White Heat Read online

  The water in the courtyard pool was black. Looked like it hadn’t been cleaned in years. Mosquitoes might have liked it. No one else.

  Number seven was ground floor, rear. The curtain in the front window might once have been white, maybe off-white. Now it was the same color as the pool water. The knocker was loose on its hinge, but it worked.

  No answer.

  I tried peeking in the window. He had the curtains taped at the edges. What the hell was he doing in there?

  Knocked again.

  A neighbor came out. “You are looking for Mr. Jim Colbert? Yes?” he said in a thick Russian accent.

  “Da,” I said. Couldn’t resist.

  He chuckled. “Da, da. Ver-ry good.”

  “Yeah, I’m looking for Jim.”

  “He is at working now.”

  Pretty early for a lot of jobs. “Do you know where he works?”

  “Where he is working?”

  “Da, where he is working?”

  “He is working at produce section of market in Beverly Center. Starts to working very early. Ver-ry early.”

  Before leaving, I learned that Colbert had only been living there a few weeks. That he had a car and was a good neighbor. From the William Tell to here. I didn’t know if that was a step up or down. Before the motel, Santa Barbara. Or something in between? Didn’t matter. I was onto him now.

  “Thank you.” I ditched for the street and my car. The Beverly Center—seemed I was spending a lot of time there lately and I hated the place, wouldn’t shop there for all the diamonds in South Africa—was only a couple minutes away. The market was at street level, with its own little parking section. I pulled in. It was half full. I parked near the front door, in a loading zone. Someone started yelling at me to move.

  “No speak English,” I said in an accent from a world of my own making. He threw his hands up and walked away. Inside the store, I headed for the produce section. In the back, someone was putting lettuce out. I could tell it was a man. No more than that.

  I approached. Fingering the Star under my windbreaker.

  The man turned around. Strike one. Not the Weasel.

  “Can I help you?” he said.

  “Does Jim Colbert work here?”

  “Yes, if there’s anything I can—”

  “No thank you. Is he in today?”

  “He’s in back. Are you the friend who’s going to help him move?”

  “Move?”

  “Today’s his last day. Didn’t even give two weeks’ notice. Hell, he only worked here a few weeks. That’s like a lot of them today, they just don’t got no pride in their work.”

  Must’ve killed Teddie on his lunch hour. Plenty of time to do it and get back.

  He stuck his hand out. “I’m Terry Lanton, produce manager.”

  “Nice to meet you.” I headed for the “Employees Only” door.

  “I’m sorry, but you can’t go back there.”

  Before I got there, a cart pushed the swinging door open. Wider. It was him—pushing the cart. We stood about twenty-five feet apart, staring each other down. It must have lasted all of a half second. Seemed like half an eternity .

  Then he bolted. Back the way he came, shoving the cart in the door at an angle that made it hard to push out of the way. I pushed. It didn’t go. I flew across it, knocking tomatoes and avocados in every direction.

  “What’s going on here?” Lanton’s voice faded in the background.

  The Weasel ran through the backroom, out onto the loading dock. Jumped into the parking lot and ran for his car. I had to make a split-second decision: get in my car to chase or try to stop him from getting to his. The decision was made for me. He was already pulling out of his parking place in his lumbering old Monte Carlo.

  I vaulted onto the hood of his car, trying to hold onto the side mirror on the driver’s side. He bashed my hand with a large flashlight. I held on. He kept bashing. I rolled off. Got to my feet and ran for my car.

  He crashed the wooden gate arm. I silently thanked him for that as that would be one less dent to pay for on the rental car.

  He tore out onto La Cienega, heading north. The light changed. I caught the red. I did what so many other L.A. drivers had been doing lately—I ran it. Nearly hit a cross-traffic cement mixer. I figured it would have been better than hitting a carload of gang bangers.

