White Heat Page 3

  I was too late in my marriage to notice my wife drifting away from me. Slowly. Surely. Anyone would have seen it. Anyone but me.

  I was too late in realizing that I should have stayed in the service instead of listening to my dad. I felt at home there. Doing my twenty would have been easy. Life on the outside was hard. I went into my dad’s wholesale meat business but it didn’t last. We couldn’t get along.

  It wasn’t that I wasn’t smart. I was too smart—for my own good. It’s okay to fuck yourself, but when you fuck with someone else’s life you have to pay. I’m paying now.

  He walks up the street.

  One hand thrust into pockets filled with lint and grime.

  Sweaty coins.

  The other clutching a crumpled piece of paper.

  With an address from a detective scribbled on it.

  Passes 625 North.

  Turns around.

  Heads back.

  Gardener at 627 looks up.

  Smiles.

  He doesn’t return it.

  He steps onto the walk leading up to the door of 625.

  Tries the door.

  Locked.

  Looks at the names next to the buzzer.

  Knocks tentatively.

  Louder.

  No one comes.

  Retreats down the sidewalk.

  A whirlpool of thoughts buzz his head.

  Can’t pick any one out.

  A fingerpainting swirl.

  Green here.

  Yellow there.

  Purple

  Orange.

  Blue.

  Red and golden.

  Especially red.

  Everywhere.

  If he doesn’t do it now, he never will.

  Turns around, heads back to 625.

  Walks up to the door, buzzes number four.

  Waits.

  And waits.

  Sun sliver hits the back of his neck.

  Speckles of sweat form.

  Running down his back.

  Shivers.

  In the middle of a hot day.

  Shivering.

  Thinking of it makes him chuckle.

  What does the gardener think seeing this man standing here, laughing out loud?

  Thinks he’s crazy.

  But he’s not crazy.

  Just smitten.

  He knows she’s the one.

  Knew it from the first time he saw her.

  Meant to be.

  The only one.

  There could be no one else.

  She has the look.

  The smile in her eyes,

  as well as on her lips.

  The curly dark hair.

  Turned up nose.

  Skin as smooth as cream.

  Cafe au lait.

  When she talks, she talks to him.

  There’s no one else for her to talk to.

  She asked him to come out to the Coast—to see her.

  So why does he feel funny standing here?

  Why should he worry about what the gardener next door thinks?

  Why should he worry about what she’ll think?

  The door opens.

  It’s her.

  Looks just like she does on TV.

  The smile.

  The hair.

  The eyes.

  “Yes,” she says.

  She’s speaking to him. Really speaking to him.

  “Are you dropping off the script from the studio?”

  He doesn’t know what to say. Stutters. Nothing comes out.

  “Look,” she says, “if you’re selling something—”

  “I-I’m not selling anything. I c-came t-to see y-you.”

  “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to go.”

  The door drives toward him, an implacable force, meeting an unmovable object—his foot. The smile’s gone from her face. She isn’t dissin’ him anymore. She respects him. His strength. His power.

  He walks her back into the entry hall, closing the door behind them. The slightly parted curtains in the nearby window also close.

  Light beams in through the leaded glass door. Yet it’s dark. The red tile floor swallows the light like a black hole. She backs toward the stairs.

  “I’m not going to hurt you.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I-I just want to be f-friends.”

  “Listen, I’d like to be your friend—”

  “Really?”

  “Yes, but, but I have a boyfriend.”

  “But you asked me to come out here.”

  “I did?” Her eyes open wide. Anyone else would see the terror in them. He sees only love.

  “Yes.”

  “Have we met before?”

  She’s playing coy.

  “You asked me to come out. F-from the TV, you were looking right at me.”

  “From the TV?” She tries to remember what she’d been told to do in a situation like this. Stars are always being hounded by admirers. Most of them are harmless. There’s always a few who aren’t. What was he?

  She backs into an apartment door on the ground floor. Discreetly putting her left hand behind her back, she tries the knob. Locked. Her heart flutters. He moves closer.

