for him before we dug in. He bounded into the room, stopping in his tracks. The expression on his face went from satisfaction to malice. His mother looked at him. “Warren, please,” she said imploringly.

  He shoved his hand deep in a pocket. Instinctively, I reached for the gun in my belt. Didn’t pull it out, just let my hand rest on it. Warren’s eyes smoldered with hate. For me? For himself? He charged through the room, out the back door. A thick silence hung in the air.

  “I’m sorry, Mrs. Matson. I’ll go. He’ll come back when he sees me leave.” I started to get up. She laid a firm hand on my arm.

  “This is not how we treat guests, Mr. Rogers. Especially guests who are trying to help us. Please sit down and enjoy your breakfast. It isn’t often that I go to all this trouble. If he wants to eat he’ll come back.”