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  We discussed Craylock. I told Mary about his house. His obsession with Beatles’ lyrics. His knuckling under and obsequiousness when confronted.

  “I’d like to help you there, Duke. I’m no shrink though. It’s so far out of my area that I don’t have any ideas at all. I’d recommend that Ms. Hoffman move.”

  “She can’t do that. Then he wins.”

  “Why does it always have to be a thing with winning and losing with you men?”

  “That’s not me talking. It’s her.”

  Mary blushed. She tried not to show it. Couldn’t help it. Dead air filled our corner of the arroyo. Finally, she said: “You’re feeling guilty, aren’t you?”

  My head jerked in her direction. She’d hit a nerve. I hadn’t told her my part in Teddie’s death. What the hell was she talking about?

  Fuckup. It raced through my head, swirling, insinuating into every corner.

  Fuckup.

  Fuckup.

  Fuckup.

  Did she know something?

  Was she a mindreader?

  Psychic?

  Racing heart.

  Sweaty palms.

  Tense shoulders.

  Constricting veins.

  Short breath.

  Don’t let her see.

  Don’t let her know.

  Don’t tell her.

  Don’t give it away.

  Fuckup, pal.

  You are a fuckup.

  “What’re you talking about? What kind of guilt?”

  “You think you should have stayed with Ms. Hoffman today?”

  “Yeah, part of me does.”

  “Guilt.”

  “You can’t protect her forever, Duke.”

  “I know. But she came to me for help. I shouldn’t just leave her alone.”

  “She didn’t hire you as a bodyguard. Even if she did, you can’t do it twenty-four hours a day.”

  “I can try. The police sure as hell don’t give a damn.”

  “You have the other case to worry about. Teddie.”

  “Yeah, Teddie.”

  “There was a catch in your voice.”

  “What’re you talking about?”

  “Sounds like you’re taking this Teddie Matson to heart.”

  “It’s just another case.” But I knew it wasn’t, and she probably figured that out too.

  She stared hard into my face. I had to turn away. “Maybe it isn’t Ms. Hoffman you’re feeling guilty about?”

  “Whadda you mean?”

  “Maybe it’s Teddie.”

  “You’re crazy. I came on that case after she was—”

  “Don’t mind me. I like to play little puzzle games in my head. Do it all the time. That’s how I put together pieces of rat turd and pieces of bone and come up with a murderer.”

  “Maybe you can market it as a board game.”

  “It is a good idea, isn’t it?”

  I left Mary wondering if she had more pieces to my puzzle than I knew or wanted her to have. Driving into the city over Coldwater, my mind darted back and forth. I felt like I’d hit a brick wall. Didn’t know where to go from here. Everything was turning into a dead end.

  There was one message on the answering machine: “Hola amigo. Maybe we should talk. Don’t try callin’ me. An’ don’ come to the bar. You do and you’ll never hear from me again. I’ll catch you sooner or later.” The caller didn’t leave his name. It couldn’t have been anyone but Ramon.

  The cordless phone sat on the deck by the pool’s edge as I floated into a Never Never Land of drowning dragonflies, woodrats and Weasels.

  CHAPTER 26

  Ramon had said not to come looking for him. What else could I do? I headed to East L.A. Drove by La Revolución. Circled the block several times. Parked across the street and watched the place for hours. I couldn’t just sit home waiting for a phone call. When he didn’t show at the bar, I drove by his mother’s house. No sign of him there either.

  I was at wit’s end. Didn’t know where to turn. Everywhere were dead-ends and metaphorical streets with no outlets.

  “Fuckup,” I said to myself as I headed back to the westside. “Fuckup. Fuckup,” I shouted. The man in the car next to mine rolled up his window. Did he think I was yelling at him? Did he think I was crazy? Gonna blow him away for breathing? A riot-ravaged citizen who’d lost his marbles?

  Start over. That’s what I had to do. Retrace my steps. Retrace Teddie’s steps. Might she have known the Weasel? Where would they have met? Did he simply see her on TV? It was impossible. I slammed the steering wheel, hard.