  “I-I just want to talk. Be friends.”

  There’s a faraway look in his eyes. He isn’t looking at her. Through her. What does he see? If she knew she might be able to talk him out of here. But she doesn’t.

  “Sure, we can be friends.”

  His eyes draw narrower. Even in the dark light, the pupils close down.

  “You don’t mean it. I can tell. You don’t want m-me here.”

  “But I do. I invited you, didn’t I?”

  “Fuck you. I thought you were different. But you’re not. You’re just like all the rest.”

  He balls his hand into a fist. Slams it into his head. She jumps back.

  “Why?”

  “Why what?”

  “Why are you backing away from me? You think I’m crazy. You think I’m going to hurt you? You think—”

  “No, of course not.” She tries to still her trembling voice. She backs up the stairs. If only she could dash for her apartment. The door is thick. These old buildings were built solid. She could hide behind it and call the police. Damn, why hadn’t the intercom been fixed yet? Why did she have to be home when he showed up? How did he get her address anyway? From a Movie Stars’ Home Map? The DMV? How? Her mind races. That’s not important. The only thing now is to get away.

  She turns and runs up the stairs. If only she can make it to the first landing and around the corner she might have a chance. She hopes he doesn’t have a gun.

  The crack of the pistol shot reverberates in the tiled hall. Bouncing off the walls, ricocheting. Like being stuck in a metal drum when a construction ball hits. Her scream is swallowed by the shot’s report echoing through the black hole. Everything is swallowed by the black hole, light, sound, sight. Only the black is left.

  And the red. Red everywhere. Blood.

  Her blood.

  He looks at her crumpled on the stairs, brushes his hand across her hair. Sounds come from upstairs. People. He runs toward the door. Sees a face in the antique mirror. Disfigured. Grisly. Melting in front of him. Fading away. He runs out the door. The gardener looks at him. Fuck the gardener. He runs down the street. It’s Golden Hour. He’s heard of it. He’s conscious of it. He doesn’t care. He remembers the face in the mirror. The face of Duke Rogers.

  I woke up, my hand dragging in the water next to the raft, splashed water on my face. It’d been a long time since I’d dreamt. I missed it. Now I wasn’t so sure about that. It was only a dream—a nightmare. One that I had caused. How much of it was true? The gist of it, if not the details.

  I swam to the edge of the pool, climbed out, toweled off and went into the house, Baron trailing behind me. I grabbed a phone book from a kitchen cabinet, found the Perlmans’ number. Mrs. Perlman answered. I told her who I was.

  “I can talk for a min
ute only, my husband’s in the bathroom,” she whispered.

  “Is there anything you forgot to tell me? Anything you couldn’t—”

  “I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but you seem like a nice young man—”

  Yeah, right lady. A fuckup. A major fuckup, just like my dad said: “Marion, if we get divorced, it’ll be your fault.” They argue. They fight. He’s mad at the world, but if they get divorced it’ll be my fault.

  “I didn’t tell the police. They’re so, well you know. Anyway, I picked up a piece of paper from the hall. I didn’t give it to them. I know I should have. Will you give it to them for me?”

  CHAPTER 4

  I was dressed—short-sleeved shirt, jeans, windbreaker—and outta there before hanging up the receiver. When I got to the Perlman’s, I wasn’t the only one there. Several people were packing Teddie’s things up, loading them into a beatup blue van. The usual stuff, posters from movies she’d had bit roles in, stuffed animals, clothes.

  Mrs. Perlman waved from the porch. No hiding behind curtains now. The paper curled in her scrawny hand. I made my way up the walk.

  Cold eyes turned on me. He was smaller than me, but those eyes spoke of death. Teddie’s? Mine? I didn’t know.

  “What’chu want?” he said. He was wearing blue jeans and a Public Enemy T-shirt. His face was dark. Round. Short hair in a fade. He was a little man. Lean and mean as a pit bull. And I didn’t have to talk to him to see the wells of anger behind his tombstone eyes. Didn’t have to get close to feel that anger shooting out at me. Where did he keep it all? How did he live with it?

