White Heat Read online

  We had the same thing for breakfast that we’d had for dinner the night before.

  “Lots of variety around here.”

  “Heinz 57. Fifty-seven ways to cook eggs, as long as they’re not runny. I do have a variation on the bacon routine. I can heat up some tortillas. You put on some mustard or hot sauce, wrap the bacon in the tortillas. And—”

  “Hmm hmm good.” The expression on her face didn’t believe it. Hey, I’m a bachelor. We’re inventive. It was better than eating Doritos all the time—or tofu. “I better shower and get out of here.”

  “Going where?”

  “To work.”

  The TV droned on in the background. The city was still on fire. It didn’t seem like a good day for going to work, or anywhere else for that matter.

  “I think it’s a good day for taking off.”

  She wanted to smile. Wouldn’t let it show. “I still have to call them. And I want to call my mother.”

  While she made her calls, I showered. Got dressed. She was still on the phone with her mother when I came out. She hung up.

  “How’s your mother?”

  “She’s fine. Their street’s okay. Next street over a house caught on fire.”

  “Molotov cocktail?”

  “They think it was from flying embers.”

  “What about work?”

  She turned away from me. I thought she was trying to hide another smile. “I have to go in.”

  Wrong. “Where are they, your offices?”

  “On La Cienega, down near Pico.”

  “That’s pretty close to the—”

  “I know.”

  I turned to the TV. The sun was still ascending. The all-night party was never-ending. “Don’t they ever sleep?” I said.

  “I suppose not.” She burst out laughing.

  “What is it?”

  Uncontrollable laughter. She couldn’t stop and she couldn’t tell me what was so funny. So I started laughing too. We were almost rolling on the floor.

  She fell into my arms, looked me in the eyes. Her eyes were a deep shade of chestnut. Large and clear. She may have known pain; it didn’t show in her eyes. Not now. She was still laughing.

  “What is it?” I said, finally, hoarse from all the gaiety.

  “I don’t have to go to work. I was just kidding.”

  I looked at her. “That’s what was so funny?”

  “I guess it really isn’t. But it sure felt good to laugh.”

  That it did.

  It also felt good to kiss her again. Until the back door opened. She jerked back, out of my arms. I didn’t blame her for being scared. With all the shit flying, people bustin’ other people, the door bursting open would make anyone jump. The man in it: slitty, squinting eyes. Stringy long blond hair. Three days unshaven beard. Six-foot-two of solid muscle in dirty jeans and a work shirt. Jungle boots. Looked like a white trash nightmare. I almost jumped myself, except that I recognized the beast as Jack. I’d heard the roar of his Harley. Felt the house vibrate. Didn’t want to break the mood with Rita, so I hadn’t said anything. Baron greeted him with a sloppy kiss on his cheek. Jack wasn’t a dog lover, but he liked Baron.

  He had a key to my place; came and went when he felt like it. He had fierce eyes, of a color I can’t describe. They were almost black in a certain light. He stood in the doorway staring. We had never talked about it, but I was sure he didn’t approve of interracial romance. Unless it was a one-night stand. I wondered if it was.

  I introduced Rita and Jack. They shook hands tentatively. He tossed his kit bag on the table. He carried it with him all the time. I guess he thought he had to be prepared for Armageddon. I guess he was right.

  We sat at the breakfast table, the TV still droning. I was worried about what Jack would say. He had definite opinions about the riot, I was sure. He had them about everything else.

  He pierced the set with his eyes. Watching intently. Then it came.

  “This is all crazy. Damn looters should be shot on sight. No questions. No second chances. No chances to cry how oppressed they are. Hell, next thing you know they’ll be inviting gang bangers to the White House.” He looked at Rita. What was he thinking? I would have given the proverbial anything to know.

  What was she thinking?

  He looked at her. At me. Back to her. She squirmed. I was uncomfortable. He was never uncomfortable.

