White Heat Read online

  There was always the possibility that some maniac had done Baron. That was the least likely possibility. A maniac doesn’t go around with cyanide. He would have cut the dog’s throat or ripped his eyeballs out with his bare hands. Maniacs were at the low end of the totem pole.

  The phone rang. I gathered up the papers, ran inside. Ramon. It had to be Ramon.

  “Hello, Duke. This is Lou.”

  CHAPTER 29

  My heart dropped. Almost stopped. Lou could only want one thing.

  “Time’s up.”

  “I need a few more days.”

  “It’s always a few more days with you, Duke.”

  “A couple days. I’m getting close.”

  “I’m getting uncomfortable. The police should know what’s going on.”

  “Lou, I could lose my license.”

  “And I could lose my job. You’re not getting anywhere.”

  “I am. It hasn’t been easy, but I’m finally making some progress. Don’t cut me off now. The police’ll always be there.”

  “The trail’ll be cold.”

  “The stuff I give them will warm it up for them, if it gets to that point.” I thought about telling her that I was being stalked now. Get some sympathy. If it were true, I might have said something. Without proof, there was no point. Lying wasn’t my forte. Silence. She was softening.

  “I don’t know why I let you talk me into these things.”

  “Because I take you to El Coyote.”

  “That’s as good a reason as any. I’ll give you a few more days, but I really am getting nervous. The cops are getting nowhere. They might have information you don’t. Don’t you have a friend on the force?”

  “Yeah, but he’s been kinda busy lately.” My voice trailed off.

  “Well, good luck.”

  “I’ll need it.”

  More silence. “I thought you were getting hot.”

  “I am, but I ain’t there yet. Can always use luck.”

  We said our goodbyes. I felt as if I’d been reprieved from a jail sentence. Time to get moving.

  Should I hire an answering service? They could keep Ramon on the line while they beeped me. Sounded like a good idea. The Yellow Pages were full of them. Eenie meenie miney moe, Larry, Shemp and Curly Joe. I needed one that could take my MasterCard number over the phone, set me up right away. Found it, Diane’s Dial. Cute. They’d have me set up within the next couple of hours and I could stop by to pick up a beeper. They were expensive. The Weasel’s money would cover it. The plumber would have to wait.

  Jack called. “Quiet as a mouse, buddy.”

  “How’s she feeling?”

  “Scared.”

  “You gonna be there tonight?”

  “I feel rejected, man. She said she could handle it alone.”

  “I thought you said she was still scared.”

  “Yeah, man. I think she wants to try it on her own. Knows she can’t have someone babysitting her all the time.”

  “It’s like the toothache that goes away when you go to the dentist’s office. Maybe I’ll stop by there later. Adios.”

  “Hey, buddy, sleep with one eye open.”

  Jack always slept with his eyes open. Spooky. He wasn’t going to let anyone sneak up on him. To look at him you’d have thought he was dead. To approach him, you could easily have your series canceled.

  Dropped by Diane’s Dial. A hole in the wall in a medical building in Beverly Hills. Several operators busy taking calls. Jeremiah, he of the blue suede shoes—for real—gave me my beeper, showed me how to use it. There was no Diane. Ever.

  For the first time in a couple days it didn’t seem like anyone was following. Guy had to sleep sometime. I felt free.

  Laurie wasn’t home, must have still been at work. Her house looked still. No missives or fancy-wrapped packages on the porch. Of course, she might already have taken them in. Doors secure. Windows locked. Her work wasn’t too far away. I found a phone booth in a gas station. The payphone—I needed a car phone—smelled of dried urine and God knows what else. I didn’t want to know. The receptionist at Laurie’s office put me on hold. Laurie took my call immediately. Insisted she wanted to try it alone that night. I gave her the beeper number and told her if she called my home or office to let it ring at least seven times. If I didn’t pick up, it would switch over to the service, who could also ring through to the beeper, saving her an additional call.

