“Huh?”
“It’s just things she might know about, Melvin. Got nothing to do with anything she’s done.”
Mel’s wife, Mary Donovan-Suggs, was the most complete criminal I had ever met, and that includes Mouse. There was nary a crime she had not committed, and no law, civil or canonical, that she hadn’t broken.
“Okay,” he said. “She’s at work.”
“Work? Mary?”
“I know, I know. She told me that she wanted to try out civilian life. Said that now we were married she should help with bringin’ home the bacon.”
“Where she work at?”
“She’s a receptionist for these patent lawyers in Beverly Hills. I’ll give you the number.”
“Tyrell and Sloan,” Mary’s singular, husky, and sweet voice answered.
“Mary?”
After a short pause she said in a ridiculously professional tone, “Hello, Mr. Rawlins. What can I do for you today?”
“What you doin’ for lunch?”
“Um, that depends.”
“On what?” I was smiling by then.
“Where did you get this number?”
“From your husband, of course. It’s on the up-and-up, you know, I wouldn’t be foolin’ around — he’s armed.”
Mary had a lovely laugh for a dyed-in-the-wool killer.
“It’ll have to be a late lunch,” she said. “I have a report to finish. Why don’t you come over around two.”
I liked Mary Donovan. She represented a state of mind that, though not innocent, was at least free.
The next thing on the list was the warehouse that Benita followed the bent agents to. This was in one of my least favorite places, Bellflower.
Warehouse 86 was on South Street, a block from Bellflower Boulevard. It was a big place that had many trucks coming in, to load or unload materials of all kinds. Cartons of goods, lumber, machinery, and other merchandise. There were quite a few workers moving around doing their jobs. They were mostly white, which was the custom of specialized unions in those days. I walked through the big doors that were open to truck traffic. Nobody seemed to want to engage me, so I wandered around, looking for the main office.
It was a huge warehouse, containing great towers of wooden crates, some parked cars, crushed boxes, and hay bales along with shredded-paper stuffing that kept items from being jostled too much while being transported around the state, the nation, and even the world.
There were men working with forklifts and mechanized and hand-powered platforms, all of them white men. One or two of them noticed me.
“Can I help you?” a deep-toned woman’s voice asked.
Despite the strength of the voice, I expected to see a petite blonde wearing a short skirt and maybe big-lensed prescription glasses with transparent frames.
I smiled and then turned to behold a heavily muscled woman in dirty white coveralls. Everything about this white woman was strong and rough, from her bristly blond hair to her thick and calloused hands. Her name tag read MILDRED FRANZ.
“Um,” I said, her surprising appearance arresting me. “Excuse me, ma’am. Hi, my name’s Ezekiel... Ezekiel Rawlins.”
She smiled, probably at my good manners, and said, “Hello, Mr. Rawlins. How can I help you?”
“Um, I was wondering if I could speak with the plant manager.”
“About what?”
It was rare for me to experience a civil tone in that town. And so the delaying tactic was no bother.
“I want to ask him if they ever rented out a portion of the plant for private use.”
Mildred cocked her head, taking me in. Her eyes were bold and appraising, gazing at me like a hunter in the deep wood who carried a horn to scare off big brown bears so that she wouldn’t have to shoot them with the Winchester that would, most definitely, be strapped across her back.
“What use would you have for a place like this?” she queried.
“It’s my son, he’s a fisherman,” I explained. “Trawls for mackerel up and down the coast. Lately the hauls have been gettin’ slim, so he struck up a relationship with these potters down south of Ensenada. They make terra-cotta plates and bowls, cups and baking dishes. They’re willing to sell their work wholesale.”
I had made up this fairy tale on the way to the town that many once knew as Hellflower.
“And what does your son plan to do with all this crockery?”
“His wife’s been goin’ around to gift shops and places that sell Mexican novelties, and quite a few of them have said that they’d like to move merchandise like that. So, he figures to bring in monthly loads and then distribute them from a warehouse.”
“Why not get something closer to the water?”
“Too expensive. Makes more sense to use the freeway and cut down on the cost.”
Miss Franz liked me. Not only her mouth but also her eyes were smiling.
“That sounds like a very good business idea,” she said. “But this warehouse doesn’t rent out space or grant any kind of access.”
“Do you mind if I ask the manager about that? You know, sometimes no can become yes, in the right circumstances.”
“That is very often the case,” she agreed, still smiling. “But in this situation, you’re talking to the owner. And I have no intention of renting out space.”
Another revelation. This one I had to experience a hundred times before reality took hold.
“I’m so sorry, Miss Franz. You know, I’m always thinking that there’s a man in charge. And also, that even a man boss, nine times outta ten, wouldn’t be the kinda guy to get his hands dirty.”
Now grinning, the warehouse owner said, “That’s okay. I have the same problem. I’m so used to men being in charge that I often ignore the women who I should be talkin’ to.”
“Well,” I said, “I’m sorry we couldn’t have worked something out. But do you know anyplace else around here that might fit the bill?”
Looking me in the eye, she said, “The Bellflower business community is not the most welcoming crowd unless you’re a paleface, if you know what I mean.”
Before I could answer, one of the burly warehousemen walked up to us. He was about my height with a little extra around the middle. Even though he was younger than I, his red hair was receding and sprinkled with gray.
“Any problem, Millie?” he asked, staring at me.
“No, Roger, why?”
“Um, uh, I don’t know. I just wondered.”
“Everything’s fine. You can go on back to whatever you were doing.”
Roger hesitated and then wandered off.
“You see what I mean?” she asked.
“Only too well.”
Having learned all that I could at the drug-drop warehouse, I went to my Dodge, which was parked at the curb across the street. Before the key was in the car door a man said, “Hey.”
It was Roger again. His taciturn expression caused me to look around. He was technically alone but, across the street, standing in the maw of the warehouse, two of his friends were watching us closely.
“Hey,” I responded.
“What you want with Millie?”
He was standing half a step too close, making me think again about performing a pre-tracheotomy.
“Nothing important,” I replied.
“What?” he insisted.
“Hey, man, I come up to you askin’ ’bout your business?”
Roger wasn’t expecting any lip. He probably got used to being top dog before dropping out of high school.
“I just want to make sure you’re not causin’ her problems.”
“That’s funny, you don’t look like HR.”
“What?” was his favorite question.
“My business is my own. Now, if you wanna ask Miss Franz about what I did and did not say, you could do that.”
Roger glanced at his friends across the street, showing me, if I didn’t already know, that he was not alone.