Bad Boy Brawly Brown (5 page)

hands rose quickly like the wings of a flightless bird when frightened 29

by a sudden sound.

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“No problem, Officers,” I said.

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“Use your left hand to open the door,” the closer cop com-3

manded. He was young — they both were, pale boys with guns 4

among men who had been living on a diet of pamphlets and poverty.

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I did what I was told, then stepped out of the car cautiously and 6

slow. My hands stayed at shoulder level.

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The difference between the cops was that one was a dark brunet 8

and the other was black-haired. They were both about my height, 9

just over six feet. The black-haired one looked into my open door as 10

the other one tried to spin me around and push me up against the 11

car. I say
tried
because even though I had reached my forty-fourth 12

year, I was still sturdy.

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But I turned anyway and put my hands on the roof. He holstered 14

his gun and moved up close behind me, sliding his hands in my 15

front pockets. After feeling around my thighs for a moment, he 16

slapped my back pockets. I felt like a woman being groped. It wasn’t 17

pleasant. But the worst thing about it was his breath. It was so rank 18

that I became nauseous. I tried to breathe through my mouth but 19

even then I could taste the disease blowing out of his lungs.

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When he stepped back I almost thanked him.

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“Open the trunk,” he said.

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“Why?”

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“What?”

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“Listen, man.” The fever had gripped me again. “I was just sittin’

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there, readin’ my paper. I’m parked legally. Why you wanna roust 26

me?”

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His reply was to pull out his billy club.

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A voice in my head said, “Kill ’im,” and I went cold inside.

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“The key is in the ignition,” I explained.

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The brown-haired cop slid in and took the key. It was awkward 31 R

for him because he had his club out, too.

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They made me watch while they opened up the trunk. All they 1

found was a flat spare tire that I had been meaning to fix and a tool-2

box full of tools.

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The black-haired cop slammed the trunk shut.

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Then his partner said, “There’s been some theft and vandalism 5

around the construction out here. We’re just keeping an eye on 6

things.”

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I made a mental note to ask Jewelle what was really going on.

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W
HEN I GOT
to Isolda Moore’s house, I parked way down the 11

block because of those cops. I was upset with myself for not 12

paying attention. If I was going to be in the streets again, I had to be 13

better prepared than that.

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Alva’s cousin lived on Harcourt Avenue, near Rimpau. It was one 15

of those working-class L.A. fantasy homes. Powder blue, small and 16

rounded. There was hardly a straight line to the place. The eaves of 17

the roof were cut in the form of waves. Even the window frames were 18

irregular and absent of straight lines. The front door was surrounded 19

by a waist-high turret of white stucco.

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As I pushed the whitewashed gate open I wondered if Isolda 21

would be as beautiful as her cousin. Maybe Brawly would be sitting 22

at her kitchen table, eating ribs and blowing off steam about some 23

argument that he’d had with Alva or John.

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Instead, I came upon a corpse that was half in and half out of the 25

doorway.

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He was a big man, especially around the middle. Black, he wore 27

blue work pants and a blue work shirt that had been pulled almost 28

off of his back. His head was crushed from behind and there were 29

deep bloody marks in his back also made by the bludgeon.

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He resembled the carcass of a beached sea lion left by the tide.

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There were dozens of columns of tiny black ants making their 2

way to and from the body. Given enough time, they might have con-3

sumed it.

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The day’s mail was sticking out from under his gut.

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The company of the dead doesn’t bother me much, not after the 6

front lines of World War II. I’d seen death in all colors and sexes, in 7

all sizes and states of decomposition. That’s why I could step over 8

that spilled life into Isolda’s powder-blue oceanic home.

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The fight and flight were evident in upturned furniture and 10

bloody hand- and footprints on the walls and floor. It was a spare 11

house with pine floors and not much furniture. The walls were white 12

and the furniture mostly an ugly violet hue. The stuffed chair and 13

couch were on their sides. In the sunny kitchen a cabinet had been 14

ripped from the wall, and all the china and glass had shattered on 15

the floor. There was a dollop of blood frozen in a spilling motion 16

from the drain board into the sink.

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I traced the fight from its beginning in the kitchen, through to 18

the living room, and from there back to the front door, where the fat 19

man had lost his race with Death.

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In the corner of the little front patio I saw the weapon. It was a 21

meat-tenderizing mallet. A stainless-steel hammer with a head made 22

of a four-inch cube that had jagged teeth to mash up tough flesh.

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The mallet was slick with dark gore.

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I went back in the house, into a woman’s bedroom. Here the 25

color scheme was white and pink. The neatly made bed was covered 26

with a satin coverlet and piled with small quilted pillows at the head.

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The room seemed so innocent that, compared with the bedlam in 28

the other parts of the house, it took on a sinister air.