  Streets almost back to normal. Traffic bursting up to the curbs. People a little more courteous. Afraid to run a red light or cut someone off. Afraid of getting shot.

  Beeper beep. Anticipation. I read out the number of the person who called. Familiar digits. Familiar warmth. Rita. Glad I’m in the car. Afraid to call her. Why?

  Where to go? Head to East L.A. so that if Ramon calls I’ll be close by. No. Heart racing. Hands drumming steering wheel. Driving in circles. Head swimming. Pull over to the side of the road. Relax. Don’t forget to breathe.

  Don’t forget to breathe.

  Silver shadows.

  Rearview mirror.

  Gleaming chrome.

  Snarling black enamel.

  Pulls to the curb.

  Spaces behind me.

  Clutch the wheel.

  Squeezing tight.

  Tail?

  Sitting in his car.

  Not moving.

  View blocked.

  Cars in-between.

  Sitting.

  Sitting.

  Tail.

  Angry fingers.

  Grasping gritty steel.

  Safety off.

  Poised.

  Delicate balance.

  The waiting game.

  Make my move.

  Let him make his.

  Waiting.

  Biding time.

  Tension fills.

  Angry blood.

  Coursing veins.

  Hold steady.

  Steady now.

  Ditch the car.

  Roll to the street.

  Crouching run to his car.

  Yank open driver’s door.

  Startled look.

  Wrench him from the car.

  Throw him against hood.

  Spread eagle.

  Frisk.

  Who are you?

  Who the fuck are you?

  Why are you following me?

  I’m not following you. Never seen you before in my life.

  Relieve him of his wallet.

  William D. Kinnear.

  What’s your business here?

  Fuller Brush Man. Are you a cop?

  Shut up. This isn’t a residential neighborhood.

  I’m stopping to pick up a pair of shoes.

  Search his pockets. Find the receipt.

  Then what were you sitting in your car for?

  Since when did that become against the law?

  Don’t let me catch you behind me again.

  Walk away.

  Paranoid motherfucker.

  Don’t take the bait.

  Get in the car.

  And drive.

  Don’t forget to breathe.

  I was getting as paranoid as Laurie. It scared me. There probably wasn’t anyone following me. There was nothing objective to support that theory. The case—cases—were getting to me.

  C’mon and beep you damn thing.

  Beep, Goddamnit.

  Beep.

  Back to the office. Clean out old files. Dust the desk. Windex the windows. Keep busy. Nervous energy.

  Someone on the stairs. Heading down the hall. Shadow cuts across the pebbled glass.

  Ready.

  Waiting.

  Safety off.

  Cocked and locked.

  Weasel?

  Stalker?

  My stalker?

  Front office door swings open.

  Framed by the door:

  Warren.

  I visually scanned him for weapons. Hands empty. No baggy pants today. He had dressed for the white man’s hoo
d. Slacks and a sport shirt. Shiny black shoes. Overly shiny. I could’ve used a pair of sunglasses. No jacket. No place to hide a gun, unless it was a small one. I kept my eyes on his hands.

  Watch what people do, not what they say.

  “I’m clean.” He watched me watch him. Held his hands out, palms up. “Left the Uzi in the car.” Didn’t even crack a smile.

  “I see you made it all the way up here without the man busting you.”

  “The man. Chill, man. Don’t try to talk like us okay. You’ll never keep up. No one talks like that anymore.”

  “Fine. We’ll talk straight English.”

  “White man’s English.”

  “Call it what you want. We have to settle on something. You don’t want me talking your language.”

  “For one, you don’t know it. For another, you steal everything we have. Leave us our language. Hell, Vanilla Ice. That’s a rapper? What mean streets he grow up on?”

  “I don’t know. Plenty of white kids have their own mean streets.”

  “Ain’t no mean streets like nigger mean streets.”

  “All right. Let’s get down to business.”

  We walked through the outer office and into the inner sanctum. He sat in my chair behind the desk.

