I had put on dark socks that had diamonds at the ankles. I was tying my laces when Bonnie spoke to me again.
“Easy,” Bonnie said softly. “Talk to me.”
I went to the bed, leaned over, and kissed her on the forehead.
“Don’t wait up, honey. This kinda business could take all night.”
I walked to the door and then halted.
Bonnie sat up, thinking I wanted to say more.
But I went to the closet, reached back on the top shelf, and took down my pistol. I checked that it was working and loaded, and then walked out the door.
The Grotto was the first black entrepreneurial enterprise I knew of that cast its net beyond Watts. It was a jazz club on Hoover. Actually, the entrance was down an alley between two buildings that were on Hoover. The Grotto had no real address. And even though the owners were black, it was clear that the Mob was their banker.
Pearl Sondman was the manager and nominal owner of the club. I remembered her from an earlier time in Los Angeles; a time when I was between the street and jail and she was with Mona El, the most popular prostitute of her day.
Mona seduced everybody. She loved men and women alike. If you ever once spent the night with her, you were happy to scrape together the three hundred dollars it cost to do it again — that’s what they said. Mona was like heaven on Earth and she never left a John, or Jane, unsatisfied.
The problem was that after one night with Mona, a certain type of unstable personality fell in love with her. Men were always fighting and threatening, claiming that they wanted to save her. It wasn’t until Mona met Pearl that that kind of ruckus subsided.
Pearl had a man named Harry Riley, but after one kiss from Mona, or maybe two, Pearl threw Riley out the door. For some reason, most men didn’t want to be implicated in trying to free Mona from a woman’s arms.
A trumpet, a trombone, and a sax were dueling just inside the Grotto’s door. It brought a smile to my face if not to my heart.
“Hi, Easy,” Pearl said.
She was wearing a scaly red dress and maybe an extra twenty pounds from the last time we met. Her face was flat and sensual, the color of a chocolate malted.
“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 heroes.
“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?”