Jackson came back to us then.
“I called the president at his house,” the whiz kid said proudly.
“He told me to take all the time I needed. Now all you got to do is feed me some breakfast and I’m ret-to-go.”
2 8 0
43
Jackson made us go to a little diner that looked over the beach.
The problem was that the place he chose, the Sea Cove Inn, was where Bonnie and I used to go in the mornings sometimes.
But I made it through. I had waffles and bacon. Jackson gobbled French toast and sausages, fried eggs and a whole quart of orange juice. He had both the body and the appetite of a boy.
The waitress, an older white woman, knew Jackson and they talked about dogs — she was the owner of some rare breed.
While they gabbed I went to the pay phone and called EttaMae.
“Yes? Who is it?”
“Easy, Etta.”
“Hold on.”
2 8 1
W a lt e r M o s l e y
She put the receiver down and a moment later Mouse picked it up.
“You in jail, Easy?” he asked inside of a big yawn.
“At the beach.”
“How’s Jackson?”
“He’s somethin’.”
“Your boy Cicero is what a head doctor girlfriend I once had called a psy-ko-path. I think that’s what she called me too. Anyway he been killin’ an’ causin’ pain up an’ down the coast for years. They say he was a rich kid but his folks disowned him after his first murder. I know where he been livin’ at down here but he ain’t been there for days. I got a guy watchin’ the place but I don’t think he gonna show.”
“Crazy, huh?”
“Everybody say it. Mothahfuckah cover his tracks with bone an’ blood. You know I be doin’ the country a favor to pop that boy there.”
“Yeah,” I said, thinking that deadly force was the only way to deal with Joe Cicero. A man like that was dangerous as long as he drew breath. Even if he was in prison he could get at you.
“What you want me to do, Easy?”
“Sit tight, Ray. If you get the word on Cicero give me a call.”
“Where at?”
“I’ll call Etta tonight at six and tomorrow morning at nine.
Leave me something with her.”
“You got it, brother.”
He was about to hang up when I said, “Hey, Ray.”
“What?”
“Do you ever get scared’a shit like this?” I knew the answer. I just didn’t want to get off the phone yet.
2 8 2
C i n n a m o n K i s s
“Naw, man. I mean this some serious shit right here. It’a be a lot easier takin’ down that armored car. That’s all mapped out. All you gotta do is follow the dots on a job like that. This here make ya think. Think fast. But you know I like that.”
“Yeah,” I said. “It sure does make you think.”
“Okay then, Easy,” Mouse said. “Call me when you wanna.
I’ma be here waitin’ for you or my spy.”
“Thanks, Ray.”
w e h a d j u s t f i n i s h e d rutting on the cold tiles next to the bathtub when Philomena told me about the gallery where Nina Tourneau worked. She enjoyed giving me information after a bout of hard sex. The force of making love seemed to give her strength. By the time we were finished I don’t think she was that worried about dying.
The gallery was on Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills. I put my pistols in the trunk and my PI license in my shirt pocket. Even dressed fine as we were Jackson and I were still driving a hot rod car in the morning, and even though he had a corporate look I was a little too sporty to be going to a respectable job.
I parked in front of the gallery, Merton’s Fine Art.
There was the sound of faraway chimes when we entered. A white woman wearing a deep green suit came through a doorway at the far end of the long room. When she saw us a perplexity in-vaded her features. She said something into the room behind her and then marched forward with an insincere smile plastered on her lips.
“May I help you?” she asked, doubtful that she could.
“Are you Nina Tourneau?”
“Yes?”
2 8 3
W a lt e r M o s l e y
“My name’s Easy Rawlins, ma’am,” I said, holding out my city-issued identification. “I’m representing a man named Lee from up in San Francisco. He’s trying to locate a relative of yours.”
Nothing I said, nor my ID, managed to erase the doubt from her face.
“And who would that be?” she asked.
Nina Tourneau was somewhere in her late fifties, though cosmetics and spas made her look about mid-forty. Her elegant face had most definitely been beautiful in her youth. But now the cobwebs of age were gathering beneath the skin.
“A Mr. Rega Tourneau,” I said.
The name took its toll on the art dealer’s reserve.
Jackson in the meanwhile had been looking at the pale oil paintings along the wall. The colors were more like pastels than oils really and the details were vague, as if the paintings were yet to be finished.
“These paintin’s here, they like uh,” Jackson said, snapping his fingers. “What you call it? Um . . . derivative, that’s it. These paintin’s derivative of Puvis de Chavannes.”
“What did you say?” she asked him.
“Chavannes,” he repeated. “The man Van Gogh loved so damn much. I never liked the paintin’s myself. An’ I sure don’t see why some modern-day painter would want to do like him.”
“You know art?” she asked, amazed.
At that moment the chimes sounded again. I didn’t have to look to know that the police were coming in. When Nina whispered into the back room I was sure that it was to tell her secretary to call the police. After the riots people called the police if two black men stopped on a street corner to say hello — much less if they walked into a Beverly Hills gallery with paintings based on old European culture.
2 8 4
C i n n a m o n K i s s
“Stay where you are,” one of the cops said. “Keep your hands where I can see them.”
“Oh yeah,” Jackson said to Nina. “I read all about them things. You know it’s El Greco, the Greek, that I love though.
That suckah paint like he was suckled with Picasso but he older than the hills.”
“Shut up,” one of the two young cops said.
They both had guns out. One of them grabbed Jackson by his arm.
“I’m sorry, Officers,” Nina Tourneau said then. “But there’s been a mistake. I didn’t recognize Mr. Rawlins and his associate when they came in. I told Carlyle to watch out. He must have thought I wanted him to call you. There’s nothing wrong.”
The cops didn’t believe her at first. I don’t blame them. She seemed nervous, upset. They put cuffs on both Jackson and me and one of them took Nina in the back room to assure her that she was safe. But she kept to her story and finally they set us free. They told us that we’d be under surveillance and then left to sit in their cruiser across the street.
“Why are you looking for my father?” Nina asked after they’d gone.
“I’m not,” I said. “It’s Robert Lee, detective extraordinaire from Frisco, lookin’ for him. He gave me some money and I’m just puttin’ in the time.”
Miss Tourneau looked at us for a while and then shook her head.
“My father’s an old man, Mr. Rawlins. He’s in a rest home. If your client wishes to speak to me you can give him the number of this gallery and I will be happy to talk with him.”
She stared me in the eye while saying this.
“He disowned you, didn’t he?”
2 8 5
W a lt e r M o s l e y
“I don’t see where that’s any of your business,” she said.
I smiled and gave her a slight nod.
“Come on, Jackson,” I said.
He shrugged like a child and turned toward the door.
“Excuse me, sir,” Nina Tourneau said to Jackson. “Do you collect?”
You could see the question was a novel thought to my friend.
His face lit up and he said, “Lemme have your card. Maybe I’ll buy somethin’ one day.”