Little Scarlet (2 page)

“Mr. Rawlins,” Detective Suggs said.

I had forgotten he was there.

“What?”

“Go, Ezekiel,” Theodore Steinman said. “He needs you.”

“I can’t leave you here like this, Theodore. Suppose somebody else comes for his shoes like that guy?”

“I will talk to him.”

I already knew that Theodore had blue eyes. I had been bringing my shoes to the man for nearly twenty years. I see things, things that other people overlook. That’s why the sign on my office door reads
EASY RAWLINS — RESEARCH AND DELIVERY.
But there was something about the quality in Theodore’s eyes that I had never seen before. It was as if the violence of the past few days had given me the power to look deeper, or maybe it was that the people around me had changed — Theodore and his angry customer and maybe even Melvin Suggs, the cop that approached me with his hand proffered in greeting.

DETECTIVE SUGGS AND
I left through the now doorless doorway of the shoe shop. That took us out onto Central. There were dozens of people wandering the street. This was unusual because in L.A. even poor people got around by car. But in the aftermath of the riots, the smoke in the air brought people out by foot to investigate the aftermath of a race war.

Suggs drove a Rambler Marlin. It was roomy and equipped with seat belts.

“I never use the damn things,” the cop told me. “It’s my ex. She says I can’t take the kids unless I have ’em.”

We had been driving for quite some time when I asked, “So what do you want from me, Officer?”

“I got a case that needs solving outside of the public eye.”

“You?”

“The LAPD,” he said. “Chief Parker, Mayor Yorty.”

Suggs didn’t look at me while he talked. He didn’t seem like the kind of driver who needed to keep his eyes on the road, so I guessed he was a little embarrassed by needing my help. This was both a good and a bad thing. If you were a black man in L.A. at that time (or at any time) it always helped to have a leg up on the authorities. But you didn’t want to have it too far up; because the higher you get, the further you have to fall.

“What case?” I asked.

“You’ll see when we get there.”

“No I will not.”

“What?”

“Either you tell me where we’re going and what it is you plan to get me involved in or when you stop this car I will go find a bus to take me home.”

Suggs took a sideways glance in my direction. He muttered something that sounded like “funny papers cabbage head.”

We were on the southern end of La Cienega Boulevard by then.

He pulled to the curb, yanked on the parking brake lever, and turned toward me. It was then I noticed that the man had no smell. No kind of body odor or cologne. He was a self-contained unit, with no scent or any kind of style — the perfect package for a hunter.

“You ever hear of a woman named Nola Payne?” he asked.

I had not and shook my head to say so.

“What about her?” I asked.

“She’s victim number thirty-four.”

“And what does that have to do with me?”

“The circumstances around her death are a little confusing and possibly a problem if they make it to the press before we have a handle on the case.”

“You not tellin’ me anything, man.”

“I don’t want to tell you about how we found her until you get where we’re going, Rawlins. But I can tell you that we need your help because a white policeman looking into anything down in Watts right now will only draw attention to something we need kept quiet.”

“And why would I want to help you?” I asked, unable to resist kicking the man when he was down.

“What does that sign on your office door mean?” he asked in way of reply.

“It means what it says.”

“No,” Suggs said. “It means that you’re down there playing like you’re a private detective when you don’t have a license. That could pull down jail time if somebody wanted to prosecute. I’m sure if I went around and talked to a few of your clients I could build a pretty good case.”

I wasn’t so sure. Most of the work I’d done wasn’t anything to get me in trouble. I never misrepresented myself as a private detective. And Suggs was more right than he knew about white cops in black L.A. — no one would talk to them after the riots, or before.

But I said, “All right, Officer. I’ll go where you’re taking me. But I’ll tell you this right now. If I don’t like the way things smell I’m walkin’ away.”

Suggs nodded, released the brake, and cruised out into the boulevard. His easy manner accepting my conditions made me think that this simple ride in a policeman’s car was going to take me down a much longer journey than I had planned on when I rolled out of bed that morning.

