There were bills from various clothing stores and utilities, a bank statement that said she had two hundred ninety-six dollars and forty-two cents to her name. And there was a homemade postcard with the photograph of a smiling black woman on it. I knew the woman — Lena Macalister. She was standing in front of the long-closed Rose of Texas, a restaurant that had had some vogue in L.A. in the forties and fifties.
Dear Phil,
Your life sounds so exciting. New man. New job. And maybe a little something that every woman who’s really a woman wants. My hopes and prayers are with you darling. God knows the both of us could use a break.
Tommy had to leave. He was good from about nine at night to day-break. But when the sun came up all he could do was sleep. And you know I don’t need no man resting on my rent. Don’t worry about me though. You just keep on doing what you’re doing.
Love,
L
It was certainly a friendly card. That gave me an idea. I went through Philomena’s phone bill picking out telephone numbers with 213 area codes. I found three. The first number had been disconnected.
9 4
C i n n a m o n K i s s
The second was answered by a woman.
“Westerly Nursing Home,” she said. “How may we be of service?”
“Hi,” I said, stalling for inspiration. “I’m calling on behalf of Philomena Cargill. She had a sudden case of appendicitis —”
“Oh that’s terrible,” the operator said.
“Yes. Yes, but we got it in time. I’m a PN here and the doctor told me to call because Miss Cargill was supposed to visit her aunt at Westerly but of course now you see . . .”
“Of course. What did you say was her aunt’s name?”
“I just know her name,” I said. “Philomena Cargill.”
“There’s no Cargill here, Mr. . . .”
“Avery,” I said.
“Well, Mr. Avery, there’s no Cargill, and I’m unaware of any Philomena Cargill who comes to visit. You know we have a very select clientele.”
“Maybe it was her husband’s relative,” I conjectured. “Mr.
Axel Bowers.”
“No. No. No Bowers either. Are you sure you have the right place?”
“I thought so,” I said. “But I’ll go back to the doctor. Thank you very much for your help.”
“ y e e e e e s ? ” the male voice of the last number crooned.
“Philomena please,” I said in a clipped, sure tone.
“Who’s this?” the voice asked, no longer playful.
“Miller,” I said. “Miller Jones. I’m an employee of Bowers up here and he wanted me to get in touch with Cinnamon. He gave me this number.”
“I don’t know you,” the voice said. “And even if I did, I haven’t seen Philomena in months. She’s in Berkeley.”
9 5
W a lt e r M o s l e y
“She was,” I said. “To whom am I speaking?”
The click of the phone in my ear made me grimace. I should have taken another tack. Maybe claimed to have found some lost article from her apartment.
I sat in the college student’s kitchen chair and stared at the street. This was an ugly job and it was likely to get uglier. But that was okay. I was feeling ugly, ugly as a sore on a dead man’s forehead.
I left the apartment, taking the two books she’d been reading and Lena’s postcard. I took them out to my rented Ford and then went back to return the key. I knocked, knocked again, called out for the super, and then gave up. He was either unconscious, otherwise engaged, or out. I slipped the key under the door wrapped in a two-dollar bill.
9 6
15
Haffernon, Schmidt, Tourneau and Bowers occupied the penthouse of a modern office building on California Street. There was a special elevator car dedicated solely to their floors.
“May I help you?” a white-haired matron, who had no such intention, asked me. Her nameplate read theresa ponte.
She was very white. There was a ring with a large garnet stone on her right hand. The gem looked like a knot of blood that had congealed upon her finger. A cup of coffee steamed next to her telephone. She was wearing a gray jacket over a yellow blouse, seated behind a magnificent mahogany desk. Behind her was a mountain of fog that was perpetually descending upon but rarely managing to reach the city.
“Leonard Haffernon,” I said.
“Are you delivering?”
9 7
W a lt e r M o s l e y
I was wearing the same jacket and pants that I’d had on for two days. But I’d made use of the iron in my motel room and I didn’t smell. I wore a tie and I’d even dragged a razor over my chin. I held no packages or envelopes.
“No ma’am,” I said patiently. “I have business with him.”
“Business?”
“Yes. Business.”
She moved her head in a birdlike manner, indicating that she needed more of an explanation.
“May I see him?” I asked.
“What is your business?”
From a door to my left emerged a large strawberry blond man.
His chest was bulky with muscles under a tan jacket. Maybe one of those sinews was a gun. I had Axel’s Luger in my belt. I thought of reaching for it and then I thought of Feather.
A moment of silence accompanied all that thinking.
“Tell him that I’ve come about Axel Bowers,” I said. “My name is Easy Rawlins and I’m looking for someone named Cargill.”
“Cargill who?” the receptionist asked.
“This is not the moment at which you should test your authority, Theresa,” I said.
The combination of vocabulary, grammar, and intimacy disconcerted the woman.
“There a problem?” the Aryan asked.
“Not with me,” I said to him while looking at her.
She picked up the phone, pressed a button, waited a beat, and then said, “Let me speak to him.” Another beat and she said,
“A man called Rawlins is here about Axel and someone named Cargill.” She listened then looked up at me and said, “Please have a seat.”
The big boy came to stand next to my chair.
9 8
C i n n a m o n K i s s
My heart was thundering. My mind was at an intersection of many possible paths. I wanted to ask that woman what she was thinking when she asked me if I was a delivery boy when obviously I was not. Was she trying to be rude or did my skin color rob her of reason? I wanted to ask the bodyguard why he felt it necessary to stand over me as if I were a prisoner or a criminal when I hadn’t done anything but ask to see his boss. I wanted to yell and pull out my gun and start shooting.
But all I did was sit there staring up at the white ceiling.
I thought about that coat of paint upon the plaster. It meant that at one time a man in a white jumpsuit had stood on a ladder in the middle of that room running a roller or maybe waving a brush above his head. That was another room but the same, at another time when there was no tension but only labor. That man probably had children at home, I decided. His hard work turned into food and clothing for them.
That white ceiling made me happy. After a moment I forgot about my bodyguard and the woman who couldn’t see the man standing in front of her but only the man she had been trained to see.
“Mr. Rawlins?” a man said.
He was tall, slender, and very erect. The dark blue suit he wore would have made the down payment on my car. His scarlet tie was a thing of beauty and the gray at his temples would remind anyone of their father — even me.
“Mr. Haffernon?” I rose.
The bodyguard stiffened.
“That will be all, Robert,” Haffernon said, not even deigning to look at his serf.
Robert turned away without complaint and disappeared behind the door that had spawned him.
9 9
W a lt e r M o s l e y
“Follow me,” Haffernon said.
He led me back past the elevator and through a double door.