  Driving the L.A. streets was like driving through Beirut. Soldiers. Bombed-out buildings. Debris everywhere. Instead of turning off to head home or to the office, I kept going to Fairfax. It was the only thing I could think to do: start over.

  I was in luck—but I certainly wasn’t lucky. Mrs. Perlman was home. Her husband wasn’t. She was wearing one of those old-lady dresses, a midnight blue number with tropical fish on it. Her blue-gray hair was nicely coiffed. Maybe she’d just come home from the beauty parlor. She was running a hose on the bushes in front of her apartment building.

  “Hello, young man.” She remembered me. That was a good sign.

  “Hello, Mrs. Perlman.”

  “Did you find Teddie’s killer yet?”

  The yet cut through my heart like a knife.

  “No. I’m still looking though.”

  “I thought you must be or you wouldn’t be here. Unless you were coming to tell me that you had solved the case.”

  “I’m making some progress. Thought I’d check back with you. See if you remembered anything you hadn’t told me. Or maybe you came across something in her apartment that her family left behind.”

  “I can’t think of anything.”

  “You never saw the man that killed her around here before?”

  “Not before that day.”

  “So you don’t think they knew each other.”

  “Not to my knowledge. Anything’s possible though. I’m not a nosy neighbor.”

  I had my doubts about that.

  “Wait, I just remembered. We did come across some of her things. Put a box in the garage. Her family hasn’t come for them yet.”

  “Mind if I see them?”

  “No. Not at all.” She turned the hose off, led me down the driveway. “Seems like the police aren’t doing much. After the first couple days, they haven’t even been back here.”

  “Why doesn’t your husband want you to talk?”

  “He’s overprotective, the dear.”

  “Maybe he’s afraid you’ll get the credit for cracking the case.” I grinned. She smiled back.

  “I suppose he simply doesn’t want us involved in all the hassles with the police, the media. You know what I mean. But I feel it’s my civic duty. Not to mention a responsibility to Teddie.”

  The garage was dusty. Spider webs filled every corner. Mrs. Perlman pointed to a box on a shelf in the rear. I got it down. Started going through it.

  The contents were ordinary. A book on acting. A small actress’ makeup case. Some stationery. Nothing unusual. Nothing that gave me a hint in any direction. I put the contents back in the box.

  “I could bring these to Mrs. Matson.”

  “Don’t get me wrong, young man. I don’t think that’s a good idea though. It isn’t that I don’t trust you. I think that the Matsons should get it themselves. That way it’s their responsibility in case anything—”

  “I understand.”

  I put the box back on the shelf. We headed up the driveway.

  “Thank you again, Mrs. Perlman.”

  “I’ll let you know if I think of anything. I still have your number.”

  “Can I see her apartment?” Grasping at straws.

  “I’m sorry. It’s rented again. The new tenant has already moved in. There wasn’t anything to see. It was empty. Completely empty.”

  Teddie’s body was hardly cold in the ground and they’d already rented the
place again. There might not have been anything to glean from seeing her apartment again. Didn’t matter. I wanted to see it. Be there. To tell Teddie that I was sorry. Very sorry. And I wanted to visit Teddie’s grave. It would have been cathartic for me. It wasn’t going to happen. At least not now. Right now it was more important to find the Weasel.

  I was about to open my car door: “Did Teddie have a teddy bear?”

  “Oh, why yes. Of course. She had lots of teddy bears. Her fans were always sending them to her. Teddie—Teddy Bear—get it?”

  Just what I needed to hear. “This one looked like Smokey the Bear.”

  “It doesn’t ring a bell. I’m sorry.”

  So was I. I had hoped harder than hell that there’d be some new shred at Teddie’s apartment. Nothing. Fuckup I thought as I drove away.

  I stopped at a gas station for a fill-up. I thought that these small foreign cars were supposed to get such good gas mileage. This one didn’t seem to. Or was I driving more than I thought I was?

  I needed the fill-up because I wasn’t going home. I took another trip through Beirut, U.S.A., heading toward South Central. Toward Mrs. Matson. Warren. Rita.