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There were four pictures taped to Isolda’s bureau mirror. One 30 S

was of a burly man — maybe the corpse, I couldn’t be sure without 31 R

turning him over. The next two were of Brawly somewhere in his
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teens and also as a grown-up. The last photo was of a good-looking 1

woman in her late thirties wearing a bathing suit and laughing at 2

Brawly, who was rubbing water out of his eyes. That picture had 3

been taken near the Santa Monica Pier.

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In one drawer I found a red and black envelope of photographs.

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Most of the pictures were of the woman modeling in a two-piece 6

bathing suit. She looked rather inviting. The odd thing was that the 7

pictures were taken inside, in a room that I hadn’t seen in her house.

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In one photo she was lying on a bed with her legs splayed and her 9

back arched. She was beaming a smile that could have made a new 10

sire out of an eighty-year-old man.

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While I was staring at those photographs a car door somewhere 12

slammed. At first it was just a faraway sound, meaningless to me.

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Then, for some reason, I thought of the black-and-white photo-14

graphs I had once seen in a book about ancient Rome. I wondered 15

what could have made me think about the Colosseum. Then the 16

cops came back into my mind. I ran to the front and peeked out from 17

behind the violet drapes.

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The sight of the four policemen deflated me for a second. The 19

fact that two squad cars had been dispatched meant that someone 20

had seen the body and called it in. I had that helpless give-it-up emo-21

tion that comes on me sometimes.

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But it passed quickly.

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Running was a fool’s enterprise, but I took it up with vigor. I 24

pocketed the pictures and ran to the door at the back of the kitchen.

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I used my shirttail as a glove to turn the knob. As I left out of there I 26

heard a man’s voice call, “Watch it, Drake. Man down.”

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I ducked low in the bare backyard and headed for the fence.

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Over that hurdle I made it to the next street through the back neigh-29

bor’s driveway. Most people, men and women, in that neighborhood S 30

spent the day at work, so I wasn’t too worried about being seen. I R 31

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dropped the photographs into a trash can, set out for the weekly 2

pickup, just in case I was stopped by the cops.

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The only trouble I had left was walking to my car without being 4

noticed. In any other city that would have been easy. But not in L.A.

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I went the long way around and turned up two blocks on Henry.

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By the time I got to Isolda’s block there were four police cars parked 7

out front. An approaching patrol car drove past me. They slowed 8

down to watch. I turned and glanced at them and kept on walking.

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I guess the lure of real action pulled them away. A dead man in 10

a doorway was still news back then.

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I got the key in the ignition slot on the fourth try and drove well 12

within the speed limit past the powder blue dream. The police in 13

their dark uniforms reminded me of the ants that were swarming 14

over the corpse at their feet.

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6
/ FROM THE MOMENT
I heard John’s voice I had ex-1

pected trouble. I was looking for it. But the dead man 2

had sobered me somewhat. I didn’t want to get that far into some-3

body else’s grief. I didn’t want to be used, either. But I doubted that 4

John and Alva would have lied to me — not about murder, anyway.

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I decided not to call them until I had at least seen Brawly. If I 6

were to tell Alva that I had come upon a dead man instead of her 7

son, there’s no telling where her imagination might have taken her.

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I would go to the headquarters of the Urban Revolutionary Party, 9

hoping to catch a glimpse of the young man.

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But first came food. I hadn’t eaten since Juice’s pancakes, and 11

fear always stoked my appetite.

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H
AMBONES WAS A SOUL FOOD
diner on Hooper, not far from the First Men’s storefront address. I hadn’t been there for a 3

while because it catered to a rough clientele and I had spent the past 4

few years (with one major slip) trying to deny that I ever traveled in 5

those crowds.

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Sam Houston, proud black son of Texas, owned the place. It was 7

one long room with tables running down the length of the walls and 8

a kitchen in the back. If you wanted to eat at the Hambone, you had 9

to sit next to your honey and look at the man across the way.

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Sam was standing at his waist-high counter at the back of the 11

place. Behind him was the kitchen full of his family members, their 12

spouses, and friends.

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“Sam,” I hailed as I walked toward him.

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“I knew they was gonna take it, Easy,” he bellowed. Sam’s speak-15

ing voice would have been a shout for a normal man.

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“Take what?”

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“The Star of India,” he said in a smug and satisfied tone. “Right 18

outta the Museum of Natch’l History up there in New York City. I 19

knew it.”

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I had come to his countertop by then. His loud pronouncement 21

irritated me.

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“You knew what?”

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“I knew that they had to steal sumpin’ like that. You cain’t have 24

no million-dollar jewel lyin’ around for just any old motherfucker 25

t’be lookin’ at. I read it right here in the
Examiner.
” Sam gestured at 26

a rumpled pile of papers lying next to him on the counter.

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“What the hell you talkin’ ’bout, Sam?” I hadn’t seen the man in 28

at least two years, but the first words out of his mouth had already 29

made me mad. “All the shit in the news and you gonna be worried 30 S

’bout some goddamned piece’a glass?”

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“It’s the money, man. Got to go wit’ the money. I feel for them
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