Little Scarlet (17 page)

I rubbed my bristly chin and wondered. Maybe the world had changed in the fires of the riots. Maybe I had to let go of the order of things that I had always known.

It made me feel unsure and hopeful like a man weak from hunger who stumbles upon an empty store filled with delicacies. How much could I eat before they came to take me away?

Jackson left me on the sidewalk in front of my house. He climbed into a yellow pickup truck. I was sure that there was some story around him driving that truck but I didn’t ask. It was very late and he wanted to get home and tell Jewelle about his new job.

BONNIE WAS NAKED
on top of the covers. She moved her head and gasped when I came into the room but I could tell that she was still asleep.

“Mama?” she cried.

I whispered, “It’s okay.”

“Papa?”

“Go to sleep.”

I sat down on the bed next to her and put my palm against her forehead.

I sat there looking at her body. Bonnie had a curvaceous but lean body with a great mound of pubic hair and powerful thighs that had been made strong by walking thousands of miles through her Guyanese childhood.

“I love them,” she said.

“Who?”

“Both of them.”

She could have been talking about the children or her parents, who she thought had come into the room. But my suspicious imagination jumped to another conclusion.

“Easy and Joguye?”

“I want to go fishin’,” she complained.

“Who?” I asked again.

“We can ride the big fish and go down to the seas and under the coral.”

“Who?”

“What?” she asked, still asleep. “What did you say?” she asked, and I knew she was awake.

“I didn’t mean to wake you up,” I said.

“What did you ask me, Easy?” She sat up without covering herself.

“You were talking in your sleep.”

“What did I say?”

“Something about fishing and coral at the bottom of the sea.”

Bonnie smiled.

“About my home,” she said. “Papa used to take me fishing but he stopped when I started to become a woman.”

“Why wouldn’t he take you then?”

“Because he didn’t want to make me into a boy, that’s what he said.”

I wanted to ask her if Joguye Cham had taken her fishing when they spent their holiday on Madagascar. But my courage fled when she was awake.

I stood up and took two steps toward the door.

“Are you coming to bed?” she asked.

“Not yet.”

“What time is it?”

“Late. You get back to sleep.”

I went out into the little living room. A few moments later Bonnie followed wearing her robe. I knew that Jesus must have been home because she only put on that garment to hide from his eager teenage eyes.

“You want some tea?” she asked me.

“Yeah.”

WE SAT AT
the small table in the living room drinking tea, using the lemons from our own tree for spice.

I told her about Harold and Suggs and the women who were murdered but no one knew that there was a connection between them.

She asked me to come to bed but I told her to go on, that I wasn’t tired.

“But you have to sleep,” she said.

“All I have to do is die and pay taxes,” I replied.

After that we talked about all kinds of things. About how Jesus seemed to be becoming a man without all of the teenage rock and roll nonsense that was going on in every other house on the block. We talked about liquored plantains and fruitcakes and how she used to swim naked in the ocean.

“I would swim out so far that I could hardly see the shore,” she said. “I’d do that in the summer when it was hot and only very far out did the water turn cool.”

“Swimmin’ instead’a riotin’,” I said.

“I suppose we were freer then,” she agreed. “I mean inside of us. We were colonized but still our home belonged to us.”

“I wish I could have seen you way out there,” I said. “I wish I was a fisherman and you got hung up in my net. That’s a fish story right there.”

Bonnie kissed me and then turned so that she could lean against my chest.

I held her, thinking about the southern oceans surrounding her as I did with my arms.

At sunup Bonnie and I went down to a breakfast stand facing the beach in Santa Monica. The sands were empty at six-fifteen. We talked about nothing for a while and then we turned up our cuffs and walked along the shore.

Bonnie was the first woman ever to make me feel guilty about being a man. I felt bad about my heart racing whenever I saw Juanda. Here I had a wonderful woman who knew the world from a whole different perspective. She read Latin and had traveled extensively in Eastern Africa and elsewhere. She was beautiful and trusting and she never questioned my crazy little office or the work I did in the divide between the police and black L.A.

