“You were looking for Idabell Turner this morning.”
“I what?”
“Mrs. Turner,” Sanchez said. “You asked about her in the main office this morning. Mrs. Martinez mentioned it.”
“I did?”
“You were asking for the victim’s name yesterday.”
“No,” I said.
“Well, you asked if I’d found out the victim’s name.”
I didn’t have to answer that.
“His name was Roman Gasteau,” Sanchez continued. “Twin brother of Holland Gasteau.”
Sanchez’s eyes were saying, loud and clear, that I knew what he was talking about. They were inviting me to enter into the conversation.
But I refused.
“Why’d you ask about Mrs. Turner this morning, Mr. Rawlins?”
“She’s a friend’a mines. I heard her dog got killed or somethin’.”
“If she’s such a good friend, why didn’t you call her house?”
“I did. She wasn’t home,” I said. “What’s this all about?”
“Where were you last night, Mr. Rawlins?”
“At home mostly. For a while I was out lookin’ at my property.”
“And where’s that?” he asked. He’d been leaning forward but now he sat up straight; it wasn’t going to be as easy to break me down as he’d thought.
“I got a buildin’ on Denker and one on Magnolia Street. I went out to see how they was lookin’.” My language became completely comfortable. I didn’t need to pretend about who I was with Sanchez. “You could ask my manager — Mofass.”
He wanted Mofass’s number, and I obliged him with the answering-service line. Any call Mofass got from the LAPD, he’d talk to me first.
“Now what’s this all about, sergeant?” I asked. “You got some kinda problem with me?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “Has Mrs. Turner been having any problems lately?”
There are moments in your life when you can tell what’s right and wrong about yourself — your nature. I wanted my job and my everyday kind of life. I wanted to see Jesus get his track scholarship at UCLA and Feather to become the artist I knew she could be.
All I had to do was say, “Yeah, she said she’d been fightin’ with her husband. He threatened to kill her dog. I know ’cause she gave the dog to me yesterday morning.” I didn’t have to talk about our good time on the desktop. I didn’t have to confess about breaking into her house.
Instead I said, “Not that I know of. But you know, she’s kinda private about anything at home. I mean, I got her number but last night was the first time I ever called it.”
I was a fool; but I was my own fool.
Sanchez sniffed at the lie and then stood up suddenly.
Before turning to leave he pointed at me. “We’ll be talking again soon, I think, Mr. Rawlins.”
They left and I went back to my vacation charts.
11
Ispent a while going over other papers and requests that had piled up. I started filling out an order form for central supply, but no matter what I tried to concentrate on I ended up thinking about Simona on that bench and Jorge taking her off.
“Hey, Peña!” I found him an hour later on the lower campus. He was hosing down the handball wall out beyond bungalow 1.
“Hey, Mr. Rawlins.” Jorge twisted the nozzle on his hose until the water stopped spouting. “How you doing?”
“Okay. All right. I wanted to ask you something.”
“What’s that?”
“What’s wrong with Simona?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, why is she home sick today?”
“I don’t know. Why don’t you ask her?”
“Listen, the cops came out to the main office to see me a little while ago—”
“Yeah, I heard that. One of the painters said.”
“They wanted to know about Simona.”
“Really? What they want to know?”
“What I knew about her. If she had some reason to lie to them.”
Jorge and I were close enough. He knew that I had his best interests at heart. And I did, too. I was only lying to get the story; not to get him or his girl into trouble.
“We didn’t wanna say nuthin’ to the cops, Mr. Rawlins, you know.”
I waited.
“Simona knew that man. She used to go out with him.”
“Yeah?”
“Uh-huh. His brother was married to Mrs. Turner. They would get together sometimes after school and go out to some place and have reefer parties. You know, Mrs. Turner liked Simona because she was going to college, so she would ask her out with some of the other teachers sometimes.” Peña’s usually cheerful eyes had the dull luster of dread in them. “But they got kinda weird and she stopped goin’ around with them.”
“Did she tell the cops?”
“No. I told her she better not. ’Cause you know if they found out about her and the reefer then she’d get in trouble. Maybe it would be a mark on her record.” Jorge was nervous. He was afraid of trouble himself. He had a good job with his sister and her children covered under his medical insurance.
“Don’t worry, Jorge,” I said. “Just keep it quiet. Everything’s gonna be fine.” I clapped the young man on the shoulder and left him with the illusion of security.
Ettamae was mopping up some girl’s thrown-up lunch on the top floor of the language arts building. She was looking almost mean enough to dissuade me from approaching her. You learned where we were reared to avoid tough customers with sticks in their hands.
“Hey, Etta.”
She kept pushing her mop. Yesterday she’d been mad at me for acting like a man does. Now she was mad at all men.
“Don’t go droppin’ your jaw on the floor now, honey,” I said. “Mouse stayed with me last night.”
“Says what?”
“Listen, Etta, the cops showed Raymond a picture of the dead man and he went off a little. He started drinkin’ and worryin’ that William was his father. He didn’t wanna bring that kinda sadness home to his own boy.”
It took her a minute to let her anger go. There had been hatred stirring in her heart for Mouse. And, you know, hatred has deep roots in a black woman’s heart.
“Let’s go up on the roof,” I said. “Take a break.”
Up on top of the language arts building you could see for miles. L.A. down around Watts was mostly flat to the sea. The blacktop roads were wide and green sprouted up everywhere. Little houses ran in rows between the avenues. They seemed frail in comparison with the streets. It was almost as if the houses were just resting points on a forever roadway to somewhere else.
I lit up a Camel. Etta took one too. She leaned over the brick wall to look down on the new yard.
“He still crazy, Easy.” She exhaled deeply.
“He loves you and LaMarque.”
“Yeah. I know. But he so strange now. Two nights ago he was sittin’ on the sofa, not sayin’ a thing, an’ then all of a sudden he sit up straight an’ call out, ‘LaMarque! LaMarque!’ I tole’im to be quiet, that the boy’s sleepin’, but he just kept on shoutin’ till finally LaMarque come outta his bedroom rubbin’ his tears ’cause he’s asleep an’ afraid at the same time.”
I heard what she was saying but my gaze lay on a giant cloud that was passing. Etta’s words were painful for her but she had to say them. And while she talked I was comforted by her voice and the familiarity of our lives.
“You know what he said?” Etta asked.
“What?”
“‘LaMarque, don’t you never kill a man don’t deserve to die.’ Then he sat there an’ look for a long time and then he say, ‘An’ don’t you never kill your father or your mother either.’
“Can you beat that?”
Instead of saying anything I took her in my arms. It wasn’t sex. I just needed to be held and she did too. She smelled of cleaning wax and bread, of the sweat from hard work.