"I'll give it to you straight," Tibbs said. "We know what 94
it is. If you get hooked on it, there's no out. Then, if there isn't any more, God help you."
Slowly Lester inclined his head. "I hear you talkin'. I been there and I don't wanna go back. I've fixed once in a while, but the steady stuff is out."
Virgil knew that the chances of that being true were limited, but it wasn't his immediate concern. "Thanks," he said to Lester, and shook hands. Then he nodded to Bob and together they went back to the borrowed car.
"Where to?" Nakamura asked.
"Let's try the Central Market. If we can't hit there, then we'U pretty much know what the score is."
"Do we buy?"
*'Yes, if we have to. I've got some funds. If they offer us any of the 'new stuff,' we buy that too."
Bob started the car, drove out, and headed north. "Do you want to fill me in?" he asked.
"You've got most of it already. The main item is that the new narcotic seems to be pretty closely tied in with the Chinese gentleman who got himself killed on my beat. The problem is: everyone that I've talked to has given him top marks for sterling character."
" Tor ways that are dark and tricks that are vain, the heathen Chinee is pecuUar,' " Nakamura quoted. "There's some limited truth in it, despite the fact that it's as racist as hell. He could have conned everybody."
"By a lengthy process of incredible logic and almost inhuman deduction, I was able to reach the same conclusion," Tibbs said. "Incidentally, his houseboy's disappeared."
"Well that could be it!. . I'm sorry, I've been like this aU day. Is anybody looking for the houseboy?"
"We are-among other things."
"I think I see a faint glimmer of light." Nakamura kept quiet while he threaded his way northward through the downtown and the largely Spanish area where the block-long Central Market was located. There he parked the car, not too difficult at that hour, locked up, and joined Virgil on the sidewalk. "You call the signals," he said.
"How many people can teU the difference between Chinese and Japanese?" Tibbs asked.
"Damn few, particularly among the Caucasians."
"All right, the missing houseboy, whose name is Chin Soo, is your cousin. Not brother, somebody might know better, but cousin is hard to dispute. That gives us a legitimate reason to be interested in him. "
"And why do we think that he might be down here?"
"Because he may be involved in the dope flow that seems to be centered about Wang's home. The old man could have been involved himself, but there are some reasons to doubt that. That leaves two possibilities, the girl Yumeko and Chin Soo. Chin took a powder three days ago."
"I can see why it would be very interesting to interview my young cousin. Have you any angles?"
"Yes, but first things first. I want to find out what the scene is."
Together they began to drift, looking into the coffee and doughnut stands, apparently window-shopping even where the stores were closed. Gradually they made their way eastward south of the Little Tokyo area, working toward Main Street and its missions, sex-oriented theaters, and hock shops. In this environment Virgil let his shoulders droop slightly forward and moved his feet with a suggestion of a shuffle. Bob Nakamura was more self-effacing, as though he had not been in the country too long and was still slightly afraid of his environment. Many times, when they encountered someone alone who appeared to be on the street like themselves, Tibbs asked if he could make a connection. When he did, his speech intentionally reverted to the black English of his boyhood; the r's disappeared and the heavy slur that it had cost him so much work to eradicate returned like a mother tongue. He knew that the typical Negro speech of the South marked the black man more surely even than the color of his skin. Those who got rid of it usually prospered; those who could not were assumed by the Caucasian majority to be lacking in intelligence, whether they said so or not.
His appearance, his manner, and his speech made him simply another Negro on the street, seconded by a slightly confused Japanese who was probably a homosexual. And they were addicts, as well they might be. But every time they found what might have been the right man, they got only a shake of the head.
While Virgil carried on alone, probing into the alleys and the dark entryways, Bob walked the several blocks back and retrieved the car. In it they drove south, down Central Avenue into the completely black area marked by a wide mixture of businesses, nude bars, vacant storefronts plastered with obsolete election posters, and billboards which flashed the smiles of Negro models and celebrities promoting products and services.
On foot once more, and shadowed by his apparently docile partner, Virgil tried to make contact with the retail narcotics market. Ordinarily it would not have taken him too long; the Los Angeles Police Department was seriously understaffed in its narcotics division and without the additional manpower that it needed, it faced an almost superhuman task. A high priority went to the school campuses where addictions were spawned, but even that vital function was curtailed by lack of funds. But the lack of adequate surveillance in itself could not account for the almost total absence of any of the usual traffic on the streets. Time after time Tibbs tried, but whenever he made his approach, he received nothing back but silence and sometimes blank stares.
"How much longer are we going to keep trying?" Bob enquired.
"Until I get something specific; I knew it was going to be tough."
"Just wanted to know," Bob said. "I can stay with it as long as you can."
At the end of the block they were on was a closed theater; when they reached it just beyond they found a small knot of young blacks whose business, whatever it was, was their own. When Virgil saw them he did not hesitate. While Bob appropriately hung back, he walked up slowly, knowing that he would stop whatever conversation was going on. Silence greeted him as he joined the circle.
He looked around the group, apparently a little bit in discomfort, and then asked, "Hey, where kki I make a hit? I gotta get it real bad."
No mimic could have done it-^the difference would have been apparent to those who listened-but by his voice, more than anything else, he convinced them. Not all, perhaps, but one lanky youth of about twenty answered him. "Man, where you been?"
*Travehn'," Tibbs answered with proper vagueness. "We got in little while ago. I need it, man, he'p me!"
Again he was subject to casual but intense scrutiny. Then one of the group nodded toward Bob. "Who dat man?" he asked.
"He's ma frien'," Virgil let his eyes flutter slightly as he said it and they read him.
"He don' belong here," someone said.
Tibbs responded properly; he drew himself up a little, but not too much, and repeated, "He's ma frien'."
The lanky young man took over. "You in trouble, man,
deep trouble. You ain't heard. They ain't nothin', nothin' at all."
Virgil's eyes searched in different directions, as though they could seek out a reprieve from that statement "They's always some," he protested. "Ain't nevah dried up."
With a casual movement of his hand the youth invited him to follow. Virgil did so as Bob, apparently hesitantly, tagged along well behind. Walking with almost maddening slowness the young Negro led them behind the theater and down an alley. Tibbs was unafraid; he sensed that he had been accepted on short acquaintance and if the party got rough, he could take care of himself. Bob too was far more qualified than his somewhat dumpy figure suggested. Neither of them was armed; the clothing that they wore was not suitable for concealing any kind of an adequate weapon.
Their guide apparently was unconcerned about who they might be; he led the way farther down the alley and then stopped before a small detached garage. It was a clapboard affair, built to minimum standards behind a house that was steeped in neglect. It had once been painted, but the color was so far gone it had faded into nothiugness. The tall youth pulled open one side of the split door and pointed inside.