As usual it was a rollicking conversation. Each of us had a favorite story in the day�s newspaper. We laughed at the rumor coming from the Turkish countryside: some people there thought that the newest flu epidemic was somehow caused by the moon expedition. The U.S. had similar issues with Russian spy satellites. White parents in Mississippi had a sit-in complaining about even just the word integration. But it was Angela Davis and UCLA�s attempt to oust her from her teaching position that got Raymond and Tinsford riled.

�But,� Tinsford complained, �the communists want revolution.�

�So did Thomas Jefferson.� Raymond wielded the name as if it was a weapon. For the past few months, he�d been spending his spare time reading heavy tomes of history about politics and race.

But Tinsford had been reading his entire life.

�Jefferson was influenced by the French Revolution, not Karl Marx.�

�Angela was influenced by the Frankfurt School,� Raymond said. I knew right then that he was going to be a whole new kind of threat in the coming decade.

�What school is that?� Saul asked.

�It�s these college professor guys from Germany,� Mouse said. �This guy Herb Marcus, somethin� like that, works with them. They want things to change, and Angela does too. That�s why the trustees tryin� to fire her.�

�Mr. Rawlins?� Niska Redman, our office manager, was standing at the door.

�Yeah?�

�That woman, Miss Stoller, the one Mrs. Blue wanted you to talk to. She�s here.�

Niska was tallish for a woman at that time, maybe five nine, and brown like the lighter version of See�s caramel candy. She usually tried to be serious because of her job, but you could tell that she was always ready to laugh.

�Well, guys,� I said to my friends, �I guess it�s time to get back to work.�

And that was it. Saul and Whisper went to their offices. Mouse left for a world of bad men, bank robbers, and bloodletters.

Niska backed up into the hall, allowing the men to file by, then she returned followed by a woman two shades darker than her.

�Amy Stoller,� Niska announced.

The potential client was wearing an ivory-colored dress that had a high collar and a knee-level hem that flared just a bit as if maybe responding to an errant breeze.

Already standing to see my friends out, I took a step in the potential client�s direction and held out a hand.

�Easy Rawlins,� I said.

�Nice to meet you.� She obliged the gesture with a firm grip.

�Have a seat,� I offered, motioning at the three chairs set before my gargantuan desk.

I�d started WRENS-L Detective Agency with a quasi-legal windfall I�d come upon years before. Saul and Whisper came in as partners, but they made me take the big office. I�d accepted the allocation with only mild trepidation. I wasn�t humble among friends or clients. But as an orphan in Houston�s Fifth Ward, I�d learned that, in the world at large, if people knew you had something, they were liable to take it.

I made it behind the desk. Ms. Stoller waited for me to sit down before she settled in. This struck me along with something else about her, a subtle scent she wore that was reminiscent of the bouquet of some ancient forest, welcoming but having hardly any trace of sweetness.

She was in her mid- to late twenties with satin brown skin and amber eyes on a face that was wide and unusually sensual. Her mouth was also wide, promising a beautiful smile. Stoller�s eyes being lighter than her skin meant something that I couldn�t put my finger on. But that wasn�t a bother, not at all.

�It�s a very nice office,� she said. �Kind of like the master bedroom in an apartment, or even a house.�

�The whole building used to be a rich man�s home till the furniture store downstairs bought it.�

She let her head tilt to the left and gave up half a grin.

I knew that this was a very important moment but had no idea if it would be for the good or not.

�I feel guilty,� Amethystine said, shocking me back to the present.

�Guilty about what?�

�About leaving him. He was pretty useless when it came to dealing with anything but numbers. Numbers and long hours at work.�

Also boring, I thought.

In a bizarre turn of mind, I got the urge to ask her if she was going to get me killed. But instead I said, �I�m gonna need his parents� information, and his.�

�You mean like their names and addresses?�

�Yes.�

�I don�t know Curt�s new address. I mean, I don�t see him very often because, because he needs to get over me.�

Nodding, I pushed a yellow legal pad and yellow No. 2 pencil across the desk.

While writing she said, �Mrs. Blue told me to come see you, but she didn�t tell me what it would cost.�

�Jewelle and I work on an old-school monetary system.�

Looking up, Amethystine asked, �What�s that?�

�We trade in favors.�

�Trade?�

�Back and forth like two tennis players in hell.�

�Is there some favor you need from me?�

�No, at this point all I need is information.�

She worked the pencil across the blue-lined yellow sheet with intensity. It was then that I noticed she was left-handed.

�Do you have any idea of where Curt might be?�

�No.�

It was the first lie she uttered. That�s when I decided, for sure, to kick the tires on her missing person case.

�Does he have any enemies?� I asked, as PI protocol demanded.

�I couldn�t say. I mean, he doesn�t run around with a bad crowd or anything, but he�s kind of innocent, know what I mean?�

�Maybe, but why don�t you explain?�

�He�s a soft touch, gives away money on the street to anybody who says they need it. He believes that people mostly tell the truth and keep their promises. He�s a white man but I don�t think that ever, even once, he thought there was anything unusual about us being together.�

�You don�t share his beliefs?� I teased, mildly.

�Do you?�

�Your number on that paper?� I asked in reply.

She took up the pencil once more.

Anger Lee and I were walking down a dark Galveston alley late one Wednesday night. I was smitten with her even though she treated me like a little brother.

I�d just gotten off from my job as a dishwasher at an upscale bordello on Rent Street. Halfway down the alley a big Black man jumped out, slapped me, and then pulled out a jagged-looking black-bladed knife.

�Bitch! You comin� wit� me!� the attacker yelled at Anger.

Fifteen-year-old man that I was, I jumped up and tried my best to demolish our attacker. Instead, I was laid on my back with a knife wound in my left shoulder and a concussion that lasted nine days. Even though I was outmanned, my attack was a success because it gave Anger the chance to pull out her long-barreled .41-caliber pistol.

�Back it up, suckah!� she yelled.

Then there was a shot.

There were fifty or more patrons sitting at tables or walking down the line, pushing dark trays and studying the offerings � which were anything but Hawaiian.

�Can I help you, sir?� a woman asked.

She stood at the host�s podium. Her name tag read DAISY but she was Asian, probably Chinese, slender, with a forlorn look in her eyes and a smile on her lips. She was in her mid-thirties, an age that was kind of a DMZ dividing youth from adulthood. Her face was long; maybe that�s why I felt she was sad.

�I�m meeting someone for lunch,� I said.

�Do you see them?�

She wasn�t being short or rude. Clifton�s was a busy place with three floors of dining space and no waitstaff except for drinks.

�No,� I said. �Maybe he left a note or something for me at your desk.�

�I don�t think��

�His name is Anatole McCourt and he�s quite tall.�

Daisy�s head moved back maybe two inches, the kind of reaction any mammal might have when they catch the odor of something unexpected.

�Oh,� she said. �Yes. Follow me.�

She led me through the first-floor dining room to a stairway that wound upward past the second level to the third. We walked down a slender hallway that had hanging framed oil paintings of flowers every four feet or so. Finally, we came to a curtained doorway. This she gestured for me to go through.

On the other side of the beaded green blind was a solitary balcony that looked down onto the second-floor dining room. The table there could have seated four easily, but Anatole McCourt was there alone.

When I realized that he had arrived before me I considered walking away and taking my own unplanned vacation.

Anatole McCourt was tall and beautiful by masculine standards. He followed the law to the letter and was chivalrous to women. All that and he�d never so much as shaken my hand. Now I was invited into his private booth. And he was early, which meant that he was hungry for something other than teriyaki chicken thighs.

�Private balcony, huh?� I said, taking the seat across from him.

�You want a drink?�

�Do I need one?�

�Up to you.� He was almost chipper.

�Maybe later.�

�You hungry?� the cop offered.

�Sure. Wanna go down to the line?�

�No.�

He pressed a black button set on the balcony�s upper banister shelf. Immediately, a short mustachioed man came in through the beaded curtain.

�Yes, Captain?� the swarthy Caucasian inquired.

�Bring us out some appetizers and two of the regular.�

After the waiter was gone, I wondered aloud, �I didn�t know they had table service at Clifton�s?�

�They do for me.�

It�s funny how we, men in America and probably around the world, can compete over anything at all.

�So,� I said, �why we got to meet here instead of your office?�

�The man you�re looking for has been identified as a possible part of a numbers scheme being run by a man named Shadrach.�

�What part of the scheme is Fields?�

�We don�t know. He is almost certainly helping them hide the proceeds, but he may also have something to do with planning.�

�Racketeering?�

�They aren�t sure. But they�d like any information you have.�

�I don�t know anything. Woman, sayin� she was his wife, came to my office and said he was missing, that his parents went to the police, but they didn�t find anything.�

�And what have you found out?�

�Mel was the first person I called.�

The curtain parted and the mustachioed man came in with a tall Black waiter carrying a pupu platter that was overflowing with skewers of teriyaki beef, stewed chicken, and butterflied shrimp, along with sweet pork ribs, chicken wings, fried rice balls, and cracked cold crab claws.

After the platter was installed at the center of the table, they brought in two meat-loaf plates with side dishes of mashed potatoes and short-cut wax beans.

�Anything else?� the head waiter asked Anatole.

�Yeah, bring me a Laphroaig.�

�Right away, Captain.�

He departed, leaving us to feast.

I could feel my heart working. Anatole McCourt was not the kind to share police information, not to mention their resources, with a man like me. A Black man, a fake cop, a friend of the notorious Raymond �Mouse� Alexander � I was everything a man like McCourt despised.

The waiter must have had the drink waiting because he returned with it just that fast. He put the peaty liquor down in front of McCourt and bowed his way out again.

�Okay,� I said. �I give.�

�What do you mean?� Anatole savored the first sip.

�Look, man, you don�t like me. You never did. You wouldn�t even talk to me if it wasn�t for Mel. So, you got me here to talk about somethin� specific.�

�Yes. Of course. I was asked by the men investigating Fields to get you to share what you know and what you find.�

�No.�

�No, you won�t share?�

�No, that�s not why we�re here. You never work with people like me. It�s against your nature. You�d rather let killers and rapists get away than be in debt to me. You think that you�ll catch the bad guys later, on some other beef. No. What is it we really doin� here, Anatole?�

The beautiful Irishman downed the rest of his double shot. He�d savored the sip but needed that gulp to keep him from throwing me off the balcony. He could probably count on one hand the number of times he�d had to come clean with someone like me.

�We�re looking for Mary Donovan,� he admitted. The tops of his perfectly sculpted earlobes were tinting red.