  I had told Mary that I didn’t want to impose on Mrs. Matson. That wasn’t the whole truth. I was afraid of seeing her. Thought she could read something in my face. Guilt. Responsibility for her daughter’s death. There was another reason: Rita. I’d been avoiding her. I still wasn’t sure why. For some reason, I hadn’t returned her call. Hadn’t called her on my own. It kept gnawing at me. Why?

  The Matson’s neighborhood was peaceful. Quiet. Kids played on front lawns. I parked in front of Mrs. Matson’s. Rang her bell. She answered the door, surprised to see me.

  “Mr. Rogers.”

  Pleasantries were exchanged. She invited me in. We sat in the living room, sipping tea. The house was warm. Cozy. A friendly place to be. A strange feeling came over me. I felt safe there. At home. Like it was my home. Not the house I grew up in, but a place where I could run to escape the outside world and find myself in Leave it to Beaver-land. In the real world my father had been a manipulative bully. But I always had my room. The same room Rita had used as a guest room. The same room we had made love in.

  The conversation with Mrs. Matson was trivial. Superficial. A little awkward. She finally looked me in the eye. “Did you think of something else? Something you might want to look at. Talk about?”

  “I don’t know.”

  A spiritless silence filled the room. The air hung heavy. The walls closed in on me. Mrs. Matson got up from her chair. Came and sat next to me on the sofa. She put her hand on my forearm.

  “We appreciate what you’re trying to do.”

  “I’m not doing it very well.”

  “You can only do your best. If you’re doing that, there is no more.”

  Was I doing my best? I thought I was. But I kept running into blind alleys and dead-ends. I was a fuckup. My dad had been right.

  Right now, Ramon was the only plausible lead I had. And that was probably a dead-end too.

  “I’m doing the best I can. Problem is it isn’t good enough.”

  “You’re following your leads. Talking to people.”

  “Yes.”

  “What else is there to do?”

  Noises in another part of the house. Someone padding around. Warren? Rita?

  I didn’t want to whine and complain. She’d been through enough. “Did Teddie have a teddy bear?”

  “Oh yes, many.”

  “One that looks like Smokey the Bear?”

  “I can’t recall it. She got so many stuffed animals and other gifts, she used to give them away to the local hospitals.”

  The light in my eyes went out. Cold.

  Mrs. Matson continued. “She might have had some things at her apartment that I never saw. Or she might have kept something like that, a special one.”

  “What about the things Warren and Tiny brought back from the apartment? Anything in there?”

  “To be honest with you, I haven’t had the heart to go through all of her things yet. In the boxes I have gone through there were no teddy bears.”

  There was more shuffling in the back of the house.

  “Do you think Warren would talk to me?”

  “I don’t think so. Please don’t take it personally.”

  No, don’t take it personally. He probably treats all white men the same.

  “What about looking through the boxes?”

  “I’m afraid now is not a good time.”

  I figured I shouldn’t take that personally either. Warren, guardian of the boxes, guardian of Teddie, was home. Not a good time to look into them. I thanked Mrs. Matson for the tea. Headed out to my car.

  Guess who was waiting for me curbside.

  “Whyn’t you leave my mother alone? Chill, man.”

  “I’m not bothering you. If she wants to talk to me that’s her business. You hear everything or only the good parts?”

  “She-it. There waddn’t no good parts.” He flashed a toothy smile. “Why you gotta be comin’ back to my hood all the time? Can’t we get no peace from the likes-a you?”

  “Free country. Come to my hood sometime. We’ll talk.” I shoved a business card in his hand.

  “I come to your hood, I get busted. Man don’t like me in yo’ neigh-bo’-hood. Guess it ain’t such a free country at that.”

  “All depends how you see it. Rita doesn’t have a problem.”

  “Rita, she-it.”

  “Tiny either.”

  “Fuckin’ Oreo, man.”

  I walked around to the driver’s side of my rental. “Talking to you is a waste of time. You wanna help me find your sister’s killer, give me a call sometime. You don’t wanna help. That’s okay too.”