  “If you’re waiting for me to tell you to get out of there, you’ll be waiting a long time. That’s the most uncomfortable chair in the place.” I sat on a wing chair in front of the desk, right where the Weasel had stood. “You’re the man now.”

  “The seat of power.” He spun in the chair.

  “Not much power here.”

  “You white. You got power.”

  “I don’t buy it. Not today.”

  “You’re as prejudiced as the rest.” His eyes roamed my office. There wasn’t much there to scream power or anything else.

  “’Cause I don’t agree with you? That’s an excuse.”

  “I been hearin’ excuses all my life.”

  “I don’t give a shit.”

  “That’s the problem.”

  “That’s not what we’re here to talk about.”

  “What are we here to talk about?”

  “I don’t know. You tell me. You came to me.” I didn’t need his BS. If he wanted to talk he would, but I was getting tired of his games.

  Silence.

  “Why you so interested in my sister’s murder?”

  “It’s a job, man.”

  “Figures. Tha’s all it is to you, man. A job. Wouldn’t be helpin’ no niggers ’less there’s money in it.”

  “I don’t have time for this. Whadda you want?”

  “You’re tryin’ to find out who killed my sister. I want to find out who killed her too.”

  “A partner.”

  “Ain’t talkin’ no partner shit. But you need me to help you.”

  It’s about time is what I wanted to say to him. I held it in.

  “But first I want to know why you’re so interested. Yeah, it’s a job. Who you working for? She’s just another dead Nee-gress. No big deal.”

  “Who I’m working for is privileged information.”

  “So you’re doing it just for the money.”

  “It’s more than that.”

  “Ah, the Great White Knight. Great White Hope.”

  “Talking to you makes me feel like the Great White Dope. Maybe I should just give up. Let the guy run.”

  “It don’t seem like just the money with you. Seems more. Personal.”

  I hid behind a veil of chatter and officiousness. His dark brown eyes tore holes in my veil. But he said, “I know, man, it’s just a job.”

  “Listen, Warren, I want justice.”

  “Noble words, man. So did we when those cops got off.”

  “You keep coming back to that stuff.”

  “That stuff is our lot in life. Okay, if you want to help—noblesse oblige and all that—who am I to say no. Didn’t know a nigger knew such big words, huh?” He’d lost his street accent.

  I hadn’t responded to his speech in any way. The veil was still drawn. “You know what your problem is. You can’t stand being treated like a human being by a white man. You want to be treated like a nigger so you can go around pissed off all the time.”

  He jumped from his chair. I didn’t get up. I could feel his hate. It grabbed me by the throat and wouldn’t let go. I glared back. A Mexican standoff, except neither of us was Mexican.

  “You don’t have to like me Warren ’cause I’m white or ’cause I’m a private dick or ’cause of the way I part my hair. But we are after the same things. Might as well work with each other instead of against.”

  “You’re right, I don’t have to like you,” he said and I could see a softening in his eyes. I didn’t think we’d ever be friends, but we didn’t have to have our knives unsheathed either. “But we are after the same thing. Sort of.”

  His eyes were tentative. Debating. His hand shot out for me to shake. We would never be friends. At least we didn’t have to be enemies.

  “What can I do to help?” His voice cracked. The helpless squeak of a small child who’d held in a ton of hurt not knowing how to express it. He wasn’t about to unload on me, not in any meaningful way. At least we’d moved closer together.

  It took about five minutes to tell him about the teddy bear, the handwriting. Ramon. Pilar. How I’d like to find her. I didn’t tell him I came upon the Weasel’s piece of paper.

  “Don’t remember anyone named Ramon. And she had lots of stuffed animals. Lotta teddy bears. Don’t know about Smokey. So many things. I can tell you it wasn’t with the stuff we took from her apartment. I’ll look around the house, see if there’s anything there. Teddy bears. Notes from fans. Anything looks interesting, I’ll give you a call.”

  “Thanks, Warren.” For the first time, I felt hope. I gave him the beeper number. “Call any time, day or night. I’ll come down and pick the stuff up.”