She never demanded that I marry her, even though I knew that was what she wanted.

I decided not to call Juanda when we were walking along the sand.

I dropped Bonnie off at the house at ten-forty-five.

BY ELEVEN
Dr. Dommer was telling me that Geneva had fallen into a coma.

“What happened?” I asked.

The weak man’s eyebrows twitched like big furry caterpillars being jolted with electricity. He shook his head and frowned.

“I don’t know. Maybe there was an underlying condition that was exacerbated by her shock,” he said. “We’ve taken blood and put her on an antibiotic IV. That’s all we can do for a while.”

He placed a hand on my shoulder for a moment and then walked off.

It came to me that Tina Monroe and I were Miss Landry’s closest friends and we didn’t really know her. Geneva Landry was just part of different jobs that each of us was doing.

I thought about going down to her room but I realized that there wasn’t time for that luxury.

It was my job to find Harold.

BILL’S SHELTER.
The words were spray-painted in orange over the door to the gray building.

I was in my work clothes again. I had shoes on my feet that should have been thrown out and no socks at all. My beard hairs were coming in. More of them than I would have liked were showing up white. My eyes were bloodshot and the skin beneath my eyes hung down like budding turkey wattles. Lack of sleep and grooming made me perfect for Jackson Blue’s plan.

The door opened into a large room with a high ceiling. There was a table with enough space to seat a double dozen to the left and a desk faced by four couches set out like so many rows on the right.

There was an industrial-size rotating fan on a pole roaring from one corner. But it didn’t do much to relieve the heat.

There were chairs everywhere and men too — black men of every hue and age and state of disrepair. A group of four men were playing a very loud game of dominoes to the left of the desk while groups of two and three were talking here and there. One man was having a lively conversation with himself next to a boarded-up window. I counted fifteen in the room including me and the small snaky man sitting behind the walnut desk.

It smelled like fifteen men who were down on their luck. There were body odors of every type and other smells meant to mask or clean up after them.

The room was lit by eight or nine lamps and one set of neon lights hanging by ropes from the ceiling. This was because all of the windows were boarded over. Between the smells and despair, the darkness, and the shouting I felt myself being pressed as if the room were trying to eject me.

I gagged and winced at the melee before me. My disguise was finished by the time I reached the desk.

“Yeah, bub?” the little man sitting behind the desk asked.

“Somebody said I could stay here,” I said, not looking him in the eye.

“Who said?”

He was a small man with ocher skin, a Mississippi accent, and mainly Caucasian features — one of the thousands of racial blends brought into existence by the melting pot of the South.

“Man named Blue,” I answered.

“Blue what?”

“Jackson Blue.”

The man cocked his head way over to the left and squinted.

“Where’d you see him?”

“On Central. I used to know him down in Texas and he was dressed good so I axed ’im to help me out.”

“Did he?”

“He ’idn’t gimme nuthin’ but he told me ’bout here.”

“Where’s he livin’?” the snaky man asked.

At the same time I became aware of someone standing behind me. I turned around quickly and shouted, “Get on out away from me, muthahfuckah! Step back!”

There were two men who had approached me. One was fat and powerful, while the other was of a normal build. The heavy one wore a trench coat even though it was probably eighty-five degrees in that room. His friend was clad in a white T-shirt and jeans that were two sizes too large. Both men took a big step backward.

All discussion and play in the room stopped. That’s just what I wanted. I needed the men in that room to see me and make up their minds that I was just what I looked like: a crazy man down on his luck and ready to protect his boundaries.

“Hey!” the snaky man shouted. “You two know to keep away from the desk when I’m talkin’ to a prep.”

He was addressing the men I scared away.

“And you,” he said to me. “What’s your name?”

“Willy,” I said. “Willy Mofass.”

As I have gotten older I find that I use the names of dead friends to mask my secret passages. I do this partly because it is easy for me to remember their names and partly to keep them alive — at least in my mind.

