“I thought you was dead,” she told me.
“That was the other guy,” I replied.
Pearl’s laugh was deep and infectious—like pneumonia.
“How’s Mona?” I asked.
“She okay, baby. Thanks for askin’. Had another stroke last Christmas. Just now gettin’ around again.”
“That’s a shame.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Pearl said. “Mona says that she’s lived more than most’a your everyday people by three or four times. You know she once had a prince over in Europe pay her way, first class, every other month for two years.”
“What ever happened to him?”
“He wanted her to be his mistress. Offered her all kindsa money and grand apartments but she said no.”
“Why?”
“’Cause she liked the life she was livin’. With me and our two crazy dogs.”
I wanted to ask her how she could share a love with some stranger, but I held it back.
“I’m lookin’ for a boy named Longtree,” I said.
“Pretty boy with a wild white bitch?”
“That’s him.”
“He come in here Sunday night. Said he could play. When I asked him what, he said, ‘guitar, piano, or whatever.’”
“Not too shy, huh?”
“Not a bit. An’ he wasn’t wrong neither. He played the afternoon shift for twenty bucks. I think he might’a got twice that in tips. He didn’t play nuthin’ like bebop but he was good.”
“I need to find him.”
“Just look on the sidewalk and follow the trail’a blood.”
“It’s that bad?”
“That girl’s eyes made contact with every dangerous man in the room. She flirted with one of ’em so much that he told Willis that he wanted to borrow her for the night.”
“Did they fight?” I asked.
“No. I told that big nigga to sit’own ’fore I shot him. They know around here that I don’t play. I told Willis to take his woman outta here and damn if she didn’t give that big man a come-on look while they were goin’ out the door.”
“You think she might’a told him where they were stayin’?”
“I wouldn’t put it past her.”
“What was this guy’s name?”
“Let’s see, um, Art. Yeah, Art, Big Art. Big Art Farman. Yeah, that’s him. He lives down Watts somewhere. Construction worker.”
I found an address in the phone booth of the Grotto. Listening to jazz and worrying about how big Big Art was made Bonnie fade to a small ache in my heart.
* * *
THE MAN WHO CAME to the apartment door was not big at all. As a matter of fact he was rather tiny.
“Art?” I asked.
“No,” he said.
“Does Art Farman live here?”
“Do you know what time it is, man?”
I pulled a wad of cash from my pocket.
“It’s never too late for a hundred bucks,” I said.
The small man had big eyes.
“Wha, what, what do you want?”
“I come to buy somethin’ off’a Art. He know what it is.” I could be vague as long as the money was real.
“I could give it to him when he comes in,” the little man offered.
“You tell him that Lenny Charles got somethin’ for him if he come in in the next two hours.”
“Why just two hours? What if he don’t come in before then?”
“If he don’t then somebody else gonna have to sell me what I need.”
“What’s that?” the little man asked. His coloring was uneven, running from a dark tan to light brown. He had freckles that looked like a rash and had hardly any eyebrow hair at all.
“I need to find a white girl called Sinestra.”
“What for?” The greedy eyes turned suspicious.
“Her daddy asked his maid, my cousin, to ask me to ask her to come back home. He’s willin’ to pay Art a century if he can help me out.”
“What’s your name again?”
“Len,” I lied. “Yours?”
“Norbert.” He was staring at my wad. “What you pay me to find Art?”
“Where is he?”
“No. Uh-uh. I get paid first.”
“How much you want?”
“Fifty?” he squeaked.
“Shit,” I said.
I turned away.
“Hold up. Hold up. What you wanna pay?”
“Thirty.”
“Thirty? That’s all? Thirty for me and a hundred for Art?”
“Art can give me the girl, can you?”
“I can give you Art. And she’s with him. That’s for sure.”
I considered taking out my gun but then thought better of it. Sometimes the threat of death makes small men into heros.
“Forty,” I said.
“You got to bring it higher than that, man. Forty ain’t worth my time.”
“I’ll go find Willis myself then,” I said.
“You mean that skinny little kid?” Norbert laughed. “Art kicked his ass and took his girlfriend from him.”
“He did?”
“Yeah,” Norbert bragged. “Kicked his ass and dragged that white girl away. ’Course she wanted to go.”
“She did?”
“’Course she did. Why she want that skinny guitar man when she could have Big Art in her bed?”
I handed Norbert a twenty dollar bill.
“Where was it that Art did this?”
“Next to that big ’partment buildin’ down on Avalon. Near the Chevron station with the big truck for a sign.”
I handed him another twenty.
“It was the only blue house on the block.”
“How do you know all that?” I asked.
“I drove him over there.”
“Did Sinestra mind Art beating up her boyfriend?”
“Didn’t seem to,” Norbert shrugged.
I handed him another twenty dollar bill.
“Where’s Art now?”
“At Havelock’s Motel on Santa Barbara. That’s where we go when we got a woman, you know, to let the other man get some sleep. I mean we ain’t got but two rooms up in here.”
I handed over another leaf of Sheila Merchant’s money and went away.
ONCE IN MY CAR I had a small dilemma. Should I go after the girl or Willis? It seemed to me that no one really cared about her, except maybe her father. Willis was the one that Etta was worried about. I knew that if I asked her she would have told me to make Willis my priority.
But I was raised better than that. No matter what she had done I couldn’t leave Sinestra Merchant at the mercy of a kidnapper and possible rapist. I couldn’t take Norbert’s word that she maybe wanted some rough action from some big black man in Watts.
HAVELOCK’S WAS A LONG BUNGALOW in the shape of a horseshoe. When I got there it was closing on midnight. A night clerk was in the office, sitting at the front desk with his back to the switchboard. I parked across the street and considered.
The motel sign said that there was a TV and a phone in each room.
I went to a phone booth and dialed a number that hadn’t changed in sixteen years.
“Hola,” a sleepy Spanish voice said.
“Primo.”
“Oh, hello, Easy. Man, what you doin’ callin’ me at this time’a night?”
“You got a pencil and a clock?”
I gave Primo a number and asked him to call in seven minutes exactly. I told him who to ask for and what to say if he got through. He didn’t ask me any questions, just said “okay” and hung up the phone.
“HI,” I SAID TO THE NIGHT CLERK five minutes later. “Can you help me with a reservation?”
It was a carefully constructed sentence designed to keep him from getting too nervous about a six foot black man coming into his office in the middle of the night. Thieves don’t ask for reservations. They rarely say hello.
“Um,” the white clerk said. He first looked at my hands and then over my shoulder to see if somebody else was coming in behind. “I can’t make reservations. I just rent out rooms for people when they come.”
“Yeah,” I said. “That’s what I thought. But you know I work at a nightclub down the street here and the only time I can really make it in is after work. Do the daytime people take reservations?”
“I don’t know,” the clerk said, relaxing a bit. “People usually just look at the sign. If there’s vacancy they drive in and if not they drive on.”