�What for?�

�That�s police business.�

�Mel�s a friend�a mine. I thought he was your rabbi.�

�We�re not asking you about Commander Suggs.�

�I once asked Mel how he explains his relationship with Ms. Donovan. You know what he told me?�

Anatole didn�t say anything, but I could feel his attention magnify.

�He said that she was his one external organ.�

�So, you refuse to help?�

�What�s goin� on with Mel, man?�

The juggernaut cop�s face twisted. He wanted to hurt me. After maybe half a minute he stood up from his chair and said, �Finish your food, Rawlins, it might be your last meal as a free man.�

That was an exit line, but McCourt paused, thinking that maybe I�d be afraid enough to fold.

I looked up at him, considering the threat. Anatole was a brawler, a bad man with his fists. There was no question that he could have beaten me to death right there and then.

But I had just turned fifty. The average life span of Negro men in that year was sixty. He had more to lose than I did, and besides, Melvin Suggs was my friend.

When he saw that I wasn�t going to cave, the cop stormed out of our meeting place.

I devoured two wings and one rice ball, then made my way down the stairs to the basement toilets. Between the men�s and women�s doors was an old-fashioned phone booth with an upholstered seat.

The living room was twelve by twenty feet with a low, eight-foot ceiling and a thin tan carpet made from some grainy, synthetic fabric.

There were two short burgundy couches that were set together to form an el. I took the settee facing the front door while my three hosts fit easily onto the other sofa.

We sat there for a moment. The front door was still open, the Pacific Ocean lounged under slowly darkening blue.

�I�m Harrison,� the oldest of the family piped. �Harrison Fields.�

�Curt�s father?�

�No,� the other man murmured as he shook his jowls. �I�m Curt�s father... Alastair. And this is Curt�s mother, my wife, Winsome.�

�Winsome Barker-Fields,� the woman added. �You say that Amy hired you to look for Curt?�

�Amethystine works for a friend of mine, and she, my friend, suggested that your ex-daughter-in-law call me. I do this kind of work for a living.�

�We don�t have any money,� Alastair claimed. He was leaning forward, elbows on knees and hands clasped.

�That�s all taken care of, sir.�

�Where�d Amy get money like that?� he demanded.

�This is a favor for the woman she works for.�

�Are you a real detective?� Winsome asked.

Instead of trying to explain, I leaned over, dug out my wallet from a back pocket, and produced my detective�s license. She read it closely and then tried to hand it to her husband, but he waved it off. Harrison took it instead.

�You�ve already done more than the Santa Monica PD,� the elder Fields said, standing up and leaning over to hand back the ID. �We had to go down to the station and all they did was have us fill out a form like a fucking application for a job.�

�Harrison!� Winsome said sharply.

�I�m just sayin�.�

�You don�t have to curse.�

�I�m sure the police are doing their job,� I said. �But it�s always good to have extra eyes on the lookout.�

�We don�t have any money,� Alastair said again.

�I understand that, sir. Amethystine and my friend have covered all costs.�

Alastair nodded, but it didn�t feel like he understood.

�Amethystine...� I began.

Winsome grunted when I said the name.

�She told me,� I continued, �that she�d heard from you that he was missing and wanted to help.�

�She could have helped by leaving him alone in the first place,� Winsome said.

�Don�t listen to them,� Harrison declared, somehow sounding friendly. �You know, we�re farming stock from rural Ohio. People back home don�t trust anything new or different. But you�re right, an extra pair of eyes will see things that others don�t understand.�

I nodded slightly, accepting and agreeing with his words.

�What I don�t understand is why you�re here in the first place,� Alastair said.

�I went to talk to the police in Los Angeles...� I began.

�Why?� Alastair challenged.

�What do you mean why?� Harrison asked his younger brother. �Curt works in LA. He lives there.�

�I asked the man why he�s here,� was the younger brother�s answer.

�The LA police said that your son was doing some kind of business with guys that were, um, suspicious. Did he tell you about any of the people he was working with?�

Three little white faces turned toward me. They seemed like children then. I could almost understand why Amethystine got involved with her ex�s disappearance.

�No,� Winsome replied. �Curt never talked too much about his job.�

�Are the people he�s working with crooks?� Alastair wanted to know.

�I don�t know,� I admitted.

�What do you need from us, Mr. Rawlins?� Harrison asked.

�Anything useful. Friends, clubs, sports he might play or go to watch.�

�When he was a kid he liked to play checkers,� Alastair pulled out of memory.

�He has a baseball card collection in his room,� Winsome added. �And, and, and he has a Japanese pen pal.�

�What�s his name?�

The parents thought really hard on this question. Every once in a while, they�d toy with a syllable or two, but with little progress.

�Damn,� Harrison said. �It�s Eiko Ishida. Don�t you two ever listen to Curt?�

�Where does this Eiko live?� I asked.

�In Japan,� Alastair said in a tone that called me fool. �Where else you gonna find a Jap?�

Raised on a steady diet of white mouths saying nigger-this and nigger-that, I was half-ready to walk out of that matchbook of a house. I might have done it if Winsome hadn�t spoken up.

�Be quiet, Al,� she said. �Can�t you see the man wants to help?�

�He wants my money, that�s what he wants,� her husband replied.

�Do you have Curt�s current address?� I asked anyone.

�He�s out in Culver City, but we don�t know the street address,� Winsome admitted.

�You don�t know where your son lives?�

�We never drive far, and he comes to see us. He only moved out a few months ago.�

�He moved here after divorcing Amethystine?�

�Yes,� Winsome said. �Of course. Why wouldn�t he?�

�House seems kinda small for four people.�

�The bedrooms are small but there�s four of �em back in that rabbit warren,� Harrison said, pointing at a door at the back of the living room.

�We have his phone number,� Winsome added.

�That wouldn�t help me. But maybe you have the numbers of some of his friends.�

�No, no. We never called his friends. Maybe I could remember some of their last names.�

�What about Giselle?� Harrison suggested to his sister-in-law.

�Who�s that?� I asked.

Looking both distressed and distracted, Winsome stood up from the red sofa and walked toward and then through the doorway that Harrison had said led to a warren.

There was silence among the men for a few moments, and then...

�How could you make a living doing work for nuthin�?� asked Alastair.

�I usually charge seventy-five dollars a day.�

�A day!� the penny-pinching farmer complained. �A day?�

�Plus expenses. That way I can afford to do work pro bono now and again.�

�Seventy-five a day. Most I ever made was two fifty a week. And I�m a white man.�

You certainly are, I thought.

From the corner of my eye I could see Winsome coming through the rabbit door. She was holding a slip of paper in her left hand. She stared at the note until reaching me. Then she held it out away from her body as if she wanted to be free of it.

�Here,� she said.

�What�s this?� I asked, taking the offering.

�Giselle�s number, of course.�

�Who is she?�

�Some woman Curt knows. He told us if he didn�t answer his home phone we were to call this one.�

�And did you call her?�

�No.�

I wanted to ask why not, but there are some mysteries not worth solving.

Turning my attention to the phone number, I saw that Winsome�s handwriting was lovely. There was the first name and the number rendered in loving cursive.

�What�s Giselle�s last name?�

�I don�t know,� Winsome said. �We never met.�

Alastair�s wife was standing in front of me. I realized that she wanted me to leave.

�Is she a Black girl?� I asked, brandishing the paper.

�I have no idea.�

I stood up then and the lady took three steps back, almost to the wall.

�I�ll walk you out, Mr. Rawlins,� Harrison offered. He levered himself up by putting one hand on his brother�s shoulder.

Alastair looked at me and said, in wonder, �Seventy-five dollars.�

It was 1945 and the war was over. By that time I had seen thousands of men, women, and children � dying, mutilated, and dead � and I had killed at least twenty-six of them up close myself. Albert Grimes, corporal first class, came into my tent some minutes before 3:00 a.m. I was asleep, and not asleep, a state that being a participant in war had imparted to me.

�What?� I said to the shadow standing in the open flap.

�Sarge, it�s me, Albert.�

�What�s wrong?� I was fully awake then, sitting up, reaching for the pistol on the trunk next to my cot.

�I need help.�

�Somebody after you?�

With World War II just over, Black soldiers, once again, had to worry about our primary enemies � white Americans. They�d seen us slaughtering white Germans. They knew we were bedding German, French, English, and Italian women. They understood that there might well be a reckoning on the horizon.

�No,� Albert said. �I�m in trouble and I don�t know what to do.�

We were bivouacked on the outskirts of Nuremberg, waiting there in case there was any need to pacify German citizens who thought that Americans belonged in America and Russians in the USSR.

I lit the kerosene lantern next to my bed. Albert hunkered down to face me.

He was the color of a copper penny that hadn�t been shined in a while. Twenty-eight, prematurely bald, and no more than five seven, he was stronger than almost anyone in our squad. He was also very religious � that rare Negro who was more aware of being a Christian than he was of being Black.

�What kinda trouble?�

�Woman trouble.�

�What you do?�

Unable to answer me right off, he fell back on his butt.

�I try and be a good man, Sergeant Rawlins. I do. I don�t drink. I never take satisfaction in another man�s pain. On Sundays, even when we was in battle I tried to read a few verses from my Bible.�

�So, what�s wrong?�

�Penelope Vosges.�

�What you do to her?�

�The worst thing.�

�Killed her?�

�Might as well have.�

�Raped her?�

�She�s pregnant with my child.� The bald soldier wept.

�You sure?�

�Yes. The doctor said so.�

I stood up from the cot and started putting on my fatigues.

�What you doin�, Sarge?�

�We gonna go see the mother of this child.�

It was near midnight in Los Angeles on a Monday. At that time the city was populated by workingmen and � women, and schoolchildren � all of them at home in their beds. Now and then I could hear a car whooshing down Melrose, but the Vosgeses� block was silent and still.

I closed my eyes and thought about Mississippi-born Albert Grimes, a Black man, the grandson of slaves, who went to Europe, killed white men, and married a white woman who had had it even harder than he had.

I heard the car driving up the street. I wasn�t concerned, even when it stopped; after all, there was always someone working late.

�Excuse me, sir,� an unrepentant man�s voice declared.

Opening my eyes I saw the two young white men, barely older than Karin.

�Evenin�, Officers.�

They flanked me and I remained motionless, propped up on the hood with both hands visible.

�What you doin� here, son?� the young man on the left asked.

I breathed in deeply, found that I couldn�t talk with that much air in my lungs, exhaled, and then said, �Waitin� for my goddaughter. She�s gonna drive me home.�

�You live around here?� the right-standing cop asked.