  At Sunset he turned right, heading for Hollywood. Where were the damn cops now? Nowhere in sight. We dodged in and out of traffic to Western where he headed north, up into the Hollywood Hills and Griffith Park. I didn’t know if he knew where he was going, but heading up the winding roads of the park wouldn’t get him anywhere, except maybe to the Observatory.

  He couldn’t know where he was going. I think he was trying to hit the freeway and took a wrong turn. We chased up the backroads of the park, past the boy toys sunning themselves on the hoods of their cars, waiting for another boy toy to pick them up.

  Finally, we turned into the Observatory parking lot. He headed around one side of the circular driveway. I cut the other way, heading toward him, hoping we’d meet at some point. If not, he just might get all the way around and take the other road down.

  I gunned it around the circle. He was coming for me. A school bus was unloading children near the entrance to the building. I stopped, not wanting to hit any kids. The Weasel kept coming from the other side. Shit—I hoped he wouldn’t hit anyone. A teacher saw us coming and hurried the kids out of the way.

  He came flying around the circle in one direction.

  Me in the other.

  Engines gunning.

  His old Monte Carlo with the big V8.

  Me in my little Toyota rental.

  A hair’s breadth before we passed, I cut in front of him. He played chicken and ditched onto the sidewalk. He thought he could go around me.

  No way.

  He bottoms out.

  Fishtails.

  Hits the statue in front of the Observatory.

  People running back.

  Trying to get away from us.

  I jam on the brakes.

  Stick it in park and jump out.

  He runs around the building.

  I follow.

  Star out.

  A park ranger comes around the building.

  The Weasel barrels into him.

  Knocks him down.

  I jump over him.

  Keep on running.

  If the Weasel keeps on this way, he’ll circle to the front of the Observatory.

  A mother tries to pull her little boy down from an observation telescope.

  She yanks the boy hard.

  They fall back into the Weasel.

  Knock him to one knee.

  He gets up.

  It’s enough time.

  I catch him.

  He throws a weak right.

  I block.

  Counter with a left.

  Square on the jaw.

  He stumbles.

  Kicks me in the groin.

  I drop to my knees.

  He takes off.

  I catch his pant leg.

  Tumble him.

  We roll on the ground.

  The ranger limps toward us.

  The Weasel throws me.

  Jumps the wall.

  Into the bush below the Observatory.

  I follow.

  Jumping.

  Rolling.

  Down the hill.

  He limps a few yards ahead of me.

  I run down the hill.

  Jump off a rock point.

  Dive for him.

  If I miss it’s the end of me.

  He stumbles.

  I land on him.

  We roll into a tree.

  Arms flailing.

  Legs kicking.

  I’m on top of him.

  He’s face down.

  I’m about to use some of that old SEAL training.

  Break his neck.

  No. Stop.

  The ranger shouts.


  I stop.

  Pull the Weasel to his feet.

  This is your lucky day, pal.

  He snorts for air.

  The ranger took my gun. I tried to proffer my P.I. ID to him. He didn’t want to see it. Held a gun—my gun—on both of us, while he fished out his cuffs.

  “We won’t be able to climb up,” the Weasel said, out of breath. The ranger looked up toward the Observatory. No trail. Just scree and scrub. Steep. He put the cuffs back in their holster, motioned us forward, upward with the gun. Escorted the Weasel and me up the hill. I helped him drag the Weasel, telling the ranger he was a wanted fugitive. Feigning breathlessness so I wouldn’t have to say anymore.

  “I’ll get you,” Colbert said to me. “I can, you know. I’ll tell everyone, the papers, TV, everyone what a hero you are.”

  We climbed over the wall, back onto the Observatory platform. The ranger cuffed the Weasel, held the gun on me. Didn’t trust either of us. Sirens wailed in the background. Cops on the way. Never there when you need them.

  The ranger, the Weasel and I headed toward the front of the Observatory. The ranger had one hand on the Weasel’s cuffed left arm, the other holding my own gun on my back. He was pushing us forward. A crowd of children stared at us as we walked by. The Weasel looked down at them. The ranger kept pushing us forward.