The Miller Neurological Sanatorium was a long, flat bungalow off of La Cienega just above Wilshire. If you drove by it you would have thought that it was a motel or maybe a factory for light manufacturing. The entrance was at the end of a long driveway and the bronze sign announcing its name was half the size of a sheet of notebook paper.

Suggs parked his car so close along a high white fence that I had to scoot across the seat to get out on the driver’s side.

A few steps ahead of me, he opened the door to the clinic and walked in. I followed cautiously.

A young white woman in a nurse’s uniform sat behind the desk in the reception area. She had a delicate face that was more red than white with thousands of freckles crowded around enormous brown eyes. Those eyes got bigger when we walked through the door.

“May I help you?” she asked the white man.

“We’re going to room G-sixteen,” Suggs told her.

We had taken two steps toward the double swinging doors behind the reception desk when the freckled fawn stood to block our way.

“I’m sorry but I can’t let you back there.”

Suggs frowned at the plucky youngster. I could imagine the bile roiling in his gut. First he had to explain himself to a Negro and now a mere woman was trying to block his way.

But he took it pretty well. The white man’s burden, I suppose.

He held out a worn leather wallet that had his detective’s badge on one side and his identity card on the other. The woman looked very closely at the wallet and mouthed the name.

I realized then that I hadn’t asked Suggs for his I.D. I was too well trained, knowing that asking for a cop’s badge might well expose you to manacles and blackjacks and a night of deep bruising.

“And who is he?” the nurse asked.

“Who are you?” Suggs asked back.

“Why… I’m not the one being identified,” she said.

“Neither is he,” Suggs said.

We went through the double doors, all three of us. Suggs led the way, I followed him, and she took up the rear.

The floor of the hallway was paved with shiny white tiles. The ceiling and walls were white too. There wasn’t a smudge or a streak anywhere along the way. It was by far the cleanest medical facility I had ever seen.

We got to the end of one hall and turned right onto another. Halfway down this corridor we came to a door marked G-16. Suggs reached for the knob but the nurse got in front of him again.

“I’m not supposed to let anyone in without first identifying them at the desk,” she said.

“Honey,” Suggs said, “this is way beyond you. I showed you the badge, so get out of the way before I twist your pretty wrist.”

“I will not.”

I wondered if the riots were just one symptom of a disease that had silently infected the city; a virus that made people suddenly unafraid of the consequences of standing up for themselves. For almost a week I had seen groups of angry black men and women go up against armed policemen and soldiers with nothing but rocks and bottles for weapons. Now this eighty-seven-pound girl-child was standing up to a gruff cop who outweighed her three to one.

“Ezekiel Rawlins, ma’am,” I said.

“What?” For the first time she looked directly at me.

“My name. It’s Ezekiel Rawlins. I’m here as a consultant to the police. If you had asked me I would have told you my name.”

“Oh,” she said, realizing that maybe she was the one that had been discourteous. “Rawlings?”

“No ‘g,’ ” I said.

“Oh.”

“Can we go in now?” Suggs asked.

The nurse stood aside, looking down.

I remember that moment very clearly. The white walls and floors, even the doorknobs were painted that colorless hue. And that brave young woman made shy by simple honesty. The cop who was the first piece of solid evidence I had that the white man’s grip on my throat was losing strength. All of that brought me to a doorway that I didn’t really want to go through. I should have turned away right then. I wanted to turn away. But it was as if there was a strong wind at my back. I had resisted it all through the riots: the angry voice in my heart that urged me to go out and fight after all of the hangings I had seen, after all of the times I had been called nigger and all of the doors that had been slammed in my face. I spent my whole early life at the back of buses and in the segregated balconies at theaters. I had been arrested for walking in the wrong part of town and threatened for looking a man in the eye. And when I went to war to fight for freedom, I found myself in a segregated army, treated with less respect than they treated German POWs. I had seen people who looked like me jeered on TV and in the movies. I had had enough and I wasn’t about to turn back, even though I wanted to.