  “Hey, don’t get me wrong. It’s not a race thing. Don’t matter if they’re white. Looters should be shot.”

  That didn’t help.

  “But you know what I just don’t get. The system worked. The four cops were tried, by a jury of their peers. They got justice. I mean, what do these people want? A jury of junkies and homos? Bangers. That ain’t a jury of their peers. We don’t know all what went on in the trial. We don’t know. And King, man, he was stoned on something. A stone-ass criminal to boot. And if you watch the entire tape, he got up. He charged the cops. I know what I wouldda done in their situation. And ol’ Rodney King Cole wouldn’t be here to talk about it today. Someone charges me. One of us dies. Doesn’t matter which one. But one of us eats the cheese. They got justice. What else do they want?”

  Rita didn’t say anything. She didn’t avert her eyes. Didn’t shift position. But she didn’t respond. I thought the beating had gone too far, but I agreed with Jack in part. If King had come toward me, what would I have done in the heat of the moment? I might have gone crazy and killed him. The cops didn’t do that.

  Jack and Warren were opposite sides of the same coin. I was in the middle, I hoped. But it was a hard balancing act. I wondered where Rita fit. She loved Warren, even with his positions and attitude. And I loved Jack.

  “I guess you guys don’t have opinions,” he said. It was a challenge. He was looking for a fight. Rita knew it too.

  “Oh we got ’em, least I do,” she said. He glared at her, challenging. “What’s going on out on the streets is wrong. What happened to King is wrong. Cops do treat blacks differently. I wonder what would have happened if he was white.”

  “I’ll tell you what would’ve happened if I was the cop. I wouldda killed him. Color don’t matter. He’s not special ’cause he’s black. Another guy wouldn’t be special ’cause he’s white. Someone comes after me, I—”

  “You really think he went after the cops.”

  “Hell, he was tased twice. Didn’t go down. All he had to do was lie down on the ground.”

  “He should have. I’ll admit that. Still, the cops went too far.”

  “Maybe,” Jack said. That was victory enough for Rita.

  He turned to me: “Hey, buddy, I only came to see if the house was still here. I called last night, but no one answered, no answering machine. Nothing.”

  “Yeah, I forgot to turn it on. Must’ve slept like a log.”

  Jack panned from me to Rita. His look said, “Yeah, right. Slept.”

  I had purposely left the machine off, turned the bells on the phones off. I wanted privacy.

  A sly grin formed at the corners of Jack’s mouth. “Hey, he play k.d. lang for you?”

  I had.

  “I think so. I think it was her.”

  Jack snorted a laugh. “Well, I hope it’s not contagious.” He got up, headed for the door. “Don’t forget, don’t you dare capitalize her initials or name. It ain’t PC.”

  “Where’re you going?”

  “You know what they say, two’s company, three don’t fit with family values. Besides, some of us have to work.”

  Work, I thought. Jack worked about every third day. He was an antiques refinisher. Could have made a good living at it if he put more effort into it. It was more important for him to be able to ride his Harley up and down the coast. Come and go as he pleased. On leaving the Navy, he promised himself he’d never work a nine-to-five job. He never did.

  “Today?”

  “Yup.”

  He grabbed his kit bag and was gone.

  “Don’t let him bother you,” I said to
Rita as we cleared the breakfast plates. “He’d give his life for you.”

  “For you. I’m not so sure about me.”

  “He’d give it for you too. I’d bet my own life on it. But he has a certain way of looking at the world.”

  “We all do. I have a friend just like him. If he knew I’d slept with a white man last night he’d slit my throat.”

  “What would he do to me?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “You’re not a black woman.”

  After breakfast, we didn’t know what to do with ourselves. It wasn’t a great day for doing the touristy spots. We went back to bed.

  We lay in bed, wrapped in each other’s arms. No TV. k.d. lang spilling from the five disc CD player, which had speaker outlets in almost every room.

  “Why doesn’t Jack like her?”

  “She’s a lesbian.”

