White Heat Page 6

  For the moment, Teddie had become lost under a pile of ashes—the ashes of Los Angeles, my home town. I wasn’t concerned about her now. I was worried about getting out alive. Part of me wondered if I didn’t want to make it out at all. The rest of me would have done anything to survive.

  We turned down a side street. It was quieter than the main drags had been. A pretty young woman was sitting on the porch steps of an old California bungalow. She held a large black cat in a cardboard carton, soothing its eyes with a damp cloth. There were tears in her eyes. In ours. The smoke stung. Our nostrils were dry, our throats raw.

  “He saved my life,” she said. “One night three men were coming over the fence in our backyard. He woke us up before the men got inside.” She tore a fresh piece of cloth from a large strip, dipped it in a bowl of water and put it on the cat’s eyes. She offered us each a strip. We declined. We hadn’t said anything to her. Hadn’t asked what she was doing with the cat. She had just started talking to us. She needed someone to talk to. We all did.

  “Will you be okay?” I asked.

  “I think so. The fun’s up that way,” she said, pointing to the main drag.

  I wanted to offer her something. Anything. I had nothing to offer. Except a gun and a knife. If she didn’t know how to use them they would be useless. We wished her the best and headed off, eventually making our way back to Normandie.

  People were still running every which way, carrying home the desserts of their shopping spree. The cops continued to do next to nothing. A security gate at Wherehouse Records was breached. A black man turned to a young white kid and invited him to join the celebration. He did.

  Two other men stood outside talking.

  “I don’t steal,” one said, palming his hands upwards, almost embarrassed.

  “Neither do I,” said the other, “but—” He showed a large canvas bag he’d brought to haul stuff way. “This is different. Society’s rules don’t apply no more. There is no society here. No civilization. Not today. Anarchy is king.”

  A black and white pulled up, wailed its siren. Throngs of looters dispersed. The cops drove off. The looters were back within seconds, picking up the goodies they had set down on the street. Two women argued over an electric piano someone had put down when the cops came. One snapped out a switchblade. Slashed the other. She fell, bleeding. A melee ensued. No one knew anymore what started it. Everyone just piled on for the fun. The Big Party.

  We asked some people if they knew if there was a curfew on the city. No, they told us. The mayor hadn’t done anything yet. We moved out. In the crowd. Swirling. Sucking us in. Down. Under. We moved along with the flow. My hand kept checking my gun. Was it there? Would it be there when I needed it? I didn’t take my hand off it.

  The crowd surged toward another small grocery/liquor store. We were caught in it. No escape. The store owner, shotgun in hand, hard-charged someone who’d broken off from the crowd. He waved the gun wildly, maybe at the man who’d broken from the crowd. But we were all in his kill zone. Through the smoke it was hard to tell if he was Mexican, Korean, Armenian—didn’t matter anyway. He was shouting. I couldn’t understand what he was saying. Neither could anyone else it appeared. It wasn’t English, and the din was too loud to figure out what it was. No one was listening anyway. He jacked the slide of his twelve gauge. People hit the deck, dispersed, fell all over each other. A blast rang out. A young woman fell. I rushed to her, tearing my belt off, making a tourniquet on her arm that was bleeding profusely. Tiny pulled me off.

  “It’s no use. We got business. Leave her be.”

  “Somebody’s got to.”

  “She’s dead,” Tiny said. “Get it? She’s dead. Doesn’t matter what you do.”

  I didn’t move. He lifted her head. The side that had been facing away from me was a mess of bloody hamburger. How could I not have seen it? Maybe I didn’t want to.

  He pulled me away. I let him.

  We dashed across a gas station where two men were lighting a Molotov cocktail. Behind us the sound of shattering glass. I slid beneath a car on the street. Tiny hugged a wall. The gas station went up in an overwhelming fireball of light and heat. White heat. And it seemed as if the Post Modern Age had gone up with it.

  Welcome to the Apocalypse.