The door opened and the wind blew me through.

The room we came into was bright. Three men were standing around a silver table that held the nude corpse of a Negro woman.

The men had on white smocks. Almost everything in this room was white. The walls and floor, the counters and the ceiling. Two of the men had on white shoes.

Just one pair of black dress shoes and Nola Payne brought any color into that lifeless room. And the shoes and Nola were just so much dead flesh.

“Yes, Detective Suggs,” a bald white man with a trim gray mustache said.

“This is the man I told you about, sir. Ezekiel Rawlins.”

“Why did you bring him here?”

“I thought he should see what we saw, Captain. I mean he
is
going to go out investigating.”

The bald man turned his eyes to me. He started at the floor and worked his way up. I knew what he saw. I had on brown-red leather shoes, gray slacks, and a square-cut charcoal shirt. I had gone casual down into SouthCentral, not expecting an interview with a white man standing in a black man’s hell.

“Investigate?” he said to me.

“And your name is?” I replied.

The captain looked over at Suggs. The detective had no response.

“I’m the one in charge here,” the captain said.

I made the mistake then of glancing at the corpse. She wasn’t young — thirty-three or -four. I couldn’t tell if she’d been pretty. Her hair had a reddish tint that some midwestern Negroes were prone to. One of her eyes was gone, probably due to a gunshot, and her tongue was sticking out of her mouth from her having been strangled, no doubt. The thing that caught my eye was the trickle of red blood that had started from somewhere above her lip, crossed over her teeth, and dribbled down her cheek. It was as if she died with her lips whispering vermilion secrets.

“Well if you’re in charge, then may I be excused?” I asked the arrogant white man.

“What is this, Melvin?” the captain asked. “A joke?”

“No sir,” Suggs said.

“What’s your name again?” the captain asked me.

“I haven’t got yours the first time yet.”

“Enough of this, Lee,” the other as yet unnamed white man said.

He was a head taller than the captain or Suggs, my height. He looked familiar but I didn’t remember where it was that I had seen him. His face was slender and hard. He had tight black eyes and black hair, no lips to speak of, and a tiny red mark under his right eye.

“I’m Captain Fleck,” the bald cop said. “And I asked you a question.”

“No sir, Captain, you did not. You said the word ‘investigate’ in an interrogative tone. But tone alone does not a question make.”

The third white man snickered. I appreciated the audience.

“Let’s get out of here,” the tall white man who was really in charge said.

I had no argument with that.

The tall man led Captain Fleck and me into an office that had a sign on it saying
DR. TURNER, M.D.
We left the third white man and Suggs in the colorless hallway.

Turner’s office was a welcome relief. There was an orange-and-blue carpet, a brown desk, and four splashy landscapes on the wall.

And there was a test there for us. The room had three chairs: one behind the desk and two in front. The tall man went to the guest chair on the left. Captain Fleck turned toward the doctor’s chair, but I was closer. I cut him off, taking the padded swivel chair for myself.

Fleck stood over me and stared down, waiting for me to give up the preferred seat.

It was crazy. All of it. I never did anything like that when involved with the intricate dance necessary to keep out of trouble with the law. I rarely spoke around white men with authority. I never willingly said anything intelligent. And to go so far as to tease a cop — that wasn’t even me.

But there I was, sitting back in the head man’s chair with Captain Fleck staring death down on my head.

“Sit down, Lee,” the tall white man said.

For a moment Fleck remained motionless.

“Lee.”

He faltered and I smiled. If we were alone he would have drawn his pistol, I’m sure. But all he could do was obey his master’s call. It’s no wonder I always order sweet and sour when I go to a Chinese restaurant. You can’t enjoy the pleasures of one without at least the presence of the other.

When we were all seated and comfortable the tall white man said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Rawlins. My name is Jordan, Gerald Jordan.”

“You’re the deputy chief,” I said, remembering at last, “the one in charge of the curfew.”

“That’s right. But the curfew has been lifted. Everybody can go where they want when they want as long as they obey the law.”