  “I bet he’d give his life for her,” she said with a mocking smile. Was she baiting me?

  “I believe he would.” I really did. “But that doesn’t mean he has to support her lifestyle.”

  “Oh, he’s one of those ‘I-may-not-agree-with-you-but-I’ll-fight-to-the-death-for-your-right-to-say-anything’ guys.”

  “You got it.” I sat up.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I think I’m feeling guilty.”

  “Guilty—for sleeping with a black woman?” There was a hint of seriousness under her joking demeanor.

  “Guilty that I should be pursuing Teddie’s case.”

  “Today?”

  “Yeah, even today.”

  “Can you tell me who you’re working for?”

  Was that the only reason she’d slept with me? There were so many things to consider. So many layers. So many possible ulterior motives. For both of us.

  “I can’t. You know that.” And I couldn’t tell her where the guilt really came from. “You wanna go down to my office with me? I want to make sure it hasn’t been broken into, check the mail. Then we can go to lunch.”

  “How far away is it?”

  “Not far. Over on Beverly.”

  She agreed to go. I fed Baron on the way out. We talked about Teddie on the way there. She had been a normal little girl. Closer in age to Warren. Had helped to bring him up. Liked dolls and baseball as a kid. Outgrew the dolls, not the baseball. She decided to become an actress when an Englishman had brought a ragtag group of actors to her junior high school and put on a play of Shakespeare’s. Then he did workshops with the students, where they did Romeo and Juliet. Instead of the Montagues and Capulets, the warring families were the Crips and Bloods. That was Teddie’s introduction to acting. She had a small part in the play, but longed to be Juliet.

  I told Rita about going to Teddie’s after the murder, seeing Warren. His attitude, which she knew quite well. About heading down to Tiny’s, reading Teddie’s letters, which, I informed her, I still wanted to do. I told her I had come across a possible suspect I was calling the Weasel—I didn’t tell her how. I described the Weasel to her. She didn’t have much to add about who he might have been. Rita and Teddie hadn’t been close since they were kids because of the age difference. While Rita had been away at college Teddie and Warren had gotten closer. He’d be the one who might know something.

  There wasn’t much traffic on the streets. Some looters along La Brea. Police were out now. No sign of the National Guard. Not in this area. Not yet.

  No problem finding a parking place in front of the office. I didn’t bother putting a quarter in the meter. It was an older two-story building. Stunning red brick, with leaded glass windows. At golden hour, when the light falls just right, it looks like something out of Edward Hopper.

  My office was on the second floor. The mail hadn’t come yet. There was an urgent message from Laurie Hoffman on the answering machine. She wasn’t home when I called her back. We called the hospital. The nurse said Tiny was in good condition but his throat was swollen from having the gun stuck in it. She wanted to know who’d done it. Tiny wouldn’t tell and neither would we. He wouldn’t be allowed to talk for a couple of days she told us. They were keeping him there for observation. She’d relay our message.

  We started to leave the office to go and get some lunch. As we were leaving, we ran into Laurie on the stairs. There were dark circles under her eyes. She was fidgety. We went back to the office.

  CHAPTER 14

  Back in the office, I introduced Laurie and Rita.

  “Are you Mr. Rogers’ secretary?” Laurie asked innocently. Rita chose to ignore her. I intervened, escorting Laurie into the private office, while Rita waited out front. I closed the door.

  “I need your help, Mr. Rogers.”

  I gazed out the window. Smoke and ash rose from all points south. The symphony of sirens and choppers continued from all directions. The city was on fire. I felt like Nero. It’s not that I didn’t care about Laurie Hoffman’s problems. I cared more about finding Teddie’s killer. I owed her and her family that much. I also cared about what was happening to my home town. And had no idea what I could do about it. Yet here was this woman in need. She looked like she hadn’t slept in days, and I didn’t really want to help her. More important things on my mind.

  I suggested she call Kevin Tracy, another good private detective. I started to write his name on a piece of paper.