  Discretion is the better part of valor. Small as he was he looked tough. Wiry, like me. I could probably take him, but if he was one of Teddie’s friends or family I didn’t want to antagonize him. Might need him. Hell, he might even need me.

  Ignoring him, I went up to Mrs. Perlman. She held out her arms, greeting me like a long lost son, grabbing my hand with hers, pressing the paper into it. She whispered: “I don’t want the schvartzes to see.” She turned to the short man, beaming with pride.

  “This is Mr. Rogers. He’s a detective.”

  The man’s eyes widened. “What’re you doin’ hangin’ ’round here?”

  I ignored him again. He went back to his work. Two other men came down the stairs, carrying a large oak trunk. Both of them were large, over six feet. Mrs. P. and I had to step back into her apartment to clear a path. I backed into Mrs. Perlman, felt her unsteady hand on my back. Was it due to her age or her fear of these black men, I wondered. Still, she had rented to a black woman. Jack would have advised her not to, regardless of the laws prohibiting discrimination.

  Her apartment reminded me of my grandmother’s. It had been only a mile or so from here. The Wilshire District, east of Fairfax. Doilies on the arms of the couches. Little porcelain knickknacks everywhere. Crystal bowls filled with candies—I left a business card in one. Hardly a sign of Mr. P.’s input or existence.

  Mrs. P. and I went out to the lawn. Watched the men loading the van. The short one came up to me. Stood four inches from my nose; stared into my eyes. “I don’t know what’chure hangin’ ’round here for, but you stay outta my sister’s life. Get it?”

  He expected me to back off. I didn’t. He expected me to dis him. I didn’t. I didn’t do anything. Just stared back.

  “C’mon Warren. Why you wastin’ your time an’ energy on that shit?” the larger of the other two men said. “Ain’t gonna bring her back.”

  Warren ignored him, still staring at me: “Who hired you? What’chu nosin’ ’round here for?” He inched closer. I held my ground. “Don’t need no honky motherfuckers nosin’—”

  The larger of the other two men walked over. Put his arm on Warren’s shoulder, pulled him back a step. Warren’s feet were still planted a foot closer to me; the upper part of his body jerked back, followed by his feet. He looked humiliated.

  “They call me Tiny,” the larger man said more to Mrs. P. than to me. “Don’t mind Warren. His mind’s not in the right place. You know, Teddie an’ all. I’m sorry.” He pulled Warren back to the van. I thought about following them, but figured Warren’d be watching for that. I wrote down the license, thinking I’d have Lou run it for me.

  “Who were they?”

  “The little one is Teddie’s brother. Never saw the other two before. Maybe his friends. Maybe other brothers.”

  “They don’t look like family.”

  “You know how it is with these people. None of them have the same father.”

  There was nothing to say to that, though I knew what Jack would say. He’d probably slap Mrs. P. on the back and compliment her on her astuteness. Tensions were high in the city. A verdict in the Rodney King beating trial was due any day now. Maybe even today. The mayor was blaming the chief of police. Blacks were blaming whites. Whites were blaming blacks. Koreans were blaming blacks. Blacks were blaming Mexicans. The town was ready to explode. Everyone knew it, but everyone was in one degree of denial or another. The biggest problem: no one was talking about the issue that really mattered—race.

  My family goes back several generations in L.A. and it’s not the same town I grew up in. It used to be a large small town. Now it’s a big city, with all the problems of a big city. Some parts of town are hell. You take your life in your hands just by walking down the streets. People shouldn’t have to live like that. Too many rats in a maze.

  I don’t have the answers for this city, but I try to stay out of trouble. Jack looks for it. I used to get pissed at people in cars, flip ’em off. I hold my tongue today. Today they don’t yell back. They shoot. I wondered what would happen if Jack and Warren ever met on a dark street. I wouldn’t want to be there.

