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  “More than. But I—”

  “You provided a service. Information. I’m giving you a fee for that service. That’s how the world works. Capitalism, you know. Don’t make a big thing out of it.”

  “Hey, he said somethin’ about he was only stayin’ here till his apartment was ready.”

  “In L.A.?”

  “Yeah, maybe, I dunno for sure.” She talked to me, but I could tell her heart was with Geraldo. “Maybe I shouldn’ta talked to you. Maybe—”

  I let her ramble on as I hit the street and my car. Two men walked by arm in arm. One had a goatee and short, close-cropped hair. The other a moustache and long straight hair almost to his shoulders. They stopped at the corner waiting for the light to change—French kissing. Jack would’ve blown them away. Hell, he wouldn’t even listen to k.d. lang.

  CHAPTER 5

  Next morning, I phoned the number Sparks-Talbot had left on his room card. Four-one-five area code—San Francisco. A nice old lady answered. Said she’d had that number for several years. Never heard of Sparks or Talbot. I figured the address was a phony, punched it and the phone number into the computer and threw out my spiral notebook page. The guy was a weasel, but weasels are smart. Cagey. My respect for him began to grow. Not much. A little.

  Where’d that leave me? Dead in the water—like the dragonfly. I called Lou.

  “You’re outta your fucking mind,” she said in a loud whisper after I told her what I wanted. “Look what happened the last time I ran someone for you.”

  “I know, Lou. But this is the yang of that yin. I’m trying to right the situation.”

  “When are you going to the police? Your few days are running out.”

  “I need some more time. It’s only been a couple days. Give me a week.”

  “So the trail’ll grow cold.”

  “No, damn it. So I can clean up my own mess. Run the damn plate for me.”

  She finally agreed. I gave her the tag number on the blue van. The address was on Florence, near downtown, close to the area known as South Central.

  My car is a ’69 Pontiac Firebird. Orange paint. Black vinyl top. Black interior. Man, she flies. State of the art sound system. Four on the floor. They don’t make ’em like that anymore. They don’t guzzle gas like this baby anymore either, but you gotta make some sacrifices. I hit the CD button. My indulgences were my car and my stereos, home and for the car. When times were good that’s where my money went. My player scrambled among six CDs loaded in a cartridge in the trunk. Time-Life ’60s series. Get Together by the Youngbloods blasted out.

  I hit a Taco Bell on La Cienega. I was sitting in the driveway, waiting to get into the street when some slime-muffin cut across two lanes of traffic to pull into the driveway. The way he cut across, his car almost nosed into mine. He pulled up alongside me.

  “Hey, fuck you,” he said.

  I smiled at him. Hell, I was in the right place. He was the lunatic. That’s the problem today. City’s filled with ’em. I could’ve pulled the Firestar 9mm that was nudged under my right thigh. Normally I wouldn’t have a gun under my thigh, after all it is illegal, and I didn’t really expect the worst, but it never hurts to be prepared. The verdict in the Rodney King cop trial was due any day now. And he might have had a gun, might not have. But who needed the fucking paperwork? I might have gotten off, might have gone to jail. Hell, it wasn’t worth the trouble. He pulled into the driveway, barely missing my car. I let it go, pulled out and headed toward Florence. A comfortable April L.A. day.

  The address for the van was a truck rental facility on Florence near Normandie. The building looked as if it had been there since the ’40s or before, but had gone through a lot of different uses. This week it rented blue vans to friends and family of Teddie Matson.

  Strange looks intercepted me as I debarked the Bird. Locked the door with the electronic lock I’d had installed. Set the alarm. I was out of my territory, on foreign soil—Indian country. The only white face on the street. A few might be driving by; none on the pavement. The Firestar was tucked inside my in-the-belt conceal-carry holster. Hollow points in the mag, an extra mag tucked in next to the holster. Several sets of eyes followed me into the office. Is this what it feels like for blacks in a white neighborhood? Knowing everyone’s wondering what the hell you’re doing there. Are you going to rob them? Are you a cop? A junkie? What the hell’s going on? Eerie.