  “Please, Mr. Rogers. I can’t go calling every detective in the book. I know you’re busy, but can’t you just check into it for me.”

  “I’m not sure what there is to check into. I can take a photo of your stalker coming within a hundred feet of your house so you can possibly have a judge throw the guy in jail.”

  She looked like she had something to say. She didn’t want to say it. What was she afraid of? She finally spoke. “Maybe you could, uh, talk to him.” She said talk to him; she didn’t mean with my mouth. She might have meant with fists or a club. I didn’t think she meant I should let my trigger finger do the walking or talking. “I’ll pay you double your rate. Just go and talk to him one time, let him know that I’m not in this alone.”

  One silky leg crossed the other. Was she really uncomfortable or was she shifting to give me a better view? To entice me? Or was I being totally sexist by even thinking it? It didn’t matter. I decided to talk to the guy for her. If I could help her that might be a little payback for Teddie too.

  “I’ll talk to him, one time. At my normal rate. I charge by the day, one day minimum.”

  “Agreed.” A wave of relief washed over her face. The muscles around her eyes and mouth unknotted. A hint of a sparkle flashed across her hazel green eyes. She was pretty. I guessed her age to be mid-thirties, a very attractive mid-thirties. She’d lost ten years in ten minutes.

  She handed me a piece of paper with Gary Craylock’s name, address and phone number already written on it. She had come prepared. I smiled at her, trying to let her know that it would be all right. It wasn’t easy. It didn’t come immediately. She smiled back. I felt good knowing that I might be able to help her.

  “I have to be honest with you,” I said, feeling good to be honest with someone, “but I don’t know how the riot will affect things. I’ll try to get to him today or tomorrow. I don’t make any promises. This mess throws everything out of kilter. If he harasses you, call me.” I handed her my card. “If I’m not in, I’ll get back to you as soon as possible. Also fill out this contract and make sure both your work and home addresses are correct. Also in the ‘other’ section at the bottom, put down your normal home, work and other activity hours. I know it seems like prying—”

  “Hardly. I’ll be happy for someone to know my whereabouts. Someone besides him. All my friends think I’m crazy, making too much out of nothing. Some even think I should be flattered.” She looked me in the eyes. “I was at first. It wore off quickly.”

  “I imagine it would.”

  It dawned on me after she left that I didn’t have a car to get around in. We had come to the office
in Rita’s car. I hardly knew her well enough to ask to borrow it. She took me to a car rental place. I rented the cheapest car they had available, a fire engine red Toyota Corolla, and hoped that it wouldn’t get damaged in the riot. Normally, I wouldn’t have bought the extra insurance the rental companies offer. I did that day.

  Some places were closed, others open. It was real hit and miss. El Coyote was open. Rita and I met there for lunch after she took me to get the car. It wasn’t very crowded.

  “This way, señor,” the hostess said. She wore a multicolored dress of green, white and red. The skirt billowed out for miles in every direction. We were seated in the No Smoking section. Chips and salsa were brought. We dipped in. I could tell the salsa was too hot for Rita. I liked it that way.

  Awkward. Neither of us knew what to say to the other. We’d spent a night of heat and passion in the middle of a night of heat and passion in the larger city. She was black. I was white. Blacks were pulling whites out of cars and beating on them for no reason other than they were white. If certain of her friends or family knew, they might have beat on me. If one friend of mine in particular knew, he might look at me differently from then on. And he knew. If people saw us driving together, they might pull us both out of the car and put a brick, or worse, through our heads. It was the best of times, it was the shittiest of times.

  Was it the heat of the moment that brought us together intimately and lustfully, just as the heat of the moment had led to our initial meeting at Rita’s mom’s house? Or was there more? I wanted to know. Was afraid to ask. I wondered what she was thinking. What the people in the restaurant around us thought of this zebra-striped couple. Did they notice? I was sure they did, especially today. Did they care? I didn’t know.