Charcoal Joe (16 page)

Whisper worked late most nights. You always knew when he was there past five because of the music coming from his office. Piano concertos, flute sonatas, now and then he played a symphony from the eighteenth century on his stereo record player.

He was sitting at his desk holding up a single sheet of paper, daring it to try and hide its secrets.

I knocked on the open door.

“Come on in, Easy,” he said without looking up.

I took a seat feeling in turns deep exhaustion and stabbing pains. Whisper was taking his time with the sheet of paper but I was in no hurry either. I was supposed to be a dead man, and so sitting there exercising the minor miracle of breath was just fine.

Whisper's suit was as dark a yellow as you can get before turning brown. His nut-colored hat was the only thing hanging from the coatrack in the corner. Whisper didn't have a bookshelf or an in-box. He only worked one case at a time and, by his own admission, rarely used more than one drawer in his desk.

There was a woodwind quartet playing on his stereo, beckoning me to close my eyes and use my ears.

“So what can I do for you, Easy?” Whisper asked, jogging me back to consciousness.

The solitary sheet of paper was lying on the desk without even the company of a pencil.

I dipped my hand into the left pocket of my jacket and placed the little red journal next to the paper.

He picked up the book and began turning pages slowly.

“How's the case going?” I asked him.

“If she's still alive I'll have her within the week. How's yours?”

“Solved but not settled.”

He looked up then and smiled as well as he could manage. Whisper liked simple truths.

He placed the book on the desktop and shoved it in my direction.

“You need to go see Mania Blackman,” he said.

“Who's that?”

“I'll call her to make you an afternoon appointment and leave the address and time on Niska's desk.”

“Mania?”

“Polish,” my partner said. “I think she was named after her mother.”

“You know the language?”

“Polish too,” he said, “heavily influenced by Yiddish. There's probably a hundred different dialects extant and Mania knows a hundred and one.”

Whisper was a mystery that defied logic. He knew more single facts than any person I'd ever met. I once asked him how he knew so much. “Proximity osmosis” was his deadpan answer.

I was ready for bed. I don't remember ever being that tired, even after the Battle of the Bulge. I was so exhausted that getting up from the chair seemed like an impossible task.

“You need help, Easy?” Whisper asked.

“Why you say that?”

“Because you staggerin' in that chair.”

I woke up on the sofa in my office with the sun in my eyes. I didn't remember if I'd made it there under my own steam or if Whisper had helped me. The room wasn't actually spinning but only shaking at the edges. My ribs hurt. The back of my head and the left side of my jaw were both sensitive to the touch.

My tongue was dry and my stomach felt like a week-old stew had gone bad in there.

The sun told me that it was late morning. My mind told me it was time to test my legs.

I spent the next two hours in the bathroom. Between showering and shaving, brushing my teeth and hair and using the facilities, I was feeling pretty good. My jaw was a little puffy and my eyes somewhat bloodshot but the corners stayed still and I had survived where most men would have perished.

Niska was sitting at her desk in a bright-colored flower-pattern muumuu dress. Her hair was teased out in the natural hairdo made popular by Angela Davis.

“Good morning, Mr. Rawlins,” the lovely young woman greeted.

“Hey, Niska. Anybody but you and me here?”

“Saul had to take his son to the doctor and Tinsford was working late.” I was the only one of the partners that she called mister. “There's a note for you.”

The pink slip of paper gave an address on 23rd Street in Santa Monica; a time, 2:00 p.m.; and the name
Mania Blackman
.

I read the note over and stood there a moment gathering the forces of my body and mind.

“Feather called at eight and I told her that you were sound asleep. She said to kiss you good morning so consider yourself kissed.”

“Thank you. Anything else?”

“Detective Suggs called and wanted you to make an appointment with a Detective Davis Bethune. Mr. Jones called—”

“Fearless?”

“Uh-huh. He's nice.”

“What'd he want?”

“Nothing. He just told me to tell you that everything was fine.”

My watch said 12:17. A little voice in my head was whining that we should go back to the office and sleep until that night.

“I won't be back till tomorrow,” I said.

“Tell Mania that Niska says hey.”

The address Whisper left me was for the Star-Hobard Motel a block north of Pico on 23rd. There was a diner across the street where I had two eggs over easy with white toast, strawberry jam, and a single slice of reheated baked ham. The coffee was weak, which was probably for the best, and I was able to hold it all down.

Mania's unit number at the motel was 3F. That was on the top floor.

All the units of the Star-Hobard were accessible to external walkways. I climbed the stairs, feeling each step in my ribs, then followed the numbers down to 3F, knocked on the door, and waited. The food was having the desired effect on my metabolism. The door opened inward, revealing a short and stout woman with stiff, hardly brushed hair that was equally gray and blond. She wore a shapeless navy blue dress and her bare feet were callused.

“Ooo blat gump?” she asked.

“What did you say?” I replied.

I worried that my experiences from the previous day had somehow impaired my ability to understand simple language.

“Tapala lu vem,” she said with a yellowish grin that was missing a few teeth.

“Um,” I replied.

“Oakla, oakla,” she said, nodding and grinning and stepping back.

I walked in and asked, “Are you—Mania?”

“Sure, sure Mania.”

The room was dark; drapes were pulled over the windows. It smelled of yeast and potatoes, and the furniture seemed to be turned around—relatives that had stopped talking to one another.

“Whisper Natly sent me.”

“Ah compo felika,” she said with indecipherable emphasis.

I was lost.

“You're Mr. Rawlins?” a younger woman's voice asked.