  CHAPTER 9

  People on the side streets were mostly hunkered behind closed doors or heading for the main boulevards. Not many people sitting around shooting the breeze. Gang graffiti littered walls and sidewalks. Some cars. Broken glass everywhere. I noticed a couple bullet holes—at least that’s what I thought they were—in one of the houses. I thought I stood out like a Dodger fan at a Reds game on their home turf. But no one seemed to pay us much mind. A short, small-boned very black man whacked a teenager across the cheek. The boy lurched back. He was twice the man’s size, three times his weight. The boy looked frightened. He dropped the twenty-five-inch TV he was holding.

  “You don’t steal,” the man said.

  “It ain’t stealin’. They’s Ko-reans.”

  “Don’t matter. Stealin’s wrong.”

  “Ev’erbody’s doin’ it.”

  Whack. The man slapped the boy again. He looked at the TV. “If that TV’s broken, you gonna pay for it.”

  “Fuck that shit.” The boy spun on his heel, walked off—toward the main drag. The man stood watching. Trembling.

  The boy strutted toward us. Tiny and I took up the whole sidewalk. The boy didn’t care. He headed straight for us. He wasn’t about to step off the sidewalk either. He barged into us. Right into Tiny’s uplifted forearm. A forearm that looked like it was reinforced with steel.

  “Honky pig,” he said to me as he pitched backwards from Tiny’s arm. I didn’t mind a good fight now and then, but down here the odds just didn’t seem to favor it. I was about to say something when Tiny spoke.

  “Seems this boy’s colorblind. Boy, the arm that hit you is black. Black as the night sky. Ain’t white.” Tiny was back into his tough-guy mode.

  The boy stood up. Glared at Tiny. At me. “Why you bringin’ a cracker fuck down here, Tiny.”

  “Listen, Maurice, why you gotta dis yo’ daddy?”

  “I ain’t dissin’ no one. I thought he’d be proud havin’ a big TV like that.”

  “He would be proud. But he be proud if you earn it for him. Not if you steal it.”

  “Ever’one’s doin’ it.”

  “Don’t make it right.”

  Maurice fixed his gaze on me. His eyes were narrow slits, his pupils tiny bullets—aimed at me.

  “’S his fault. All this shit’s his fault.”

  “What’chu talkin’ ’bout?”

  “What’chu doin’ bringin’ the man down here?” Maurice turned to me again. “What’chu doin’ here, white man? Come to see all the bad niggers? See why they shouldda never let us off the plantation?” He spit at my feet. “I ain’t no slave no more.”

  “None of us are. That was over ’hundred years ago.”

  “He keeps us down. He—”

  “He don’ do shit. You keep yo’self down. Nobody does it to you but you.”

  “She-it.” Maurice went around us, heading for the boulevard.

  Tiny turned to me, “Used to be a good kid. Got in with the gangs. He doesn’t dis me though.”

  “You in a gang?” I said.

  “Used to. I got out. I’m a lucky one.” Tiny resumed the march up the street. “Hey, man, what’s your name?”

  “Everyone calls me Duke.”

  “Like in Duke Wayne?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Well, everyone calls me Tiny. My real name’s Tee-won. Sounds Ko-rean, doesn’t it?” We laughed. “It doesn’t mean anything. I guess my mama and daddy just thought it sounded good. That was before we had all these problems with the Koreans. I guess they wouldn’t have known it sounded anything, one way or the other.” He coughed. The smoke was heading our way. “Duke your given name?”

  “No.” It blurted out. I didn’t lik
e talking about my real name. And down here I thought it would only make things worse. I was waiting. It came:

  “What is? Your real name that is.”

  I would have given anything for a gang fight at that moment. We were the only people on the street now so there was no one to rescue me. I tried to ignore him, pretend I didn’t hear the question. It was no use.

  “Must be a pretty bad one,” he said. “Can’t be as bad as Tee-won though.”

  “Marion. It’s Marion.”

  His eyes sparkled and a big grin rode across his wide face. “I was wrong. That’s pretty bad.”

  An explosion in the distance. A plume of smoke hit the sky.

  “They don’t realize that they’re only wrecking their own backyard. One of the first things my daddy taught me was never to piss in the wind and don’t shit in your own backyard. Problem is, too many of ’em just don’t have daddies,” he said wistfully. He stopped, turned up a walk. “Here we are, Teddie’s family’s house.”