�No.�

�Where do you live?�

�Over on Forty-Second near Central,� I lied.

�You been drinking?�

�Two shots with Karin�s mother.�

�Why don�t you stand up and show us some ID?� the left cop suggested.

�Uncle Easy,� she called from behind my inquisitors.

Both cops turned to see who it was. I realized that I was scared because I had to suppress the urge to run.

Using these few moments, Karin crossed the street.

�Good evening, Officers,� she greeted. �Is something wrong?�

�Do you know this man?� asked the cop on the right.

�Of course I do. He�s my godfather.�

While they talked, I played out the probable scenario in my head. Karin was light-skinned but that didn�t matter; a Black woman was a Black woman in America�s eyes. She was young, but her race trumped the presumption of innocence. They would have to make sure she lived there. They�d go to Penelope�s house, and she�d give them a tongue-lashing...

�You live in that house?� a cop, I�m not sure which one, asked.

�Yes.�

That one word was like a stress crack in thawing ice. The cops looked at each other and, silently, the decision was made.

�Are you driving him home?� my right-side cop asked.

�Yes. He�s tired and asked me to.�

They weren�t friendly to us. They would most certainly have arrested me for standing drunk next to my car. But they decided to believe Karin, that she lived there and wasn�t burgling the tiny house. The world was changing in increments so small you�d have had to be a victim to feel it.

�All right then,� the same cop said. �Drive safely.�

I remembered Underchief Laks. A neatly dressed prig. He had four senior officers take me into custody on a Sunday afternoon when I still lived in LA proper. We were having a barbecue, my whole family, Jesus and Feather, Essie and Benita. The cops barged into the backyard, threw me on the ground, hog-tied me with chains, and were in the process of dragging me off. Jesus hefted a hot poker but I yelled at him to stand down.

�No, Juice! Make the call.�

They brought me downtown and sat me in a chair before Terrence Laks. He was wearing a midnight-blue three-piece Wilkes Bashford suit that was tailored to his slim build.

�Mr. Rawlins,� he said with a smile that would have worked well on a cartoon snake. �So nice to see you.�

�What am I doing here?� I asked one of the few cops who outranked my friend Melvin Suggs.

�It�s your turn, Easy. That�s what they call you isn�t it? Easy.�

�My turn for what?�

�A man named Forman, Guillory Forman, was shot dead in his pawnshop last night. He was killed before he could testify against a man known as Paul Dustman.�

�So?�

Laks turned to one of his minions, who, in turn, put a legal-length printed sheet in front of me.

�So, when you sign this confession you will be charged for his murder.�

�I didn�t kill him,� I said with steely conviction that I did not feel.

�I know where you live, Rawlins.�

�Why me, man?�

�We have a numbered list of Los Angeles�s top criminals. One by one we choose them and make sure that they pay... for something.�

Sounded like the plot of a bad James Bond movie. Seven out of ten of the city�s white residents would have said it couldn�t happen � not in America. Out of the remaining three, two would have said that I could have beaten the false charges in court.

Eleven out of nine Black Angelenos would have known that I was destined for a lifetime behind bars or a seat in the gas chamber.

�Hand our prisoner a pen,� the underchief commanded.

My hands were uncuffed and somebody slapped a transparent Bic pen down before me. I considered that blue ballpoint. It was a weapon. If my life was over I should have been able to take at least one of these criminals with me.

�Hurry up, Rawlins,� Laks said. �I have a dinner date with the mayor.�

I looked up from the writing/killing instrument into Laks�s eyes. A patina of concern passed over his smug stare. Maybe he was thinking of all the men and women I knew who could retaliate. Maybe he suddenly realized that it was a man he was trying to demolish.

Whatever it was, that thought was broken by a loud ringing.

He turned his attention to the phone, wondering, it seemed, who would be calling his office on a Sunday afternoon. After six rings he picked up the receiver.

�Yes?�

Surprise was followed by amazement; this wonderment turned his eyes to me.

�Um, well, yes. Of course, sir. No. No. Nothing like that. Yes.�

He put down the phone gently. Then for a long moment he stared at his desk. After that meditation Laks looked up at me through knitted eyes. Before that moment I had been a disposable utensil in the prig�s tool chest. Now I was the object of true hatred.

�Let him go,� he said to his underlings.

�What, sir?� one of them uttered.

�Let him go.�

As a rule, I smoked one cigarette a day. This on the flat and circular roof of Roundhouse, where I fussed over twenty-seven rosebushes planted in generous terra-cotta pots.

That morning I had another task to accomplish. In a locked box on the windswept rooftop, I kept a special phone that could not be bugged or traced.

After three rings a groggy voice complained, �What the fuck is it?�

�Raymond?�

�Easy? Hey, man. What�s up?�

�Not much. You know, workin�.�

�With that fine young thang broke up our conversation yesterday morning?�

�Maybe.�

�You still got some dog in ya, Easy.�

�What was that German shit you was talkin� yesterday, Ray?� I asked to veer away from the topic of Amethystine.

�Frankfurt School, brother. Jackson was talkin� to me �bout �em. Niggahs want everything to change. Everything.�

�Black professors?�

�You don�t have to have black skin to be a niggah, man. You know that.�

�Yeah, yeah, right. Just wanted to make sure you not talkin� fiction.�

�What�s goin� on, Ease? I was tryin� to sleep.�

�I need to talk to Lynne Hua.�

�Got some kinda itch need scratchin�?�

�I ain�t runnin� after your woman, Ray. Don�t worry.�

�I only got one woman, brother. That�s Vu Von Lihn.�

Almost as long as I had known Mouse, his one and only true love was EttaMae Harris. I wanted to ask him about what was going on with them but I knew it would just turn him sour � and when darkness gathered around Raymond Alexander there was always danger in the offing. Even though Ray had become a reader, that did nothing for his sanity.

�I just wanna ask Lynne if she knows somebody.�

�Okay.� Mouse didn�t ask questions if the answers didn�t help in some way � help or make him laugh. �Let�s meet at the regular place around two.�

�You still have that problem?� My question was a response to the circumspection he used.

�Like a stone in my shoe.�

�Okay, yah, see ya then.�

Another tiny home. The living room had a small couch and matching chair. The carpet was barely green and quite worn. Everything was in its proper place and there wasn�t even a magazine on the coffee table.

From there led a small hallway that took me to a kitchen painted yellow and white. Again, there was little of the personal to the room. The young man�s solitary existence was made apparent by the two plates in the cupboard.

The bedroom was small too. A single bed, unmade, and a bookshelf over a blond-wood desk. The books on the shelf were science fiction, accounting reference manuals, and three volumes about Japan. There was a Playboy magazine, three comic books, and a stack of typewriter paper in the side drawers. The pencil drawer had three pencils, one fat pink eraser, and a Bic pen.

The small night table next to the head of Curt�s bed was the only truly revealing thing in his house. There was a small package of three Trojan condoms, a nearly empty half-pint bottle of Night Owl whiskey, a prescription bottle of benzodiazepine, and, in the little drawer, a personal diary. There was only one sentence written on the first page.

There was also a phone on the night table.

�Proxy Nine, how can I direct your call?�

�Jackson Blue�s office, please.�

�He�s the senior vice president,� the young man explained patiently.

�Uh-huh.�

�What is it that you want, sir?�

�I want Jackson Blue�s office.�

�I�m not sure if he�s in today,� the operator stipulated.

�But I bet Monique, his receptionist, will know.�

�Um... well, I guess... hold on.�

The phone went silent for two minutes by my whiteface Gruen watch. Then there were a few clicks that led to another ring.

�Jackson Blue�s office, Monique speaking.�

�Hey, Mo.�

�Mr. Rawlins!� I could imagine her berry-black heart-shaped smile. �How are you?�

�Fine. Yourself?�

�Good. I�m about to have a baby and P9 is giving me three months� maternity leave. Can you believe that?�

�Sounds great. By then you�ll be so bored you�ll probably want to be back on the job.�

�I guess,� she said with more than a little skepticism. �Jackson�s not here. He�s up in Seattle at a tech conference about transistors or somethin�. You want to leave him a message?�

�Naw. I�ll just call him later. Congratulations.�

�Thank you, darlin�.�

I walked with the ladies to a table set against a far wall. I pulled out chairs and complimented them, truthfully.

By the time we�d gotten through the niceties, Raymond was with us, carrying a tray with our various preferences.

�How�s the novel readin� goin�, Ray?� I asked.

�I done read three novel fictions in the last six months, more or less.�

�More or less months or books?�

Mouse grinned. He had a small black pearl embedded in an upper incisor. A vain man, he had style enough for two.

�Three books doesn�t sound like much,� Lynne Hua, the ex, commented.

Mouse turned toward her and smiled. Lynne was a big reader and she�d known Raymond since a time when no one would have been surprised if he�d never read even one single book.

�Jackson Blue told me that you can�t read a book just one time, not no good book, not a book that means somethin�,� Ray said, relishing the surprise on his old girlfriend�s face.

�I know you read Papillon,� I said. �What are the other two?�

�I Know Why the Caged Bird Sings and The Godfather.�

For Raymond, three books meant three heists. In the early days of his high-level robbery career, he�d spend his downtime in public houses accompanied by b-girls who were drawn to his outlaw ways. In recent years he spent more time alone. But his kind of insanity didn�t do well with self-reflection, so he started reading as a kind of balm for his turbulent mind.

Vu Von Lihn had been a mechanic in Saigon. She was plying that trade when I met her. Soon after that she met Mouse.

�You still workin� at the fancy car garage?� I asked the lady.

�No,� she said with that raspy, jagged-edged voice of hers. �I started my own garage in Korea Town.�

I asked her about the old job only to be polite, but I already knew about her business. She hired women mechanics who did the work almost at cost. Down below the regular garage there was a chop shop where the same lady mechanics toiled for profit.

�How about you, Lynne?� I asked.

�I have my own show,� she said into my eyes.

�You do? What�s it called?�

�China Girl.�

�Why haven�t I heard about that?�

�We shoot in Hong Kong. It airs over there and in Canada.�

�Your own show. Damn. That�s big,� I said. �Damn. You gonna move to one of them places?�

�I don�t know. You could get lost out there, thinking you found something.�

�That�s the truth,� the other Lihn agreed.

�What about you, Easy?� Lynne Hua asked. �What are you up to?�

She was focused on me. For some reason this degree of attention made me want to open up.

