"Don't you think we'd better go to his house and look around before we eat a ten-ton meal?"
"Fuck no! Crime makes me hungry."
Pico Boulevard was still showing the haunting effects of the last L.A. riot. The farther away we got from Beverly Hills, the more burned-out shells of buildings we saw. It reminded me of the aftereffects of a tornado – why had the funnel touched down here and destroyed one place, while the building next door was business as usual? I said that as we passed what was once an Indian food store.
Frannie ran his hand through his hair. "Riots are always a good excuse for kicking your neighbor's ass. The guys who owned that place probably overcharged their customers for years. When the riots came – payback!"
The stores along the road were a weird and entertaining combination of Jewish this, black that, and a bunch of other nationalities thrown into the mix. Roscoe's Chicken and Waffles restaurant was next door to a Swedish bakery. An Ethiopian record store boomed reggae music while a family of Orthodox Jews waited on the sidewalk in front for the bus.
"How do you know this area?"
"I had a girlfriend who lived around here. Lucy. Lucy Atherton. Big beautiful thing; head like a lion. Lied more to me than any other woman I've ever known. The things I found out about her after it was over . . ."
"What were you doing in California?"
"I told you, my wife was a TV producer. I used to come out here all the time."
"To see Lucy?"
"Sometimes. Here's the place and hey, look! That's where we want anyway – Hi Point Street. Sounds like a 1950s pen. Let's eat."
We pulled into one of those omnipresent pocket shopping plazas you see all over California. A video rental store, fish-and-chips restaurant, hairdresser, and gourmutt McCabe's choice for the day – Chick-alicious. He parked in front so we had a good view into the place. "Frannie, everyone in there is wearing a Malcolm X T-shirt and hates us already."
He waved it off and got out of the car. "They may hate you, but I'm a brother. Watch." He walked to the door and threw it open. Those brothers didn't seem thrilled to see him. In fact, first they gaped at him like he was nuts, then the real hard looks started. I followed as warily as I could, ready to make a Road Runner U-turn in a microsecond. Then from behind the thick glass windows someone came out, looking the meanest of all.
"Frannie McCabe! Ronald, get your ass out here and see Frannie McCabe!" The owner, built like a Rottweiler, was wearing a Chick-alicious T-shirt and an emerald green baseball cap, the name of the restaurant spelled out on it in fake diamonds. He and Frannie embraced. When another guy in a full apron appeared from the back, McCabe hugged him too. The customers looked at each other and slowly settled back into their chairs and rib dinners. I could feel relief leaving my pores like steam.
"Where the hell you been, Frannie? Your old girlfriend comes by here all the time. I was afraid to ask her what happened to you."
"She wouldn't care. Albert, this is my friend Sam Bayer. He's a famous writer."
"Nice to meet you. You here for lunch? Sit down. What do you want to eat?"
I wanted to see the menu, but Frannie rattled off a stream of things he'd obviously memorized. Albert was smiling after the third or fourth item.
"You gonna eat all that, or you just want to remember what it looked like?"
After taking the order, Albert sat down with us. He and Frannie talked things over awhile, and then the big man turned to me. "This man saved my life once. Did he tell you 'bout that?"
I looked at Frannie. "No."
"Well he did and that's all that's important."
McCabe said nothing more about it. A medic in Vietnam, a life-saver, but from my childhood memories of him, ferocious as a badger when he didn't like someone. I honestly didn't know how to feel about my old friend and it was getting more confusing as time went on.
The food came and was sensational. We went through it as if our tape was on fast-forward. Dessert was "Sock It to Me" cake, but I was already down for the count. Frannie wasn't and ate two pieces.
As we were leaving, Albert gave us each a green-and-diamonds cap like his own. Frannie wore it the whole time we were in Los Angeles.
Hi Point Street was directly across from the restaurant. It was a black middle-class neighborhood where people showed their pride by keeping their houses and lawns in perfect condition. The front yards were mostly small while above them loomed huge palm trees. Expensive cars were parked in many of the short driveways next to the houses.
The Cadmus place was near the corner where Hi Point and Pickford Streets intersected. Probably the largest house on the street, it was a twenties Spanish-style beauty with a front porch flanked by two palms. A metallic blue Toyota Corolla was parked in the driveway. Frannie stopped to look at it. "That's funny. All these other showboat cars on the street, but the big movie producer owns a Toyota."
"Owned."
"Yeah, right, past tense. Interesting that a white guy with some money would choose to live in an all-black neighborhood."
"I'd live here too if I could have this house. What a great place."
We walked up the path to the front door. Frannie went first and rang the bell. When no one answered, he took a key out of his pocket and opened the door.
Off the entrance hall was a large, nicely furnished living room with two Mission-style chairs, a black leather couch and festively colored rug. Windows on three sides filled the room with dappled light. A large fireplace was against one wall. On the shelf above it were several knickknacks. I walked over to look at them. There was a polished wooden ball perched on a metal stand, a primitively carved dark wooden pig, and a photograph of David Cadmus and his father.
"Look at this."
Frannie picked up the picture and grunted. "The family that lies together, dies together. Come on, let's look around."
Bedrooms flanked either side of the hallway. One was quite dark although painted a bright salmon color. There was a desk with lots of scattered papers, a computer and printer on it. Frannie said he'd check them out and told me to go to the next room.
Whatever money Cadmus had, he certainly hadn't invested it in goodies for his home. His bedroom was a bed and a night table. On the table was a portable telephone and a gay porno magazine. I picked up the mag, took a look at one page and closed it.
The bedroom opened onto a wooden deck overlooking a well-trimmed backyard. Two black director's chairs and a table were out there. I sat down on one of them. McCabe walked out of the house wearing a gray wool baseball cap with the word Filson in a corner.
"Cool hat, huh? I love Filson stuff. You think Dave'd mind if I took it?"
"Don't do that, Frannie. For God's sake!"
"Why not? Your friend won't be wearing it anymore. You see his reading material in there? Deep in the Heart of'Tex's Ass. huh? I didn't know he was gay. There's enough costumes in his closet to outfit the Village People. You find anything?"
"No, but I didn't look very hard. I feel weird doing it. Like I'm grave robbing."
"Not me. It's all possibilities, man. I'm going to look around some more." He walked back into the house.
I sat and watched airplanes take off from LAX a few miles away. The day was dying and the sky was turning that strange L.A. copper color. Next door someone began playing the organ and they were very good. The smell of barbecued beef was in the air, along with that of flowers and gasoline. I thought of Cadmus sitting out here alone or with a lover at night, content that the day was over. Later he got into his car to drive to the market for some milk and ended up with a hole in his chest for no reason at all.