  The house was a Craftsman bungalow. It had a low-pitched roof, a stone fireplace that was also seen from the outside, exposed struts and a wide porch. It wasn’t big. It wasn’t small either. Comfortable might have been the word. It looked almost rural with its magnolia trees, shrubs and wood and stone exterior. Looked like a nice place to grow up. In fact, the whole street was clean and well-tended except for the graffiti and broken glass. I assumed the broken glass was from that day. I hoped it was.

  We walked up the walk. Someone moved about inside. The door opened. A woman in her fifties stood behind a screen door. She wore a flowered housedress and slippers. Her hair was in a bun. Her eyes were splotchy, red. She’d been crying.

  “Hello, Tiny.” She forced a smile. We walked up the steps to the porch. Her face was striking, very angular, high cheekbones, smooth caramel-colored skin. The housedress was on the frumpy side. Under it was a slender figure that still looked pretty good. “Won’t you come in? I’d ask you to sit on the porch—I used to love to sit on the porch and swing—but the smoke is so thick I think it’s better inside.”

  We followed her in, past the swinging love seat. We sat on a well-used but comfortable sofa. The room was dark. The shades drawn down to within half an inch of the window sill. The floors were hardwood. Highly polished. Throw rugs were scattered about. The mantle was filled with photographs of Teddie, Warren, other children, teens and adults I didn’t recognize. An antique coffee table was in front of the sofa. Mrs. Matson poured us all iced tea. It had an odd taste. A good odd taste. As if there were raspberries mixed in with it. It went down easy on my parched throat.

  “Mrs. Matson, this is my friend Duke.”

  “Pleased to meet you.”

  “Same here, Mrs. Matson.” We shook hands. Her grip was firm.

  “Forgive the way I look. I haven’t been feeling too well lately. Just sort of staying home and keeping to myself so I don’t get much dressed up.”

  Of course she was staying home mourning because her daughter had been killed—murdered. And I fired the bullet. If not in reality, real enough for me. I wasn’t about to tell her or Tiny that reality. I was the fuckup.

  “Isn’t it terrible what’s happening outside?”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Tiny said. He seemed deferential toward her.

  She talked about the riot, the kids rushing back and forth earlier, empty-handed one way, full of goodies coming back.

  “This isn’t such a bad neighborhood. We got nice homes and yards. Can even afford a new TV every once in a while. I don’t see why they got to go crazy. The Rodney King verdict isn’t no excuse to be crazy. If they only knew what things were like before. Thirty years ago. If they only knew how far we come. Maybe we ain’t there yet, ain’t where we wanna be, but nothing happens overnight.”

  “They’d call you an Uncle Tom, Auntie Tom for talking like that.”

  “My own son thinks I’m a Tom. Makes me cry.” She sniffled, wiped her nose with a tissue. “I’m sorry. What brings you two gentlemen here today?”

  “Duke’s been wanting to meet you. He got stuck at my place, waylaid is more like it. Car annihilated. But he was looking for you. I didn’t know if I should bring him, but I figured for all his trouble, maybe I should.”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s about your daughter, Mrs. Matson.”

  She stifled a cry.

  “I’m terribly sorry about what happened to her.” More sorry than she would ever know. “I’m a private detective. I’ve been hired to help track down her killer.” I waited a moment while Mrs. Matson gathered herself together. It was painful to watch. Watching any mother mourn the loss of a child would have been painful. This was a lance through my gut. If I could have traded places with Teddie, I would have. Gladly. I would have done anything. I was doing what I could.

  “Who are you working for?”

  The guillotine blade was dropping. “I’d like to tell you, Mrs. Matson. But I can’t. I know it sounds corny as all get out, you’ve seen it on TV over and over, but it’s client privilege. All I can say is it’s someone close to her.”

  “From the studio?”

  “It’s someone she worked with.”