  The Weasel broke free, ran for the wall. Jumped to it and tottered along until he came to the point where the ground below was farthest from the top of the wall. The ranger and I chased after him. We almost got to him. He jumped. We were too late.

  A piercing scream wrenched the air as the body landed on the hard ground below. A snap. We could hear it all the way at the top of the wall.

  The ranger and I scurried over the wall to the twisted body below. It was too late.

  I hoped it didn’t make the news before I had a chance to talk to Rita. If she had to find out, I wanted to be the one to tell her.

  CHAPTER 37

  I had wanted to kill the Weasel, not because I was angry at him, but so he couldn’t talk. So Rita wouldn’t find out the part I’d played in Teddie’s death. The ranger’s “no” had stopped me, but I think I would have stopped anyway. I hope so. Killing him would have been the chicken-shit’s way out. The fuck-up’s way.

  He died of a broken neck. His own making. With his hands cuffed he couldn’t break the fall when he jumped and landed on his neck. Was it intentional—a way to escape jail or was it an accident?

  Between Sergeant Webb’s and Tom Bond’s vouching for me, the cops didn’t file a weapons charge for the Star. I was lucky.

  Mrs. Perlman and the gardener ID’d the Weasel as the man who had murdered Teddie. People were treating me like a hero. The news media wanted interviews. I declined. They videoed me entering and exiting the police station to give my story. Camped out in front of my house, hoping I’d give them a few words of wisdom. Jack came by and we watched old black and white movies on American Movie Classics and had a few beers. Didn’t say much.

  The phone was ringing off the hook. Reporters, media people. Hollywood producers. I wasn’t answering, letting the service screen the calls. I didn’t want to be a hero. Didn’t feel like one. I had wanted to make amends to Teddie and her family for having taken a quick two hundred-fifty bucks on a scut job and having fucked up. Nothing would ever bring her back. But I felt I had evened the score somewhat.

  When I checked in for messages late in the afternoon, there had been separate messages from Mrs. Matson and Warren, thanking me. Warren even partially apologized for his behavior. Chagrined, the operator read me the message he’d left verbatim: “You didn’t do too bad for a white guy. I owe you one, honky.” I thought the honky was affectionate. I wanted to believe it was. It sounded almost like an apology. But I didn’t want his apology. Didn’t need it. He didn’t owe me anything. And I hoped I was square with him and his mother now, even though they didn’t know the whole story. I hadn’t found Anna and Pilar. I hoped they’d see the story in the papers or on TV and feel comfortable enough to come out of hiding.

  Lou had also left a message congratulating me and reminding me about El Coyote. The one message I was hoping for wasn’t there.

  A few minutes later, the phone rang through. It was one of the service operators. “Mr. Rogers, there’s a call on the line I thought you might want me to put through. She says she’s a close friend of yours. Her name is Rita Matson.”

  The reporters out front didn’t realize who she was and let her through the crowd. “Probably thought I was the maid,” she said with a hint of bitterness, then a smile. Jack laughed. Too hard. The smile faded from Rita’s lips. She stood by the back door, her dark hair silhouetted by the golden-hour sun streaming in through the pane at the top of the door. It was awkward. I could say that was because of Jack being there. It wasn’t. It would have been awkward anyway.

  “It’s good to see you again,” Jack said, gathering his overweight kit bag.

  “Duke told me on the phone that you helped him. Thank you.” She put her hand out. Jack took it. Shook.

  “Segue,” he said, disappearing out the back door. If anyone could handle the media bloodsuckers, Jack could. If they pissed him off enough, he might use them for target practice.

  The sound of a Harley revving. He was gone. There was still a pall of uneasiness between us. The air felt heavy.

  “Would you like something to drink?”

  “No thanks. Where’s Baron?” she said, looking around.

  I explained what had happened and that I still wasn’t sure who had done it.