“Well, Willy,” the man said. “You can have soup and bread for dinner and a place to stay for two bits.”

“I don’t have a nickel much less a quarter,” I said. “Blue said that this place was free.”

“Ain’t nuthin’ free, Brother Willy. No sir. You got to pay. But we could let you slide for a day or two. But you got to pay the kitty if you gonna stay here more’n that.”

“Where the fuck I’ma get twenty-fi’e cent a day. If I had that right now, I get me a bottle’a wine and climb in a cardboard box down near Metro High.”

I knew the layout of Los Angeles. I knew where the hobos went to sleep unmolested.

“Billy will help you get a job,” the little man said. “Remember though. No wine on the premises. No drugs or liquor or women neither. This here’s a Christian men’s shelter. It’s clean.”

As he said this a light brown roach darted across the desk. That bug was quick but the gatekeeper was quicker. He slammed that roach so hard that the only things left to identify it were two legs and a quivering wing.

I camped out at the far end of the sofa furthest away from the desk. The snaky man, Lewis was his name, was a little too interested in the whereabouts of Jackson for me. So I sat there and read the papers.

Gemini 5
was ready to take off. The Russians offered hope for a peace treaty in Vietnam. But mainly the news was about the riots and race relations across the nation.

The news was all the more fuel for Gerald Jordan’s fears. A Catholic priest and a seminary student had been gunned down by local lawmen in Hayneville, Alabama. It seems that they had been trying to integrate a country store. Lyndon Baines Johnson declared that the rioters in the streets of L.A. were no better than Klan riders. Two more people died, so the official death toll in the riots had risen to thirty-five. In a statement Martin Luther King made before leaving L.A. he said that he couldn’t find the kind of creative and sensitive leadership among our elected officials to solve the problems that caused the riots.

Even Martin Luther King had given up on a nonviolent solution.

“Hey, man,” someone said.

I looked up to see a tall young man with bright eyes and a nice smile except for one broken and brown tooth.

“Hey,” I replied.

He sat on my couch, about three hand spans distant, looked me up and down and asked, “Where you from?”

“Galveston.” It was true pretty much. I had come from a lot of places. Baton Rouge, New Iberia, New Orleans, Houston, Galveston, and many other towns. I had been to Africa, Italy, France, and Germany during the war. And someone had shot at me at least once in every location.

“You know a man name of Tiny?” the young man asked me.

“I know a whole slew’a Tinys: A man, another man, a woman, and one don’t know what he is.”

The young man smiled again.

“You read?” he asked.

I nodded and folded the newspaper across my lap.

“I wanna read,” he said.

“Why?”

“What you mean ‘why’? You read, don’t you, niggah?” Just that fast the pleasant young man was ready to fight.

“All I did was ask you why, man,” I said. “You know, people always got a reason t’do somethin’ and I collect reasons.”

“Collect ’em?”

“Yeah. Somebody tell me they go to church I ask ’em why. I wanna know if they go there because they love the Lord or because they afraid’a hell. Somebody tell me that they like America I ask ’em why. You know, I once knew a woman loved a man so hard that she’d do anything for him. But he beat her just about every Saturday night. When I asked her why she said, ‘’Cause he give me flowers every Sunday — just about.’”

By the time I was through with my explanation the young man’s anger was gone.

“You crazy, niggah,” he said.

“You know a old boy name of Harold?” I asked then. “Short guy, kinda wide. His hands is kinda fat like.”

The young man shook his head. “Naw. You got two dollars?”

“I got half a pack of Lucky Strikes. You want one?”

We smoked for a while and two other men came up to us. They looked like brothers with their coal-colored skin and bloodshot eyes. They both had long hair that was matted and infused with dust.

“Mickey,” one of the men said to me.

“Terry,” the other said.

We shook hands and I supplied them with cigarettes. We all smoked and talked about the streets. I lied. They lied. We all laughed. And slowly I began to get used to the heat and electric light, the smells and despair.