  “Then they do care. I thought the studio wasn’t going to do anything. She gave so much to them, and I know she was paid for it, but it seemed like after the funeral, after the flowers and all that they didn’t care anymore.” Her smile brightened the entire dark room. What I’d told her was a lie. As far as I knew the studio didn’t give a shit. It made her feel better though and that was enough. Now I’d never tell her the truth. “What can I do for you, Mr. Duke?” It wasn’t worth correcting her.

  I proffered my ID wallet. Showed her that I was truly a licensed private detective. “We believe the man was a fan, a deranged fan. I thought maybe if you have any fan letters that I could look at. Other correspondence. It might give me a lead.”

  The tears welled up in her eyes again. “The police were here. They also asked about the fan letters. They’re so busy though. It’s just another case to them. To you too?”

  “No ma’am. It’s the only case I’m working right now. I can give it my full time.”

  She got up, went to an ornately carved chest. “I gave the police all her letters I had here and they took what was in her apartment. But I got my lawyer to have them photocopy all the letters so I could keep the originals. The police already checked them for fingerprints.” She opened the chest. It was filled with letters, from top to bottom, side to side. “These are all to Teddie.”

  The pile was intimidating and black here and there with fingerprint powder.

  “You can sit at the breakfast table and go through them if you like.”

  “I’d appreciate that. Before I do though, can you tell me, do you know if she got any calls or if there’s someone from her past that might have been more, um, interested in her than she might have realized.”

  Mrs. Matson thought a moment. “She was always getting calls. She had an unlisted number. Somehow people would find it out. I even took a couple calls for her here.”

  “Did they leave a name? Phone number.”

  “No. I wish they would have. Even if they did I would have thrown it out by now.”

  “Well, thank you. I think I would like to go through these.”

  She showed me to the breakfast table. It was beautiful. Inlaid wood in lighter and darker shades. Flower pattern. The kind of piece about which you’d say “they don’t make ’em like that anymore.” There was a faux Tiffany shade on the lamp over the table. The letters were neatly bundled and rubber banded together. I started with the most recent bundle, figuring the Weasel was probably in touch with her right before he came to me. He had to tell her how much he loved her. How he’d sacrifice for her. Do anything for her. And, of course, how much she loved him. How they were meant to be. I lost myself in the piles.

  Tiny fell asleep on the couch in the living room. I don’t know what happened to Mrs. Matson. I hadn’t seen her for at lea
st an hour when the back door swung open. If Maurice had stared bullets in my direction, Warren was staring missiles.

  “What’re you doin’ here?”

  I stood up.

  “Get outta my mother’s house.”

  “She invited me in.”

  “You musta deceived her. What she want with you?”

  “Listen, pal—”

  “—I ain’t your pal. An’ don’t be dissin’ me.”

  “Listen Warren, I’m trying to help.”

  “I want you out of here.”

  “I’m not leaving. Unless your mother asks me to go.”

  He looked at the piles of letters sitting on the table. Grabbed one. “This’s my sister’s stuff. Pers’nal.”

  “Yeah, real personal. Fan mail.”

  “Well you got no right to be lookin’ at it.”

  “Listen, man, what’s your problem? I haven’t done anything to you? Where’d you get that chip on your shoulder?”

  He stormed out the kitchen door. I went back to the piles.

  A few minutes later, the door burst open again. Two young black men charged in. Low rider pants, prison-style. Unlaced tennis shoes, also adapted from prison garb. Backwards Raiders caps. Tats up and down their arms. Bangers from top to bottom. Two angry young black men. Two angry young black men with guns. I had already reached for my gun. It was a standoff. There was noise in the front of the house. Seconds later, Warren and Maurice marched Tiny into the breakfast nook at gunpoint. They’d already relieved him of his revolver. He didn’t look any too happy about it either.

  They shoved him in a corner, forced him down into a chair. Sweat beaded on his forehead. I took that to mean that he knew these guys would use their guns, especially today.

  Where the hell was Mrs. Matson? I still had my gun in my hand. Maurice put a short-barreled Uzi to Tiny’s throbbing temple.

  “Gimme the gun,” Warren said to me, “or Maurice’ll blow this niggah’s fat head off.”

  “Don’t do it,” Tiny said. “Don’t give in to these hardhead punks.”