  “I’m sorry. Everybody’s losing something these days.”

  We retreated to the living room, sat on opposite ends of the couch. The room was gloomy. The curtains were closed so I wouldn’t have to see the leeches on my front lawn. At least they weren’t making a lot of noise.

  I wondered if she knew. If my guilt had shown and she’d known all along. I didn’t think so. Didn’t want to ask.

  “My whole family is grateful to you,” she said, tentatively.

  They shouldn’t be.

  “I’m glad I could help. Still, it was my job.”

  “You attacked it with more energy than most people put into a job. Do you treat all your cases that way?”

  I didn’t want to respond to that. Thought I’d switch subjects. “I’m sorry I didn’t return your calls more promptly.”

  “I thought you might be avoiding me. ’Cause of the black-white thing. I didn’t want to believe that, so I made up my mind that you were busy working on the case.”

  “I was. I’ve been all over. Calexico. Reno. Santa Barbara.”

  “I read the police account in the paper. Don’t you want to talk to the press?”

  “Fifteen minutes of fame just isn’t enough,” I gave her a half smile. “Besides, they don’t want the real story, they want something they can put on Hard Copy. Sensational. It was nothing special.”

  She moved closer, brushed her finger gently along my swollen lip. “Nothing special.”

  “All part of the job.”

  “That’s what I’m still curious about, who were you working for on this job?”

  “You know I can’t tell you.”

  “Confidentiality and all that.”

  “It could just be a friend of hers. Someone who wanted to know.”

  “It wasn’t the studio.”

  “I never said it was.”

  She was making me suspicious. There was no way for her to know the truth, of course, but the more she talked the more it seemed like she had figured it out. If not completely, at least partly. I thought I was pretty good at playing poker. Maybe not as good as I pretended to myself. Or maybe there was so much guilt it couldn’t help but show through.

  I put my arm around her, tried to pull her closer. She squirmed. Shrugged it off. She grew colder. The warmth was gone from her eyes, mouth, voice.

  “What’s wrong?” I stood up.

  “Why’re you putting your arm
around me?”

  “I didn’t know it was a crime. In fact, I thought you kind of liked it.”

  “You ignore me for days. Don’t respond to my calls.”

  “I was working the case.”

  “Bullshit.”

  “I got the guy, didn’t I?”

  “Yes, and I am grateful for that. But were you working the case twenty-four hours a day? Didn’t you know I wanted to talk to you? Why would I have called so many times?”

  “I’m sorry, I—”

  “I don’t want to hear it. I think I know why you were avoiding me. And now it’s all over, and you’re acting sweet and all, but distant. The case is over. Why the distance?”

  “Just coming down from a rough few days.”

  “You know what your trouble is, Duke. You’re not honest. Not with me. Not even with yourself.”

  “What’re you talking about? What else am I supposed to do?” My voice was tense, anger-filled.

  Now she stood. Each of us at opposite ends of the couch. Leaning forward, in near-pugilistic stances.

  “Now that it’s all over, things are quieting down. Oh never mind.”

  “What? Tell me what you’re talking about.”

  “Am I your nigger bitch? Was I? Good for a roll in the hay during the riot?”

  “You’re crazy.”

  “Am I? I don’t hear from you, you don’t return calls. Now the riot’s over you don’t need my—I think it made you feel good to have a nigger-woman during the riots. Made you feel good and liberal. It was also a shelter for you, like Tiny. Hey, if you’re walking through Niggertown with Tiny maybe you’re okay. Maybe the brothers and sisters won’t beat on you. Maybe if you’re sleeping with a nigger bitch, same thing. You’re okay. Things aren’t as bad as they seem. You can assuage your white guilt.”

  “I don’t have any white guilt. I haven’t done anything. But I do think you’ve been talking to Warren too much.”

  “Hardly. I’ve been thinking about this. All those nights when I felt so alone and no return calls from you.”

  “So this is your response? To lay it down to some racial thing. I’m not your master.”