  I thanked Mrs. P. for the paper. Asked her if there was anything else she could tell me. No. I asked for Teddie’s family’s address and phone number. She gave me the index card and application that Teddie had filled out. Both had been kept in the same folder and both were illegible. Something had spilled on the folder causing the ink to run and blur. I didn’t even take them with me.

  In the car, I checked out the paper. Thought it would be the sheet I handed the Weasel in my office. It wasn’t. It had the address scribbled on it in his hand, not mine. And the name of a motel printed at the top—The William Tell Motel in West Hollywood. The motel where he had stayed?

  Orange trim around the windows and dumpy cheap stucco from the ’60s defined the William Tell Motel. Real classy. Perfect for the Weasel. Desk clerk’s hair was razor cut, short, except for one long strand on the right side of her head. Cute. She didn’t look up when I entered. Didn’t smile when I rang the bell. Didn’t seem to give a damn if I wanted a room or a rape. Just watched Geraldo on the tube.

  “Yeah,” she said finally getting off her ass and plodding over to the counter. “Can I help you?”

  When I didn’t smile, when I gave her my hostile face, she tried a smile. I didn’t break the corners of my mouth. Hell, if she wanted to play tough mama, I’d play tough too. The customer’s always right.

  “Wanna room?” she said, softening her voice. Worried that maybe she was scaring a customer away.

  “Information.”

  “Dial four-one-one.”

  “Cute.”

  “This ain’t information central.”

  “Where’re you from?”

  “That’s the information you want?”

  “Just trying to make small talk.”

  “It ain’t gonna work.”

  “I’d say Arkansas. Maybe Alabama or Louisiana.”

  She couldn’t keep her lips from curling into a slight smile. She tried though. “How’d you know. I thought I’d lost my accent.”

  “I know a lotta people from down that way. Got some former in-laws from around Selma. I hear them in your voice.”

  “I dunno if that’s a compliment or not.”

  “Neutral.” She looked at me funny. “It’s neutral.”

  “You the heat?”
<
br />   “I’m looking for a friend.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “Squirrelly kinda guy. Nervous. Pale blue eyes you can almost see through. Dart back and forth a lot. Dark brown hair.”

  “You gotta name on him, your friend?”

  “Jim Talbot.”

  “’S almost as bad as John Smith, ain’t it?”

  I grinned. She looked through a box of cards behind the counter. No computers for William Tell. Crossbows?

  “No Jim Talbot. When did he stay here?”

  “A few days ago, within the last week.”

  “Guy was here a few days ago, might be him.” She riffled through the cards. “Here he is. Talbot Sparks.”

  She handed me the card. I wrote Sparks’ vitals down in my notebook. If Jim Talbot was a phony name, Talbot Sparks might be too. So could his address and all. What the hell. A lead’s a lead. ’Sides, a lotta these guys do a turn on their real name, so even if Jim Talbot or Talbot Sparks weren’t his real name, the overlapping Talbot might be a clue. Of course, he might also be smart enough to play the alias game and not get caught.

  “Did he give you a credit card?”

  “Paid cash.” She pointed to a spot on the card. Gave us a hundred dollar deposit for a few nights. Then split without paying the last night’s rent. I had to pay it outta my paycheck since I signed him in.”

  “Tough.”

  “Yeah, man. Tough shit.” She turned back to Geraldo and transsexuals who were about to have an operation to make them what they were in the first place: “Women Who Used to be Men Who Want to be Men Again” was the subject. Then a promo for the news. The King verdict might come in today. Stay tuned.

  She tossed me the keys to a room. “Check it out.”

  The room was bleak. Motel cheapo. I tossed it. Nothing. Besides, how many other people were in here since he left? It hadn’t been that long, but in this kind of place—I returned the keys to the clerk. I dropped a twenty on the counter.

  “What’s that for?”

  “What do you think?”

  “I ain’t no prostie.”

  “Get yourself a new barber.”

  “Why don’t you get yourself a life?”

  She meant it to hurt. And it did. “Will it cover Sparks’ room?”