  I walked into the office like I didn’t notice any of it, but my eyes and ears were fine-tuned, radar and sonar. SEAL training. I didn’t like to think of myself as being like Jack. Maybe I was more like him than I cared to admit. Maybe some of these folks were also more like him than they cared to admit, but coming from the yang side instead of the yin.

  The man behind the counter was large, black, unsmiling. I could almost see the chip on his shoulder. A small TV was on in the corner behind him. The news gurus were still waiting for a verdict in the King case.

  “You lose yo’ way?”

  “I don’t think so. I’m pretty good with directions.” I thought I’d try to lighten things up.

  “A comedian.”

  Two other men came in from the lot. “Don’t look like no Richard Pryor. Not even Eddie Murphy.”

  “M’be he Slappy White.”

  “Sho’ is white.”

  “Mus’ be all that white milk his mama feed him. We like chocolate, don’ we?”

  They laughed. I didn’t. They obviously didn’t think I was a cop, or didn’t care.

  “Okay, you’ve had your fun, can we get down to business now?”

  “Yussah, massah. What’chu be wantin’ me a do fer you, White Boss Man?” one of the men who’d followed me in said in his best Stepin Fetchit dialect. If I didn’t know better, I would have thought he was committing a hate crime against me. He sounded like Jack. And I was sounding more and more like him too. Spooky. I found myself thinking of jokes I could say back. Of course the odds were against me. And The Powers That Be probably would prosecute me for a hate crime. Instead, I stood my ground. Didn’t say anything.

  They kept on for a couple minutes until the guy behind the counter finally spoke. “Awright. You ain’t lost, so what’chu want?”

  Someone was moving around in the small room behind the counter. Might have been a petite little accountant or receptionist, but I didn’t think so. I moved to the side of the doorway. Some might consider that a racist action. I considered it a move to possibly save my life.

  “I’m looking for some people who rented one of your vans.”

  “An’ why should I help you?”

  “So maybe I can help them?”

  “Big White Brothah gonna help us y’all,” one of the men behind me said. It didn’t seem like the situation was easing up at all. I was nervous, fingering my belt near the concealment holster.

  “Okay, never mind.” I backed toward the door. The man behind the counter called out.

  “Why you wanna be helpin’ them?”

  “Forget it.”

  The two men behind me moved in closer. “Brother asked you a question honky.”

  “Don’tchu mean Mistah Honky?”

  “Massah Honky.”

  The two behind me kept at it. They hadn’t touched me yet. But I was waiting for it. Hell, I hadn’t done anything to them. I was a symbol. And I didn’t like it. Not one fucking bit. I pivoted on my heel and backed into a corner that didn’t have any windows or doors. They were in front of me now, not behind. I might have been backed into a corner, but no one could come at me from behind now. I could see them. And if I could see them, I might be able to get away. I was well trained. I doubted they were. I didn’t want to use the gun. That was a last resort. Put my hands in front of me in a defensive position.

  “All right. Let’s cut the crap. You want me, come get me. You don’t want me, leave me the fuck alone.”

  “Big talk, white boy,” said the man nearer me. “He think he Mohammed Ali dancin’ like that. You ain’t no butterfly, boy. An’
I’m sure you don’ sting like no bee.”

  “Queen bee, mehbe.”

  “Ye-eeeeeh.”

  I’d thought maybe his partner in crime had given up, but I was wrong. The guy behind the counter just stood there, watching me, the TV. Back and forth. I was still aware of someone in the back room. Were they toying with me for fun, or were they toying with me before moving in for the kill? I didn’t know. I didn’t really care either. I wanted things to come to a head. This game playing was bullshit. There was no point in trying to reason with them. They were pissed off at white people. Didn’t matter who you were. And I was on their turf. They might not have been planning to harm me, but they sure as hell wanted to let me know that I was in the wrong part of town. Didn’t matter what I was there for. Get the hell out and don’t come back. That was their message.

  I didn’t care anymore about finding out who rented the van and where they lived. I was happy to get out with my pride, as long as the rest of me was in one piece. If that meant fighting my way out, so be it.