�It�s not what I�m doing, really. It�s how I feel, how the world feels.�

�What�s that mean?�

I remember lowering my head to think for a minute and then looking up to meet her gaze.

�It�s like every day is the same old war and all that changes is in me. I wake up on my mountaintop, water the plants, scratch the dogs behind their ears. I talk to my little girl, who is more of a woman than I am a man. Cops half my age stop me because they say I look suspicious. And all I do is rake leaves that keep fallin� and go to funerals in my mind.�

If I didn�t think about them, these words made sense to me.

�But you�re making a world for your children and your people,� Vu said.

�You know, Vu, I was in World War II back in the day.� I found that it was easy looking her in the face if I concentrated on the scar. It was beautiful in its own way. Notched, blind, and indelible � the kind of mark that defined a life lived.

�Back then Black soldiers didn�t have to fight,� I went on. �The white side of our armies didn�t wanna see us with guns blazin�. There was only a few of us signed up for battle.�

The Vietcong didn�t say anything, but her eyes asked a question.

�I don�t know why I needed to fight. I wouldn�t do it again for love or money. But... it�s not me I�m talkin� about. Most of the young Black men that enlisted, maybe a hundred that I knew, all but four made it back home to the Fifth Ward. But two out of every three we knew back home was gone. Helpin� my people is like tryin� to sweep up sand at the seashore.�

Even Mouse winced at that freehand statistic. �Damn, Easy,� he proclaimed. �You never told me �bout that.�

Vu was nodding, contrasting, I believed, her war times with mine.

�Raymond said you wanted to talk to me, Easy,� Lynne said.

�Yeah. I need to find somebody and I thought you might be able to help.�

�Why don�t you give me a ride home and we could talk on the way.�

I jumped out of Lynne�s bed, wide awake and scared for my life. Nearly half a minute passed before I realized that it was only a dream.

It was 11:00 and the room was chilly.

I dressed and drove to West Hollywood. Along the way I was thinking that Anger Lee had been my first client; thinking that and wondering where in the world she had gone.

�Hello?� she said on the sixth ring.

�Vu?�

�Easy.� I could hear the faraway smile in her voice.

�He there?�

�No.� There was reticence now in the Vietcong�s tone. �What�s your number?�

I read it off the dial.

�That�s your place?� she asked.

�A pay phone.�

�I�ll call you back.�

The ladies all slept late that day. Jesus and I hung around the kitchen, him with his northern newspapers and me with Papillon. Now and then we shared a word or two.

I had three phones at that time. The house line that Feather and I used, the business phone among the roses upstairs, and then the closed-circuit line that connected all of the Brighthope houses to the Sicilian work and guard staff.

The ringer on the private phone was more like a low gong that sounded once every three seconds.

�Hello?� I answered.

�Mr. Rawlins?�

�Hey, Erculi.� Erculi was the patriarch of the Longo clan.

�A man say his name is McCourt down here. He has a badge and wants to come up.�

�Tell him I�ll be right down.�

�Hi, Mr. Rawlins,� Niska Redman greeted.

She was sitting behind the big desk facing the door.

�Anybody else around?� I replied.

�No. Whisper�s taking a meeting with a potential client and Mr. Lynx took his wife out for a late lunch.�

�Oh, uh-huh. You know you can lock the door if you�re alone up here.�

She smiled.

�I mean,� I said, �a woman alone has to protect herself.�

�What�s wrong, Mr. Rawlins?� she asked in answer.

�Nothing. Why?�

�You always bother about locked doors when you�re worried about something else.�

�I do?�

She nodded. �Uh-huh. Doors and windows. Unpaid bills and phone messages when the caller doesn�t leave their name.�

I had no desire to talk about my tells, so I asked, �You talk to Tinsford about becoming a detective?�

�He said that if you thought I had potential, that was good enough for him.�

I got to the 2120 Building by seven. Elmer was the only guard I recognized. He took me to a room on the fifth floor. The sign on the door read CUSTODIAL STAFF.

It was mostly dark and completely silent. There was no fixture or furniture except for a cubicle erected in a far corner next to a window wall. From this collapsible compartment a weak light shone.

I was armed with the pistol Lihn had provided, and I was scared.

�Anybody here?�

I took my finger off the trigger, not trusting the clench in my hand.

�Anybody here?� I called again. It was almost a plea.

Half a minute passed, and I started the long trek from the floor entrance to the far corner.

The office booth contained an empty desk, a swivel chair set back away from it, and a dead body slumped on the floor between the two useless furnishings.

The body was still warm. It was a youngish white man wearing dark trousers and a short-sleeved white shirt with ample blood on the back collar. The wallet had the young man�s California license with his photograph and name � Curt Reginald Fields. Under the body was a sealed envelope, spattered with his blood. Scrawled on the letter, in pencil, was the name Amethystine.

I slumped down on the floor next to the recently murdered man. The wail of Atwater Soupspoon Wise, the Topanga bluesman, came back to me then. I was dressed like a sharecropper and those words sang to me. The twelve-bar blues washed over blood spilt, blood coming from wounds of work and war, wear and tear, and senseless, drunken brawls. And it wasn�t only blood. There was pigs� fat being rendered into candles, the stench of chitlins stewing all day on a woodstove, sewing needles made from the stripped tin of bean cans. I remembered foraging for berries in the deep woods and fighting a man over a few pennies. I cut him bad.

It was just after 1:00 when I came back to myself.

The rotary phone had a lock on the finger loop of the number 3. I used my pocketknife to snap it off.

�Yes, who is it?� a young woman answered.

�May I speak to Anatole, ma�am?�

I heard the receiver knock against wood and then a few whispers.

�Who is this?� the police captain demanded.

�It�s me, Anatole.�

�What do you want?�

�Thirty-ninth floor of the 2120 Building.�

�What�s there?�

�A dead man. Actually, two dead men.�

�Who?�

�Curt Fields on the thirty-ninth and Aaron Oliver in the stairwell outside the thirty-eighth,� I said. Then I hung up.

I made it to the six-story brick building on Temple. The front door was unlocked because the people I was going to see all got to work by 6:45.

Taking the stairs to the top floor, I knocked upon the huge oaken door festooned with bronze signage that proclaimed MOFASS ENTERPRISES. The 2120 might have been open six days a week, but Jewelle�s real estate business worked seven.

A minute passed before a young Black woman pulled the heavy door inward. She had the features of a dark-skinned Mongolian princess � almond-shaped eyes, straightened hair, and all.

�Yes?� she asked, holding the partly open door almost like a shield.

I was still dressed for custodial labor, and they didn�t deal with janitors at that office.

�Jewelle in?� I asked civilly.

�No, she�s not. What do you want with her?�

�How about Amethystine?�

She received this question as if it were a surprise wake-up slap.

�And who are you?� she asked, looking me up and down.

�My name is Rawlins and I have an appointment with either my friend Jewelle Blue or her associate... Amethystine Stoller.�

The doorwoman studied me, and my unexpected language, longer than was polite.

Finally, she said, �Wait, wait here.�

She closed the door, after which I made out the clacking sound of a bolt being thrown.

One of the things about the TV age is that people around the nation were slowly being brainwashed. This is what I believed then and now. They turn against their own and themselves because of impossible renditions of goodness, beauty, intelligence, and, worst of all, humanity.

That young woman � I never knew her name � couldn�t find it in her heart to forgive my poverty-scented invasion of her perfect soap-opera world.

Jewelle Blue, whose office it was, had only well-dressed women working for her. Mostly Black women, with a few Latinas, Asians, and sometimes a native woman. They were of all ages but the same in their professionalism and, usually, their good manners.

When the door opened again Amethystine stood behind it. Her smile bore the deep satisfaction of a real woman, truly happy to see the face of a child who had survived one more day.

�You scared our receptionist,� she said.

�Was it my clothes?�

Amethystine�s grin widened and she stood aside, making way for the pauper prince.

The entrance area of the office was a broad room where five women sat clacking away at IBM typewriters, putting the final touches on leases, contracts, letters of complaint, and making and answering calls.

On the floor below, Jewelle had the teenage daughters of some of the women looking after the younger children of others.

Everybody got paid and fed, trained, and, most often, promoted.

Jewelle would have never called herself a feminist; she liked the broad shoulders and sharp stench of men too much for that. She simply knew how she was raised to work, to serve, and to receive what her work, and others�, deserved.

By midmorning we�d come to the tiny-house ridge overlooking the small park and, beyond that, the Pacific Ocean. We disembarked and walked to the shabby porch. I knocked and before long the door opened.

Winsome Barker-Fields stood there, looking worried.

�What?� she said.

�We came to talk to you about Curt, Winnie,� Amethystine answered softly.

Skinny Alastair emerged from shadow. He placed a hand on his wife�s shoulder.

�Talk about what?� he said.

�Can we come in?� Amethystine asked.

They turned to each other for an answer to this question. Taking the couple in was almost like reading a book. To begin with, Curt wasn�t with us. This alone was bad news. Why invite trouble into your house? That�s what they were wondering.

�What do you want?� Winsome asked, putting off the inevitable.

�Excuse me.� The unapologetic voice came from somewhere behind us.

Turning around, I wasn�t surprised to see the police. The two young white men were uniform in uniforms. Both hatless and brunette, clean-shaven and a whisper under six feet, armed, of course. The guy on my right rested his palm on the butt of his gun, where his partner was the one speaking.

�Can I help you?� he asked me.

�No.�

That was not the answer he expected. His brown eyes tilted at me, and a stony demeanor recast his face.

�What the hell?� the other cop uttered.

�Can I help you guys?� I asked.

�What are you doing here?� the cop on my right demanded.

�Talking to the Fieldses.�

�Do you know these people?� the cop on the left asked the elderly couple.

After a brief, worried silence Winsome said, �Yes, Officer. This is Amy, my son�s ex-wife.�

�And what about you?� the other cop asked me.

�What about me?�

�What are you doing here?�

�This is Mr. Rawlins,� Winsome said. �He�s doing some work for us.�

�What kind of work?�

�Installing hummingbird feeders,� I said on a lark. �You know, everybody loves hummingbirds.�

Those cops didn�t love us. Like old-fashioned radio, Amethystine and I were supposed to be played on a completely different bandwidth from nice white people.

�Come on in, Amy, Mr. Rawlins.�

We did as she asked, leaving the cops on the dowdy porch.

She closed the door on them.

The Egg and the Eye, a supposedly omelet-only restaurant, was across the street from the art museum. They sold low-cost art and craft pieces, served eggs of every stripe, and even had a little theater in back where they screened independent films and unusual documentaries. I ordered their prime rib eggs Benny and took out Papillon.