  “You don’t wanna come to my neighborhood at night. Not even when there ain’t no disturbance.”

  I was waiting for him to bring up Rita. He didn’t. We tried for some normal conversation, sports. Movies. It was almost pleasant. So pleasant you could cut the air with a cleaver.

  He got up to leave. “Any white guy that would hang around my neighborhood during the rebellion must have balls.”

  We shook again. It was warmer this time, for both of us. Not friendly. Detente.

  As he walked through the outer office, I asked, “Do you like dogs?”

  “Say what?”

  I didn’t want to confront him directly. I figured if he was guilty it would show. What showed was that he thought I was out of my mind for bringing it up.

  He stepped out into the hall, then turned back. “Did you know Teddie?”

  “Never met her.”

  No point in staying at the office. Things were quiet. With the beeper I was in touch everywhere. Next thing I’d have to get was a cellular phone so I could order pizza while driving. On the way to the market, the beeper beeped. It was the answering service; I stopped at the first payphone. They said they had a caller on hold for me. They put me through.

  A hazy voice answered.

  It was familiar.

  CHAPTER 30

  “Hola, amigo.”

  MacArthur Park is midway between Hancock Park, not a park but an upper class neighborhood, and downtown L.A., a neighborhood in search of an identity. When I was a boy, my grandparents used to take me to the park. We’d rent rowboats and paddle through the lake, tossing bread crumbs to the birds. The park is a different place today. You can still rent paddle boats—if you want to paddle across the lake while talking to your dealer. Sometimes on Saturdays or Sundays immigrant families still try to use it as a park. Most of the time, it’s a haven for pushers, crack addicts, hookers and worse. Even the police don’t like treading there. If they were scared, who was I to play Rambo?

  The rental car slid easily into a parking place on Alvarado. Click—locked. Of course that wouldn�
�t keep out anyone who wanted to get in. The Firestar was in my belt, under a loose fitting Hawaiian shirt that was left untucked. Wet grass sucked under my feet. As long as it didn’t suck me under I was okay.

  “Meet me by the statue of el general,” Ramon had said. The statue of General Douglas MacArthur is in the northwestern corner of the park where there was, naturally, no place to park. Cutting through the park was not a good idea. I walked along Wilshire Boulevard, past garbage and litter and clusters of men, teens really. Some young men in their early twenties, in white tank top undershirts and baggy pants, charcoal hair slicked back off their foreheads. One man danced a nervous jig by himself in a corner of the pavilion building. Crack dancing.

  No one approached me to buy or sell drugs. Probably thought I was a narc. Maybe saw the silhouette of the Star. MacArthur had seen better days, both the park and the statue. Graffiti camouflaged the general’s stern visage. No one there cared who he was or why there was a park named after him.

  No Ramon.

  I stood on the corner. Waiting. Trying to look nonchalant. A black-and-white cruised slowly by. Mirrored eyes scrutinizing. What’s the white man doing there? Is he buying drugs? Do they see the gun? Were they calling for backup? Fingering their triggers? Seconds passed like hours. The car drove by. Gone. I felt lucky. Luckier than I had walking the length of the park without getting mugged.

  “Amigo.”

  “Ramon.”

  He stood behind the statue, signaling me to join him.

  “We finally connect, uh, man?”

  Nod.

  “You must be pretty desperate to be lookin’ me up.”

  I was, but I didn’t admit it.

  “I usedta hang here. No more. That’s why I figured i’s a good place to meet. Guys I hang with now don’t come down here an’ I don’ want ’em seein’ me talkin’ with you. Used to be a nice park.” His arm swept across sooty gray water and expanse of green lawn covered with multi-colored garbage. For my money it hadn’t been a nice park for at least twenty years, maybe more. “Let’s make it quick,” he said.

  “Ball’s in your court.”

  “Wadda ya wanna know? Whachu want with my sister? With Pilar Cruz?”