  I jabbed at the dude closest to me. He feinted. Good move. Crack. A baseball bat slammed into the counter. The man behind the counter had slammed the bat into the Formica top, splintering it. All three of us on the other side jumped, looked at him.

  “Cut the shit,” he said to all of us. “Go on. Get out.”

  His word was boss around there. The other two parted to let me pass. I walked carefully, checking all sides. Making sure no one was waiting for me on the outside. Looked clear.

  Before I got out the door, the guy behind the counter turned up the volume on the TV. The four cops who were caught on home video beating Rodney King had been acquitted. I knew I had to get the hell out of there pronto. People were already filling the streets.

  CHAPTER 6

  What I didn’t know when I stepped out into the abyss that day was that the night before Laurie Hoffman’s unwanted admirer had called her again. Here’s how she laid it out to me.

  The phone rang at 8 p.m. sharp. She knew who it was. He’d called the last three nights in a row—at eight sharp. The same guy she’d told me about. Last night she didn’t answer the phone. She let the answering machine pick up. Her incoming message tape could take sixty minutes of messages. That was his first call.

  “Laurie, I know we only went out once, but I know we’re right for each other. It’s meant to be. Does that sound corny? Jeez, that’s not me. That’s what you do to me.”

  After that message, she turned off the machine and unplugged the phone. When she plugged it back in an hour later, it was still ringing off the hook. She unplugged it for the rest of the night.

  She pulled all the shades down, closed the curtains and hunkered on the floor of her living room, all-night Gilligan’s Island reruns on Nick at Nite in the background for company. She didn’t know who to call. There was no way to prove it was him after the first call. The restraining order only specified he couldn’t get within a hundred feet of her. So unless he came in through the window, there was nothing the police could do.

  Their first date had been rather ordinary. He had responded to her ad in the back of a magazine:

  Looking for love in all the right places. Feminine lady, fun and frolicsome, looking for a fairytale love. Candlelight dinners, sunset walks on beach. Let others romance the stone, I’ll romance the man. 5’7” tall, 120 pounds. Curly blonde hair. Cute smile. Non-smoker. UB2. Looking for intelligent, humorous, caring man for serious, long-term relationship. SASE and photo to Laurie, P.O. Box 986321, Los Angeles, Calif.

  “Hello, is this Laurie?” the man’s voice smooth and cool. Confident.

  “Yes.”

  “This is Gary Craylock. You sent me your phone number, in response to my answering your ad.”

  “Yes, I remember. How are you, Gary?”

  “Now that I’ve met you, so to speak, fine, just fine. I don’t want you to think I’m just a physical kind of guy, but, wow, judging from your photo, you are truly gorgeous.”

  “Thank you. You’re very kind.”

  “And you make me blush.”

  Laurie laughed. She liked a sensitive man, even if he was only joking.

  Kate’s was one of those trendy places, here today, gone tomorrow. Today it was the hottest place in town. Laurie had never been there. She doubted she’d ever go again, unless she and Gary hit it off. She’d called in sick to work. Spent most of the day primping and preening. She looked as good as she would ever look, blonde hair glinting in the light. Jade eyes clean and clear.

  She didn’t want to appear star struck on their first date, but the fact that Patrick Swayze was at the next table was hard to avoid. She’d never considered herself impressed by the surface glitz that movie stars possessed, but being so close one could really feel it.

  “I don’t normally answer personal ads,” Gary said after ordering Courvoisier for both of them. “But yours sounded so genuine that I couldn’t resist.”

  “Thank you,” she said, hoping she wasn’t blushing. Her face grew hot.

  “It’s so hard to meet people these days. I guess the in place is the gym.”

  “Or laundromat.”

  “Yes, I’ve heard that. But what kind of people are you going to meet there? And I don’t have time to take classes where you might have a better chance of meeting, um, a higher class of people.”

  She laughed at his pun; he smiled. In her grandfather’s words it was a “million dollar smile.” Who was this knight in shining armor and could he really be as good as his first impression? She hoped so.

  Their drinks came and he toasted their relationship. He could have toasted her health, others had. He could have toasted her future or her looks. But he had toasted their relationship. She liked that.