I read and ate until about eleven and then I struck out for the museum.

Back in those days the LA art museum was just a four-story atrium with different eras of art displayed on each level. The basement, for the longest time, had a collection of down-at-heel sarcophagi that reminded me of discarded bathtubs. There was usually only one new exhibit at a time in the collection.

This season the new work was on the third floor. Mary said to meet her on the top level, but that wasn�t for another quarter of an hour. So I decided to wander around. Maybe Feather would like to come with me to see the new exhibit.

It was a modest offering, four paintings by Paul Klee. They were simple landscapes of different subtle and abstract places, all of which were under a red sun that seemed to me somewhat cold. It was as if these were the drawings of some Inuit child, using colors derived from berries and clay, describing various wintry landscapes on clear days.

�Easy.� She�d come up behind me like I�d imagined Fearless Jones had done a hundred times to unsuspecting German sentries � behind enemy lines.

�Hey,� I said. �I thought we were meeting on the top floor.�

�I was early. Thought I�d check out the new pieces. You?�

�Mediocre minds think alike, Ms. Donovan.�

�It�s Mrs. Suggs.�

�You guys got married?�

�Three months ago. In Reno.�

She was turned out in a tight floral minidress that might well have been silk. It was a sexy ensemble dominated by various shades of red. I knew from this choice of attire that she was intent on influencing me. A force unto herself, Mary was criminal in the eyes of the law. But the only judges she recognized were Instinct and Power. She was the living personification of Melvin�s vocation. That was why he couldn�t resist her.

�I need to find your husband.�

Her nostrils flared mere millimeters, but that was enough. If I were a male spider and she the female, I would have had to worry about being slaughtered no matter what happened next.

�Melvin said that you�re one of the most dangerous men in LA,� she offered.

�You don�t need Mel to tell you how the world works.�

Her wariness formed into a sneer.

�No. I don�t.�

�Just like I don�t need to be told about how dangerous you can be.�

�I�m just a defenseless girl, Mr. Rawlins.�

�Tell Tommy Jester that.�

She turned away to regard one of the childlike masterpieces.

I was pretty sure that Mary�s appreciation of that painting was in no way like my own. I might have gotten distracted by that thought if she hadn�t turned back to me.

�Tommy Jester was a pimp,� she declared.

�He ran men?� I was really surprised.

�Women.�

�How did he keep �em in line?�

She smiled. �When I asked him that one time he said, �Kindness � kindness and razor blades.��

�He�s dead.�

�That�s what you said.� Her expression was like the powerful lens of a seventy-millimeter camera, now and then altering ever so slightly. It was all in the muscles around her lovely, deadly eyes. �How?�

�Shot in an alley down from his apartment,� I said. �Before that you talked with him?�

�Yes.�

�You wanna go out to the park?�

Grassy and passive Hancock Park surrounded the museum and also the fenced-in tar pits where many an ancient mastodon and saber-toothed cat had met their end. Mary and I commandeered an empty bench next to the sulfurous, oil-stained waters.

�TJ had a guy did work for him named Bernard,� Mary said after looking around, making sure that we would not be overheard. �He did odd jobs.�

�Like what?�

The new bride gazed into my eyes with an intelligence that was daunting.

�Bernard took secret films of TJ�s powerful and rich clients. Tommy told me one time that he had done one on Terrence Laks.�

�The underchief?�

She shrugged.

�And you offered to buy the film from TJ?�

�He wanted ten thousand.�

�Wow.�

�Yeah... but what good�s money if you don�t have love?�

I didn�t understand those words coming out of her mouth but, then again, I didn�t need to.

�You reached out to TJ, he called back and asked for the cash, then he called Underchief Laks...�

�Looking for a better deal,� Mary finished my sentence.

�So, Laks might be after you.�

�People been after me since the first grade.�

Talking to Mary was like looking out on an impossibly ever-growing vista. It was both vast and frightening.

�Tell me about Bernard.�

�His last name�s Kirby. That�s all I know.�

�Tall Black guy? Receding hairline?� I pointed at my head with two fingers representing back-slanting horns.

�Yeah, you know him?�

�I know who he is.�

�Then maybe I can give you the money.�

�I don�t think that�ll be necessary.�

�But you�ll talk to him?�

�I�ll look for him. But I need to talk to Mel.�

�I honestly don�t know where he is.�

I chuckled hearing this invocation of truthfulness. I mean, she probably didn�t know where Mel was, but her conniving mind could never have been wholly straightforward or true.

�You drive here?� I asked.

�Taxied.�

�Good. We can take my car.�

The trail Pinky laid out didn�t lead right to Kirby. First I had to go out to Bellflower to Kirby�s ex-wife, Mona. She was a white woman, around forty, with bags under her eyes that were reminiscent of bruises. She didn�t know where her ex was and didn�t care. But she took twenty dollars to get groceries, she said. For that she suggested Uncle Uno. Uno, while not being related to Bernard, had been a good friend of his father�s.

I was aware of the numbers runner. Uno might have been the only man in generally hatless LA who wore a top hat. It was what they called a low top, with a crown no more than six inches high. It marked him so that no one could fail to identify Uno Pasquale.

I found him on the southern outskirts of downtown LA. He was sitting on a backless wooden stool in front of a barbershop called Leo�s. I saw him from down the block and watched for a while. He was smoking a slender cheroot, looking very satisfied with himself. Now and then, someone would walk up to him, they�d exchange a few words, and then the visitor would wander off.

Uno�s talent was remembering everything he ever heard � word for word. This made him nearly invulnerable as a numbers man.

The N&T Hotel was a pencil-thin six-story pink building down among warehouses, furniture builders, a sewing machine factory, and an illegal clinic that pretended to produce rubber gloves.

Inside, the N&T was very plain and businesslike, with the exception of a smaller square room made from blue-tinted glass that sat in the middle of the entranceway. Seated in this office within an office was a white man, also pencil thin, who wore a tan suit, sporting an ultrathin mustache.

�Mr. Cargill,� Fearless greeted the crystal-encased concierge.

�Mr. Jones. You need the usual?�

�And two cherryB cocktails.�

�Two thirty-two,� said Cargill. He put the flat of his hand against the blue pane before him and slid it to the side.

I didn�t understand the mechanism involved. No glass extended past the limits of the cage. Nothing seemed to move at all, but an empty space appeared before Cargill.

�You know I ain�t got the money, Easy. But I figure you plan to pay me anyway.�

I counted out the requisite bills and handed them over.

�Room six-A,� the hotel clerk told Fearless.

We walked down a hall behind the glass office, turned left, and came to a small elevator door.

�He didn�t give you a key,� I said.

�Naw,� Fearless grunted, �NT don�t have no keys. Elevator don�t have no buttons except down to the first floor. Other than that it�s all automatic.�

The door slid open and we went inside.

The walls, floor, and ceiling of the lift were painted a festive yellow in a chamber that might accommodate four men. The moment we were in, the door closed and the chamber began its ascent.

�What you mean no keys, no floor buttons? Somebody got to run this shit.�

�This here is the most private roomin� house in LA,� my friend replied. �Back in the day Khrushchev and Kennedy could�a met here and wouldn�t anybody ever know.�

Our elevator reached the sixth floor and I was surprised that there were two exits, on opposite sides. One had the letter A on it and the other had B. Door A slid open.

We stepped right into a well-appointed and surprisingly large room. The furniture was modern and the window the kind that could look out while no one else could look in. Two dark-red cocktails sat on the table next to a sky-blue sofa. Fearless sat next to the libations.

�You want me to send down for a drink for you, Ease?�

�Naw, man. I just need to make a call.�

�Go through that do� right there,� he said pointing. �There�s a phone on the night table.�

�How you ever find this place, Fearless?�

�They needed protection once or twice and one�a their regulars suggested me.�

The bedroom was done all in white, with mirrors on three walls. The phone was next to the bed.

�Stenman Service,� said a woman whose voice I didn�t recognize.

�Rawlins, VIP51.�

�Hello, Mr. Rawlins, my name is Pixie, Pixie Lowman. I just started today.�

�Welcome to the telephonic universe, Pixie,� I said. �You got any news for me?�

By the time we got back, the indoor sports parlor was closed. I knocked and Fearless peered through the tinted window into the shadow-shrouded room.

�Easy Rawlins,� a man called from the corner of the building.

Down the dark block, thirty yards or so away, stood �Hard Hand� Bernard Kirby. Jawbreaker, Skull-Buster, Bone-Bruiser Kirby.

He walked up to us with all the pride and confidence of a world champion. We were nothing to him, little people sitting in the nosebleed seats.

�BK,� I said when he got to us.

�You�re Fearless Jones, right?� he asked my friend.

Fearless nodded demurely.

Kirby turned to me then. �What you want, Easy Rawlins? Drake said that it was sumpin� �bout some typewriters and Mouse. But I know Mouse don�t sell hardware and you work for the cops.�

�I work for myself and my clients.�

Hands clenched, Kirby took an aggressive step in my direction.

�An� those clients got a truckload of typewriters?� He could have broken my jaw with either fist.

I gave a weak shrug and said, �I wanted to keep my real question a secret, so that�s what I told Drake.�

�Tell me why the fuck I don�t kick the shit outta you and your boyfriend right here and now.�

�Thousand dollars.�

The boxer�s shoulders did something that made him seem much less aggressive. I gleaned for only a moment the kind of topography that boxers must witness in the ring. Just that one movement told a complex tale.

�For what?� Kirby asked, almost politely.

�You have a movie clip concerning Terrence Laks...� I began.

Those docile shoulders turned into a pair of Sherman tanks within the span of a fruit fly�s heartbeat. But, faster than that, Fearless hit the boxer three times: in the head, in the head, and in the head. This wasn�t as straightforward as it sounds, because Kirby�s head was moving at a downward arc from the first blow.

Once he was on the ground and unconscious, Fearless turned to me and asked, �You saw that, right?�

�I saw it but that was just about all.�

�You should go get the car, Ease.�

I did as he asked.

The only bedroom was small but had an unusually wide and deep double-doored closet. Inside that closet most of the clothes were piled on the floor, emanating a strong musty odor. Benny rummaged around for and found a small flat sixteen-millimeter-film container box with the words Sex Film scrawled upon it.

�Here you go,� our temporary prisoner said, handing me the little package. �Now, where my money at?�

�This ain�t over yet, brothah,� I said.

�Why not? You got what you asked for.�

�I need to see it.�

�Hold it up to a light,� he said, trying to dismiss my request.