  On the way home I stopped at a 7-Eleven, bought some magazines, swung by Martin Luther King hospital. Tiny’s throat was still swollen, but he could talk a little now. And he wasn’t gasping for air.

  “Hey, man, wha’s happenin’?” Tiny jerked his hand up for a high five. I slapped his palm. Held up the magazines for him to see. “Don’t you know niggahs can’t read.”

  “Guess I was misinformed.”

  “Or maybe you figured I could just look at the pictures.”

  “Yeah, that’s right.” I slapped the magazines on his bed. “You’re looking pretty good. What’re you doing in bed on a nice day like this?”

  “Man, it’s the nurses. They won’t lemme leave. Just love ol’ Tiny.”

  “When are you getting out?”

  “They won’t tell me. From what I hear my business is still standing.”

  “There’s a few of ’em.”

  “Not many. Crazy business all this.” He pointed up to the TV. “Man, I didn’t even have to watch it on the tube. All I had to do was look outside my window.”

  “How’s the food?”

  Tiny looked at me. Unsmiling. The corners of his mouth and eyes started to bend. He began laughing. Hard. Harder. “It ain’t soul food, that’s for sure.”

  When I got home, there was another message from Ramon on the machine. “Fuckup,” I shouted, pissed at missing the call again, slamming the machine into the wall.

  CHAPTER 27

  There’s always a scene in B-Westerns where the cowboys or the cavalry are trekking through a craggy ravine or the desert flatlands, a ridge of mountains in the background. It’s hot. Dusty. And silent. One tyro always says something like, “Sure is quiet out there. Indians must be miles away.” The grizzled old scout comes back with,“Too quiet.” He scans the horizon. Sure enough, there’s a horde of Indians on the move. Or looking down on the troop from the ridge above. That’s how I felt. After picking up the pieces of the answering machine, I sat on the living room sofa. It was too quiet. Much too quiet. None of the usual neighborhood noises. I sat for at least ten minutes. Not a sound. Not the breathing of the wind or the tinkling of windchimes. No music from down the street. No traffic noise. Utter silence. It was eerie.
Otherworldly.

  Someone was watching, breathing down my neck. I checked the perimeter of the house. Secure. The grounds. Same. It was making me crazy. It felt like I was being stalked.

  Ribbons of sun bled in through the windows. I thought about Baron. He had been a great companion and friend. I’d raised him from a pup. He had wandered up to my door, cold, hungry. His coat was mangy. I took him in. We adopted each other. I took him to the vet. Took care of him. He also took care of me. The feeling I had now was the same empty feeling I’d had when I discovered Baron’s body.

  I felt the presence of someone else. I walked the house back and forth, checking every room. Every closet and window. The only sound was my shoes squeaking on the hardwood floors.

  I patrolled the yard again, looking in and under bushes, behind everything. In the garage. Even inside the incinerator. Nothing. I was alone. But it didn’t feel that way.

  Deidre Ireland—could it possibly be her real name?—was one of the biggest TV producers in Hollywood. You could tell that by her office—huge. Separate sitting and work areas. Mahogany walls. Plush carpet. Three TVs, four VCRs. I wondered if any were from the recent street sale. My appointment had been at 11:00 a.m.. She was there. Didn’t allow me entry till almost noon. If it had been for anything other than learning about Teddie I would have split long ago or I would have barged into her inner sanctum, telling her what a hypocrite I thought she was. But then this was Deidre Ireland. Big TV producer. Produced both of Teddie’s shows, Holier Than Thou and Day Timers. Major contributor to the Cause of the Month Club. Major union backer, except on her own set, where she busted the union, kicked them out and hired scabs.

  She pursed her thin lips, swept back her limp brown hair and stared at me across the great divide of her table. “Mr. Rogers, as I told you on the phone, I’m not sure I can really offer anything on your investigation.”

  “Just a few questions.”

  She sighed loudly. I wanted to pick up the Emmy on her desk. Crash it through her plate glass window. Not only for her hypocritical politics, but for the lousy TV shows she foisted on the public. Remembering what Rita had said, I wanted to ask her if her kids went to public or private schools. I bit my tongue, literally.