  He had picked her up in his BMW. She normally wouldn’t give a stranger her address on the phone, would have met him at the restaurant. But he had sounded warm and sincere and, truth be told, she was feeling a little desperate after a string of frogs. The drive to the restaurant was smooth and filled with small talk: what music do you like, which movies, do you go to art galleries? Pleasant enough. Non-threatening.

  He had opened the car door and the door to the restaurant for her. Did all the right things. That was rare today. Some men were afraid women would think they were wusses. Some women wanted doors opened for them. And some women didn’t. So some men stopped doing it. Laurie didn’t care one way or the other. That’s not how she judged men, or anyone else. Still, when he did it, it felt good.

  All the way to the restaurant, she had fondled the single long-stemmed rose he had brought her. Other men had done the same or similar things. With him it was different. More elegant. More exciting. He was dashing in a way the others hadn’t been.

  “In this age of AIDS you’ve really got to be careful,” he said, sipping his drink. “That’s one of the reasons I don’t date very often. Besides, there’s not very many good women out there.” He winked at her.

  “Or men.” She winked back.

  They hadn’t planned on dinner, only a drink or two to see if they were “companionable.” Then Gary had asked her if she’d like to eat.

  “Of course,” she said.

  They ordered steak and blackened red snapper. The conversation continued genially. Mostly small talk and small jokes. Entertainment-light. He was a psychologist. Made good money. Had good looks, almost movie star looks. Could this be love at first sight? She thought Gary felt the same about her.

  “What is this?” Gary blared when the waiter brought their order, interrupting Laurie from her reverie. “I ordered the two-inch steak, medium rare. This is overcooked shoe leather.”

  People at other tables turned to look. The waiter took the plate away. Laurie put her hand on Gary’s to calm him. He looked at her, realized what he was doing and cooled off.

  “I’m sorry. I guess it doesn’t make a good impression on the first date, but I’m very particular. When I pay a lot of money for something, I expect to get what I ordered.”<
br />
  “I don’t blame you.” She squeezed his hand.

  A chill breeze sliced through Laurie and Gary as they walked to her front door.

  “I didn’t know it would be so cold tonight.”

  “It’s that time of year. Warm days, cool nights.”

  They stood at the door while she fumbled in her purse for her keys.

  “Thank you, I had a lovely evening.”

  “Aren’t you going to invite me in?”

  “There’ll be plenty of time for that.”

  “What’s the matter? Don’t you like me?” An edge in his voice.

  “It’s our first date. I like to get to know someone a little better.”

  “I’m not saying we have to, you know. But maybe just a cup of coffee and some good conversation. Besides, let’s talk about our plans. Friday, I have tickets for the Dodgers. Then Saturday I’ve got two tickets to the Music Center, but I didn’t know who I’d go with. Now I do. And Sunday I thought we could drive up to Santa Barbara. I know this great place for brunch and—”

  “Listen, Gary, I like you. But it’s late and I have to go to work tomorrow.”

  “You’re sure you’re not just making excuses.”

  “I’m sure.”

  She gave him a peck on the cheek. He tried to move around to her lips. She slid away and in through the door. He trudged back down the walk. What did he have to be so incensed about, she thought as she bolted the front door.

  The next morning, he was waiting for her, bouquet in hand, as she came out to her car. Wanted to take her to breakfast. When she declined, he followed her to work. Up to her office. The receptionist thought he was cute. Laurie thought he was scary.

  The pattern continued. A few days later she came to see me for the first time.

  The morning after he had let the phone ring all night, she woke up to find a stuffed teddy bear on her front porch, a small heart shaped necklace clutched in the bear’s hand. The note from Gary quoted lines from “And I Love Her,” an old Beatles’ song. She called me and left a message on my machine. I was already on my way to South Central. She said she wanted to talk to me again. She’d heard I was a good detective—I should’ve told her my dad’s opinion of me. Should’ve told her about Teddie Matson. She wanted to try again with me before looking for another private dick. Besides, Harv was out of town on a case and wouldn’t be back for several weeks.