�No, man, no. You gonna show us this shit or you�ll spend the rest�a your life wishin� you had.�

The concern and contradictory craftiness on Kirby�s face caused me to raise the pistol and pull back the hammer.

�Hey, hey, hey, hey,� the boxer complained while holding up his hands. �That�s the tape you aksed for right there.�

I wanted to kill him. I did.

�If you don�t have a film projector somewhere in that mess, I�m gonna shoot you right here on this bed,� I said.

�It�s, it�s, it�s in the checkered box ovah on the right side, in the corner.�

Fearless pulled out the projector and started setting it up on the long bench placed at the foot of the bed.

�Is this the right tape?� I asked our prisoner.

�Naw. That was another one Tommy had me do. I figured it would�a looked good if you didn�t have no projection.�

�You better have the real one.�

�In the night table draw.�

We walked past the circular concrete landing of Brighthope Canyon and then down the long blue-brick path past the other five mansions there.

Myra had given us pretty good directions and so we made our way past the snow line, up into the San Bernardino National Forest. It wasn�t yet evening, but the sun had gone down by the time we passed the ski resort. After that we drove along the shore of Big Bear Lake until reaching the village they call Big Bear City.

A few people stared at us as we drove down the main street, past isolated restaurants, souvenir shops, and stands.

After that we were making our way up a barely paved road, onto a mountain that seemed to hunch over the lake. The cabin we were looking for was certainly isolated.

Every hundred feet or so there was a light pole giving some notion of the dividing line between the forest and the road. Even though it had been plowed, the zigzagging path was slippery. Once or twice, it felt as if I was going to lose control.

Then Fearless called out, �Over there, Easy.�

I don�t know how he saw the weak electric light and the slanting flash of synthetic blue wall through clumps of dark-green pine needles. There was no car parked there and no other sign of life. But we pulled to the side and made our way up a long and uneven trail of disintegrating wooden steps.

Fearless and I had a slippery time negotiating that climb. Our shoes weren�t made for walking on snow and ice. Our socks didn�t do much to keep our feet warm either.

There were thirty-nine steps up the steep incline and I couldn�t help but think of the movie, the book, and Alfred Hitchcock. The porch, which was just a jagged line of four-by-four pine timbers, tilted this way and that, emulating a drunkard�s attempt to toe the line.

By the time we got to the front door we were both out of breath. I knocked, wondering if maybe I was on some hopeless campaign that would end in failure. Then the door came open, framing the pathetic figure of the fifth-most-important cop in the LAPD.

His hair was askew, and the buttons of his red-and-black woolen lumberjack shirt were fastened out of sequence. His facial hair had been growing but had not filled in, and would not soon do so. The whites of his eyes were red and their violet centers unfocused. Rye whiskey scented the atmosphere around him.

There were other, bodily, fragrances too.

�Easy?� His voice was hoarse, as if it hadn�t been used for some time. �What the fuck you doin� here?�

At that moment Fearless began to shiver.

�What do you think, Mel?�

He stared at me, leaned forward, almost toppled, but then righted himself using the doorjamb. He looked up and it was as if he was now seeing me for the first time, again.

�Easy?�

�Hey, man,� Fearless said. �Can we get in outta this here cold?�

�Oh,� the muddled cop said. �What you doin� here?�

I walked past him into the rude but spacious one-room cabin. Fearless was no more than a step behind me. The walls, floor, and roof were rough-hewn and unpainted. There was a large loft above the cooking area that had its inner wall open to the room. The huge fireplace was dead and cold, so Fearless began to work with the logs scattered before it.

�Fireplace don�t work,� Mel managed to say. �Smoke comes right back down.�

Fearless grabbed an adze that was leaning against the side of the hearth and started poking at the inner walls of the chimney.

�Come on, Mel,� I said, taking him by the arm.

�Where?�

�Shit, shower, and shave. Hot coffee, clean clothes, and hard talk.�

There I was, a Black man in 1970, driving through the countryside with a corpse in the trunk. I had a trick or two up my sleeve and a loaded .38 in my pocket.

One of the good things about having lived half a century under the weight of second- and third-class citizenship � bad luck was never a surprise.

If they wanted me they would get me. That was all there was to it.

We drove mainly on side streets from Compton, talking little and listening to a UCLA radio station whose nighttime jazz DJ was playing nothing but Ella. It was when she started in on Cole Porter�s �Begin the Beguine� that Jo started talking again.

�You cain�t get away from death, Easy. I mean, not no more than you can hide from the sun. You cain�t control it. You cain�t ignore it. You cain�t say it ain�t true.�

�The sun?� I asked, truly confused.

�Even if you dug you a hole a mile deep and stayed down there the rest�a your days, the sun would still kill you by its, uh, its, what you call it? Its deprivation.�

We were coming up to the Bel-Air arch on Sunset. Three cars in front of us were waiting to turn in.

�So,� I said to continue our talk, �you�re sayin� that Mr. Mirth lived under the same sun we do and that he lived by the same rules.�

A pink El Dorado at the front of the line made its turn.

�I�m sayin� that when you meet a woman like this girl you talkin� �bout, there�s not a hole deep enough for you to hide in.�

Mama Jo was a part of my life. She didn�t mince words, would one day face death without a qualm, and had a heart that beat for everyone and everything she ever encountered.

It was now our time to turn. I executed the rotation well enough, but still an official-looking security automobile flashed its lights and blocked our entrance into the wealthiest part of the city.

�I guess that it was white people in those other three cars,� I said to my elder.

�Here you go, baby,� Jo said, handing me a shiny red business card.

I couldn�t read the name in the dim light, but that didn�t matter.

I rolled down my window as the two private security guards walked up to my side and Jo�s. They had their hands on the butts of their pistols and so my passenger and I weren�t making any fast moves.

The pudgy, pasty, and pimpled guard on my side was, at most, half my age.

�Driver�s license.�

I handed him the red business card. He used his flashlight to study it. Then he held up the card for his partner to see. That guard left Jo�s window and went back to their brown-and-gold vehicle.

�What�s your name?� I asked the glorified doorman standing at my car door.

�Jerry,� he murmured with a hint of deference. �Jerry Fram.�

The other guard, who was taller and better built, gestured at Jerry.

�You two can go on,� Jerry said.

�Why�d you stop us in the first place?� I just had to ask.

�We check out everyone who comes in this late.�

�There were three cars in front of us. You didn�t stop any of them.�

�We knew them.�

�You knew �em? One of those motherfuckers was a taxi...�

�Easy,� Jo said. �Let�s go.�

I realized that the three swigs of Tranquility had loosened my tongue beyond the confines of common sense. So, I slowly depressed the gas pedal and moved us along.

I closed my eyes but they might as well have been open. My thoughts jumped from Mary to Mel, from Fearless to Mama Jo�s ward � Izzy. There were gangsters and dead men, pimps and boxers. There was the corpse of Curt Fields.

When my mind�s eye settled on Curt, my head�s eyes opened. I sat up and made a call to a number that I had memorized without effort.

�Hello?� she said on the second ring.

�Hey.�

�Where are you?�

The phone jangled me awake at a few minutes past three that afternoon.

�Yeah?�

�It�s Captain McCourt.� He was definitely perturbed at having to call me. Maybe he was also bothered by the afternoon sleep in my voice.

�Mel asked me to get you information as it came in, so��

�Where you callin� from?� I asked, cutting him off.

�A phone booth down the street from my office.� He didn�t like being interrupted or questioned, but these were extraordinary times. �That okay with you?�

�Go on.�

�Shadrach Tellman lives in Hawthorne.� He gave me the address.

�Thank you, Captain. You got my answering service number?�

His reply was hanging up the phone in my ear.

Shadrach was a beefy guy, but I managed to drag his deadweight into a dining room that was just beyond the foyer of the stylish apartment. The dining room table was surrounded by four strong maple chairs � replete with heavy armrests.

That�s when I took the second-greatest risk of my ill-advised incursion. I looked around for the kitchen and went through drawers until I found what I needed � a roll of electrical tape, a purple pad of paper, and a yellow No. 2 pencil.

When I got back to the dining room Shadrach was moaning but not yet conscious. I hit him one more time and then pulled him up into one of the chairs. Once he was there, I lashed his wrists and ankles to the armrests and legs of the throne-like seat.

He was out but I couldn�t rely on that lasting for long, so I found the bathroom, located a washcloth in a hamper, and brought it back to the dining room.

(Only when I was in the bathroom did I realize my greatest mistake: I hadn�t searched the apartment for any other inhabitants. Luckily, we were alone in there.)

I shoved the washcloth into Shad�s mouth and wrapped black electrical tape around his head to hold the gag in place. Then I went to the front door and affixed the chain.

After maybe a quarter hour my prisoner started regaining consciousness. When he realized what was happening, a frightened look came into his expressive eyes. He tried screaming but that was muffled by the washcloth. Then he began wrestling with the tape. This was also hopeless. He was bound and muzzled like a mad dog.

I pulled up a chair to face him and he calmed down enough to glower at me.

�I don�t want to hurt you, Mr. Tellman,� I said. �But I will if I have to.�

Glare turned to stare in his eyes.

�I need you to answer some questions,� I continued. �So, I�m gonna free your right hand, put a pencil in it, and some paper from the kitchen that you can write on. That way we can have a conversation without me having to stab you for screamin�. You understand me?�

His nod came across like a plea.

I used a kitchen knife to cut the tape around his right wrist. Then I put down the purple pad of paper and put the yellow pencil between his fingers.

Immediately he started scribbling.

Cant breathe. My nose is stuffed up.

�You answer my questions quick enough and you might not suffocate.�

He looked as if he was about to cry. I�m ashamed to remember how good his suffering made me feel.

�What was Curt Fields doing for Ron Purlo?�

Research, forensic stuff on the Exeter Casino.

�What was the money trouble Curt got Amethystine out of?�

I can�t breathe!!!

�Then stop wasting time and answer my questions.�

She borrowed money for to get her brother a operation.

�What kind of operation?�

I don�t know. Appendix or gut or something.

�Why�d you sell her debt to Purlo?

Purlo had asked Curt to work on the casino thing and he said no. When Ron bought Amy�s bill, she talked him into doing it.

His breathing was becoming labored.

�Was Harrison Fields involved in any of the Curt, Amethystine, or casino transactions?�

Didn�t he already tell you that?

�No. Why would you say that?�

Because Sturdyman is Harrison. That�s what Purlo called him.

�Answer my question.�

Shadrach hesitated a moment and then wrote, Harrison put some money in and was going to be a stockholder. He helped Purlo get to Curt. Please. I can�t breathe!

�Who killed Curt Fields?�

That put a temporary damper on my prisoner�s moaning. He looked into my eyes for a very long moment, then wrote, He�s dead?

I knew when to be quiet.

I don�t know. I swear. I didn�t even know he was dead. There wasn�t any reason to kill him unless he was fool enough to talk about Purlo�s syndicate�s bid. And he couldn�t have done that anyway because he was locked up in the 2120 Tower.

I went over all the possible questions I could ask but decided against each one because Shadrach was probably going to survive the interrogation and I didn�t want him knowing too much through any intelligence he might glean from those questions.

I grabbed his wrist and taped the hand back to the armrest. Then I dragged his chair into a bedroom where there was a closet just big enough to hold him.

The whole time he was trying to holler and struggle. I slapped him pretty hard once he was ensconced within the closet.

�Shut up and be quiet,� I said sternly. �I�m going to make a call. After that I�m�a come back and take the washrag outta your mouth. If you stay quiet I won�t have to slit your throat.�

I searched for Anger six or seven years after she left Houston, until I was finally drafted into World War II. She had four uncles and three aunts, all in and around the Fifth Ward. Most of them didn�t have time for a lovesick youth who didn�t have two nickels to rub together. The only ones who would talk to me were her uncle Holler Lee and Anger�s aunt Becka.

Holler was a wino who lived in a shack behind the house of an ex-wife, Malley. Malley let him stay there because she was the one who broke off the marriage.

If I brought Holler a jug of cheap wine, he�d talk with me until passing out. Anger was never close to him and certainly wouldn�t have told him where she�d gone. But he had stories about her that were funny and colorful. After an afternoon with Holler I�d be smiling for a week.

Becka Martin was a different case altogether. She was from Angel�s side of the family tree and Anger had loved her with a passion. Becka was a church lady. Whenever I dropped by, she fed me sugar cookies and watermelon juice.

I made it a point to visit her every other week or so for sustenance of body and soul. I devoured those cookies, and Becka was the only one I knew who had correspondence with Anger. She�d receive a postcard every once in a while and share the contents with me.

One time Anger had written that she got work as a maid on a riverboat. She�d met Louis Armstrong there. On another occasion Becka told me that Anger had had a baby and named him Ezekiel for my heroism. This made me both jealous and proud.

Becka never let me read the postcards, nor did she share where Anger made her home.

Then, less than a year before I was conscripted, I was sitting in Becka�s den, eating sugar cookies. She sat next to me on the divan and leaned in close. She didn�t say anything but reached into the pocket of her calico apron and brought out a postcard. It was a zoo card with a picture of a mama panda and her two cubs on it.

I was a twenty-two-year-old man at that time, but still tears came into my eyes. It didn�t bother me that her words were so blunt, maybe even hard, at the end. Anger came from a hard place in life, and I loved her for that.

�Anger told me that you could read,� Becka said, beaming with a maternal smile.

�That�s why we became friends in the first place,� I said, trying to keep the tears out of my voice. �I was readin� this book called Tom Swift and His Motorcycle down in the park on Myrtle Street. She come up and told me that she thought I was pretendin� and so I read a whole chapter out loud to her.�

Becka caressed my hot cheek with her soft hand.

�Get on with your life, Ezekiel,� she said.

�Get your black ass up, motherfucker!�

Violently, I was being pulled from the grave and my first true love. When I opened my eyes I was seated at Chita Moyer�s games table. Then I was dragged to my feet. There were at least three uniformed policemen with their hands on me. Sunlight blazed through the big window.

�What�s happenin�?� I called out.

�Breaking, entering, and trespass,� one of the cops yelled back.

�No! No! This is Mrs. Chita Moyer�s house and I�m her guest.�

�This house is vacant,� another cop added, �uninhabited.�

Someone else rabbit-punched me and I went down on my knees. Then I was kicked in the side, making me fall over on my back.

�Get up!� a cop demanded. I think it was the same one that kicked me.

The only thing I could do was hold my hands out with palms up.

�Turn over on your belly,� the highest-ranking uniform commanded.

It took a great deal of faith to turn my back on men who had already struck me twice with no provocation. But I did as I was told and, to my relief, all they did was cuff my hands behind me and then jerk me to my feet.

And though I was cautious, I wasn�t outraged over the mistreatment. After all, I had done the same and worse to Shadrach Tellman.

Someone took the wallet from my back pocket.

�What the fuck were you thinking, nigger?� the top cop asked.

�I knocked on the door and an elderly couple invited me in. We sat at that table and drank till I passed out.�

�What kind of horseshit is that?� He asked questions that denied any answer I might give.

He was a big man and obviously easy to anger. But I figured that the truth, or near to it, was all I had.

�Hey, Sarge,� a guy behind me said. �It says here that this guy�s a PI from LA.�

�A PI?�

�Yeah.�

�Let me see that.�

The wallet was passed over and the big angry sergeant scowled at it.

�Where the fuck you steal this?� he asked.

�It says Ezekiel P. Rawlins,� I replied, more or less respectfully. �If you look at my driver�s license, you�ll see that the picture is me. And if you take out the card behind that you�ll see that it�s for Captain Anatole McCourt of the LAPD. He knows why I�m down here and who I was here to see.�

This was not the script that these peace officers had studied for the entirety of their professional lives. Obviously guilty, I was supposed to beg and lie or curse and threaten. I was supposed to make claims that they could pick apart. Something that would make them have to punish me.

But mentioning a police captain�s card as a reference met none of their expectations. Even a white crook wouldn�t try that.

I was dragged out of the Moyer house and shoved into the back of one of the patrol cars. I sat there a good forty-five minutes. The young officer they left to guard me stood outside the vehicle, next to the back door I was closest to. This sentry was reedy and redheaded. From the bravado of his scrawny posture, I believed that he saw himself as some kind of invincible warrior.

When the sergeant and another cop returned they installed themselves in the front seat.

�Powell,� the sergeant called out of the passenger�s-seat window.

�Yes, sir,� the reedy redhead replied.

�Go up to the front door and keep people away. We�ll send somebody from the station to relieve you.�

�Yes, sir.�

The ruddy boss then turned toward me and said, �You say you were drinkin� in there?�

�Yeah.�

�What kinda liquor?�

�Vodka martinis with green olives or twists of orange rind.�

I worried that he was going to spit on me. From the twist of his lips, I was sure he wanted to.

By the time I was back on the road to LA, my plans had been laid.

The first stop was John�s bar.

It was late afternoon and so there were maybe seventy-five revelers drinking and laughing, hugging and dancing. �It�s Your Thing� was playing on the jukebox.

�Hey, Ease,� John greeted from behind the crowded bar.

�John.�

�You here to see your boy?�

�Oh yeah.�

�I got him out back in the blue room. He got pretty good manners for a man in his profession.�

�Takes all kinds.�

Tossing me a key he said, �Go on. I�ll talk to you later.�

I�d never been plagued by allergies before, but the wealth of pollens, floral scents, and the pregnant earth of that garden started my nostrils to tickle.

Mary led us to a round marble table that had two semicircular benches, one on either side. I took one bench and the ladies settled on the other.

�This is nice,� I said.

�Jewelle knows her properties,� Amethystine agreed.

�Anybody else out here?�

�No,� said Mary. �There�s only four apartments with access, and your friend Jewelle told me she keeps them for special clients like you.�

I nodded, looking around to ensure our privacy.

�Okay, Easy,� Mary said, �let�s have it.�

�Maybe you wanna talk to me alone?� I suggested.

�That�s okay. I trust your Amy.�

�You don�t trust anybody but Mel,� I amended.

Mary smiled and then turned to kiss Amethystine on the cheek.

I was a little surprised at the flash of jealousy I felt.

�There was a reason you sent her here to me, Mr. Rawlins.�

�And what, pray tell, was that?�

�She knows the rules. I mean, why else would you dare to send her here?�

�I just thought that since you�re both smart, and Mel and I were working together, that having you in the same place would be a good thing.�

�Let�s have it,� Mary said again.

�I have that film clip you sent me after.�

�That�s all we need, right?�

�I don�t know. He�s already killed Tommy Jester and he sent the same hitter after me, Mel, and Fearless.�

�Where�s the hitter now?� Mary was suddenly still.

�Nowhere near here.�

�Mom... I mean, Sis,� Garnett called from afar.

�I�ll be right back,� Amethystine said to us both. She laid a hand on Mary�s shoulder and then rose.

Watching her skip off toward their apartment, I understood what it was when people would say they lost a part of themselves.

�Are we in trouble here?� Mary asked.

�No.�

�Are you sure?� she insisted.

�Yes. And that�s all you get.�

She took a moment, to trust, and then said, �Then Laks has to think that Mel will be after him, and so he�ll be after Mel.�

�And you.�

Mary�s smile actually showed some tooth.

�Hi,� Amethystine said. She�d come back all in a rush, hurrying back to her seat. �You have to teach boys everything.�

�Easy says that there will be no peace with the assistant chief.�

�Oh?�

Turning back to me, Mary asked, �What about Mouse?�

�Who�s that?� asked Amethystine.

�A friend�a mine,� I told her. �He knows people. Dangerous people.�

�You think he�d help us?� Mary asked.

�I was under the impression that you wanted to stay with Mel,� I replied.

�Don�t tell him.�

�This is Mel we talkin� �bout. By smell alone he can tell when a quart of milk will go sour next week.�

Nodding, Mary leaned back on the backless bench.

�Okay,� she said. �What�s your plan, Mr. Rawlins?�

�We need Melvin here, where we can talk it out.�

Mary�s chin rose and her eyes smiled.

�Okay,� Amethystine accepted. �Then what about me?�

I glanced at Mary, somewhat reluctantly.

�You want me to leave while you guys talk?� Mel�s wife asked.

I was wondering how to say yes politely when Amethystine said, �No, honey, you can stay. My problems are probably over by now anyway.�

I shrugged and went into the story about the work I�d done for her. That just went to prove what an odd mood I was in. Most of my life I never told anybody anything that mattered. That�s why Fearless didn�t know about where I lived. It was an unspoken creed among my people that the more anyone knew about your business, the more you were likely to lose.

But I didn�t care. I told the ladies about Shadrach and Purlo, Chita and Harrison, leaving out the bit about Harrison being Sturdyman.

�You left Shad tied up in a closet? Really?� Amethystine laughed like a schoolgirl.

�I wanted to kill him.�

�I�m sorry, Ezekiel,� Amethystine said, the merriment gone in an instant.

�Sorry for what exactly?�

Before my client could answer, a telephone rang from somewhere.

�That�s our phone,� Mary said, her laughing eyes now wary.

�I didn�t give it to anybody,� Amethystine told us. �I don�t even know the number.�

�It�s for Mr. Rawlins,� a girl called out.

Amethystine took the twins down the street to a park where they could play tennis on an inside court. Mary, Melvin, and I parked ourselves at a small dinette table set off from the large kitchen.

I started off by asking Mel, �So, did you talk to Anatole?�

�I did indeed. He says that the source was Fyodor Brennan, the chief�s attach�.�

�Brennan? Guy used to be a homicide detective?�

�I think it was homicide,� Mel replied. �That was before my time.�

�I need all his numbers. Address, phone, and anything else you can get.�

�I got it all. Annie didn�t want to give me it, but he could see that was the only way. He made me promise not to kill him, though.�

�He wouldn�t be any good to us dead,� Mary explained to the absent Anatole.

�Brennan almost always has these two cops with him,� Mel said. �We call �em Frick and Frack, but really they�re Sergeant Dennis Haines and Patrolman Jesse Tran. The three of them together are called Dirty Tricks. Frick and Frack stay by his side all the time except at night, when they drop him off at the Sash and Tail.�

�The strip club?� I asked.

�You know the place?�

�Yeah.�

�Yeah,� Mary added. �Bjorn Firth�s bar.�

�I figure all we need is a girl willing to take our boy home,� Mel announced.

�You know anybody works there?� I asked my coconspirators.

�We can�t do it that way,� Mary said.

�Why not?�

�Because, Easy, I don�t mind if something goes wrong and we have to kill the cop, but if that does happen, we�d have to do something about the girl too.�

Melvin and I locked eyes. Neither one of us had ever been on a job with Mary. Intellectually, we understood that she was one of the most dangerous people we knew, but this was the first time I�d experienced the actual menace.

�I told Annie that I wouldn�t kill the guy,� Mel said.

�How many times have you arrested guys for murder, and they told you that things just got outta hand?� Mary asked her man.

�Yeah,� I agreed so Melvin wouldn�t have to.

�What about Amy?� Mary offered. �She�s gorgeous and knows how to talk with her eyes.�

�No.� That was me.

�Come on, Easy,� Mary cajoled. �You didn�t send her here for window dressing.�

�Like you said,� I argued. �It could be dangerous.�

�We know where he lives.�

�Suppose he takes her someplace else?�

�He takes her home,� Mel assured. �Or maybe someplace else, she says she needs to call her baby sitter, tells us where to go, and that�s it.�

�What if he tries to do something to her?�

�Never been nuthin� about that with him. No complaints or rumors.�

�That don�t prove a thing and you know it, Mel.�

�Hey,� Mary said and then jumped up.

She dragged her chair over to the sink beneath a high cabinet, got up on the seat, opened a cupboard door, and rummaged around.

�I got these.�

She brought the booty back and dumped it on the table.

It was a dark-brown glass bottle and a very neat derringer about the size of the palm of a child�s hand.

�Knockout drops and a pocket pistol,� the career criminal announced, almost gleefully. �She could drug him or grab Little Caesar here from a pocket.�

�Grab what?� Amethystine was standing at the door to the kitchen.

�Where�s the kids?� I asked. Anything to change the subject.

�They stayed playing tennis.�

�You got bored watching?�

�I asked the instructor at the courts to look out for �em. She�s pretty nice.�

Wanting to get ahead on the discussion I said, �Mel and Mary want you to take home a horny cop from the Sash and Tail.�

The newly minted tennis mom raised her chin a quarter inch and considered. She was beautiful, but even if she weren�t, I think my heart would have caught.

�Who�s that?� she asked.

�A guy named Fyodor Brennan.�

Amethystine looked as if she was considering the proposition.

�I�d be willing to try,� she said, seconds later. �But doesn�t a woman need an invitation to go into a place like that solo?�

�I know a girl could get you in,� Mary said.

Something clicked in my head, and I asked, �How about a cop?�

�What?� Mary asked.

She brought her chair back to the table while Amethystine took the one empty seat.

�You said that you were interrogated by a cop after the thing with your goddaughter. Can you remember anything about him?�

Mary�s eyes were searching the contents of her memory and then: �Graham. Um... Detective, Detective Derrek Graham.�

�What about him?� Mel asked.

�He was the cop who came and questioned me, you know, after.�

�Graham�s a good cop,� Mel said. �Real smart. How�d the interview with him go?�

�It was at a court apartment in West Hollywood. He asked me questions and I gave him answers. He asked about an alibi I had but never even checked up on it.�

�He had access to the evidence,� I allowed.

�If he had any idea of who you were, he�d have to suspect you,� Mel concluded. �So he very well could have held something back.�

�You�re saying that he might�ve been playing a shell game?� Mary asked.

�Maybe still is,� Mel offered.

�What kinda guy is this Graham?� I asked Mel.

�He don�t give in or give up. You couldn�t break him, and you�d be a fool to try.�

�And Brennan?�

�Smart enough to fold with a weak hand.�

�Then we know what link we got to break,� I said.

�It�ll be okay, Ezekiel,� Amethystine assured me. �We outnumber him four to one.�

After that the planning was mostly on Mary and Amethystine. Mel�s wife explained the knockout drops and the double-triggered pistol, which carried two .30-caliber shells.

Mel and Mary had taken a room at the Hills Motel, two blocks up from Sunset Boulevard. When I came to join them, Mary decided to go out and get a pint of Jim Beam.

�She�s something else,� I said to Mel when she was gone.

�Yeah,� he said contemplatively. �More than I ever imagined.�

�Must make you wonder about bein� a cop.�

�What makes you say that?�

�Come on, Mel. You broke your oath for her. You walked away from the job for her. Hell, you left her, for her.�

The way Mel was looking at me, it seemed like he was ready to fight. Luckily the liquor store was next door and Mary�s key was already sounding in the lock.

She came in and looked at us, the question in her usually unreadable eyes.

�What?� she asked.

�You bring Dixie cups?� Mel wanted to know.

The four of us drove back to the Hills Motel. After saying goodbye to our confederates, I drove Amethystine to Studio City. Once there I parked out in front of the building and we sat for a few moments in silence.

�You wanna come in?� she offered.

�I gotta get home to my own kids before they forget what I look like.�

�You live a very interesting life, Ezekiel,� she said.

�Not as a rule. Most of the time I work alone or maybe with one helper. For that matter, most often, I take on just one case at a time.�

�I know. I don�t want to pester you, but have you figured out who killed Curt?�

�No. And before I go any further, I�ll put you in touch with Mel. He�s a good cop and he owes both of us.�

Then she leaned over, gave me a long, soulful kiss, leaned back to smile and study, then kissed me again.

�Is that a goodbye kiss?� I asked her.

�Only if you need it to be.�

The next thing I heard was Essie and Jesus playing downstairs. The sunlight had moved up to the wall. Jesus�s laugh was more rare than the prehistoric shrimp that hatch after a deluge in the desert once every decade or so. My son�s laughter was the hard-earned humor of a man sentenced to hell and then saved on a whim.

The beauty of that guffaw washed over me, returning the sleep to my eyes.

That night was Harvey Wallbangers. I must have had six of them. They tasted like anything but vodka.

�I wanna thank you for saving my Mel,� she said upon serving the third round.

�You helped too.�

�All I did was provide the list of ingredients. You did the shopping, the cooking, and the serving too.�

The address on Astral Lane was a boxy seven-story hollow structure with walls one apartment wide on every side. The hollow center of the building had outer stairways leading upward to the various floors and abodes.

The mailbox on the first floor told me that Paul German lived in 4C.

Noonday sun and shadows cascaded down through the maze of stairways as I made my way to his door.

I pressed his button, heard a buzzing in the distance, knocked, and buzzed again.

�He�s out of town,� a man said.

The voice came from behind me, across the atrium.

I turned and said, �Yeah. I heard that he might be out in Atlantic City but I�m only in town a couple�a days, so I decided to drop by and knock.�

�I don�t know about all that,� the man said, coming out of his door. �But I haven�t seen Paul in weeks.�

The neighbor�s Caucasian skin had seen a great deal of sun in his sixty-some years. He carried a fairly large and empty canvas bag, telling me that he was probably going off to some grocery store.

�Yeah,� I said meaninglessly. �A guy told me that Paul might have come back. That was an older gentleman called Harry.�

�You got me.� The shopper hunched his shoulders and began making his way down the stairs.

If he had gone back into his apartment, I would have been the one taking the stairs, worried that he might be watching through some peephole. If he did that, he would have seen me trying the doorknob of 4C and finding it unlocked. When I passed the threshold of German�s apartment, the midday shopper might have been compelled to call the police.

We got to the apartment hideaway and Amethystine pulled up behind my parked car. There was a ticket under my windshield wiper.

We sat there for a moment in labored silence. I wanted to forget everything I knew, to start over again.

Maybe Amethystine was a mind reader, maybe she just knew me that well after only a few days, because she asked me, �Can�t we just get over it? Start over again?�

�You murdered that man.�

�He killed Curt... for money.�

�I got to go.�

�Will you call me?�

I wanted just to say no, no I wouldn�t call, but the words that came out were, �All I can say is, fare thee well, Amethystine.�

�That sounds final.�

An hours-long conversation whittled down to a few sentences. Just the beginning of a talk that might have gone on for years.

�One week,� I said in explanation, �and one way or another, I was involved in five killings. Five dead men. Five.�

Amethystine didn�t speak because there was nothing to say.

�Shadrach and Purlo might be added to that list,� I said.

�What would you have done?� she asked, her subdued tone filled with passion.

�That�s different.�

�In what way?�

�I know me,� I said. �At least that far I do.�

Her smile was the right response.

�I,� she said and then paused, considering the words she was about to say. �I don�t want to lose you.�

�We ain�t nevah had each other,� I said, once again that teenage boy looking for Anger on the streets of the Fifth Ward.

�Are you going to tell Mel?�

�No. I�m not gonna tell anybody, but you already know that.�

�Then why farewell? Do you think I�m a danger to you and your family?�

�Maybe to me.�

�I�d never hurt you.�

�I can�t,� I said, an unexpected sob welling in my throat.

She put a hand on mine.

�I�ll tell you what. I�ll give three months for us both to think about it. I�ll be here. I will.