She was standing in the doorway that connected unit 3F to 3G. The same height as the older woman, the newcomer was not yet thirty and with light brown skin and hair that was brushed but still could not make up its mind whether to be straight, wavy, or coiled. Her dress was also blue but short, form-fitting, hinting at the hue of peacock feathers. Her eyes were in turn aqua and gold, and the lines of her face were strong and angular while her features contained the soft roundness of the Negro race.

“Mania?” I said.

“You're Mr. Rawlins?” she asked again.

“Whisper sent me to see if you could translate a journal for me.”

“Ooo taka,” the older woman chimed.

“My mother likes you,” Mania the younger said.

“That's nice.”

“She likes black men,” the young woman said, making a gesture with her hands that said,
That's why I'm here.

“Asti mo von luppa tin ono,” mother said to daughter.

The beautiful young woman answered in the same incomprehensible tongue.

“Oh,” the old woman said with a nod. “Tutu.”

“Come with me, Mr. Rawlins,” young Mania said.

I followed her into unit 3G. She shut the door behind us.

The adjoining room was filled with light. The open drapes revealed a pair of sliding glass doors leading out onto a small patio that had two baby blue chairs made from some kind of synthetic plaster.

“Let's sit outside,” she suggested. “It's such a nice day. Can I get you something?”

“No. I ate across the street because I was early.”

The only comment I could make on the Polish-and-black woman was that her features seemed nearly feral. Her eyes were bold and shameless. Her body seemed like it wanted to dance.

“Sit,” she commanded.

Seated there across from each other, our view was of a big backyard where a middle-aged white woman in tan khaki shorts and a white blouse was working in a garden large enough to keep a family of three in salads year-round.

“What was that language you and your mother were speaking?” I asked.

“Made up.”

“Come again?”

“My mother was born in a shtetl in central Poland. There she mostly spoke Yiddish. In 1933 her parents sent her to Warsaw where she passed as a Christian. When the war broke out she joined the Resistance. The Christian Polish freedom fighters were as anti-Semitic as the Nazis, so she forced all things Yiddish from her mind. But her comrades found out and she fled to France. She was afraid to use Yiddish again and communicated in a kind of broken French. She was able to get to England by 1940. There she met Barney Blackman, an aide to General Monroe Moorland. Barney was a kind man and he didn't mind that Mania had pretty much stopped talking. He was my father, killed in the early air raids on London.

“I was four when we moved to America. Barney Blackman's family wasn't as kind as he was, and by that time my mother's mind was going. She could no longer remember Yiddish, Polish, or French. The only language she had was the gibberish she and I spoke when I was still a very young child.”

“Wow,” I said. “And that's why you know so many languages?”

She smiled at me, radiating an optimism combined with a confidence that I had not felt in a while.

“How can I help you, Mr. Rawlins?”

I gave her the red journal and explained that I was mostly interested in the last few pages.

She thumbed through the book much the way Whisper had done, nodded, and said, “Come back tomorrow afternoon. I'll have what you want by then.”

“How much?”

“I'll read the whole thing,” she said, not understanding the question.

“I mean what's this translation gonna cost me.”

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“I owe Tinsford and he asked me to do this for you.”

“How do you know Whisper?”

“I used to babysit for his children.”

“Oh,” I said. “Niska says hi.”

Feather was waiting for me at the entrance to Ivy Prep. I bought us both cold sodas at a hot-dog stand and we talked about her day at school. After that I brought her to Jewelle and Jackson's house.

“When can I come home, Daddy?” she asked when I pulled into the driveway.

“Just a few days, honey. I want to make sure everything's okay first.”

She kissed me and hugged me around the neck.

I felt safe going home, because the men that had invaded my house were either dead or in jail.

I boarded up the window that they'd broken to get in and reset the alarm system.

After placing loaded pistols at various easily accessible points throughout the house, I set about making dinner.

Cooking relaxes me. From chopping onions to washing plates, I feel productive and pampered in the kitchen.

That night I sautéed hot Italian sausage with brown mushrooms, minced garlic, stewed tomatoes, fresh basil leaves, dried oregano, and scallion greens. I added cayenne and red wine at the end and let the sauce simmer down into a gravy while I boiled water and then cooked the vermicelli pasta.

I should have used Parmesan but all I had was sharp cheddar, so that had to do.

I was finished eating at seven, considered having my one cigarette, but decided to put it off till later.

“Hello,” Fearless said, answering his phone on the second ring.

“Fearless. How's it goin'?”

“Okay. What you been up to?”

I told him of my adventures in detail.

“Damn, brother, you got to slow down. You know we ain't young men in the Fifth Ward no more.”

“How's Seymour?”

“He okay. Wants his book'a lectures but he knows that you doin' more important work.”

“Tell him that I'm on the case and somewhat optimistic. I should have some answers in a day or two.”

“Try not to get killed before that,” Fearless said.

When I put down the phone it rang immediately.

“Hello?”

“Easy.”

The breath I was taking got stuck, but finally I said, “Hey, Bonnie. How you doin'?”

“I miss you,” she said with forthright sincerity. “When I look ahead the only thing I regret is leaving you and Feather behind.”

A sound escaped my throat. I tried to think of something intimate and caring to say but failed.

“Mouse got you and Joguye someplace safe?”

“Mama Jo said that you don't want to know where we are.”

“I think that's best.”

“You're a good man and I love you,” she said.

I considered asking her to come back but that milestone was behind us, in the distance.

“Take care of yourself,” I said instead.

“Good-bye, Easy,” she replied, and we both hung up.

My throat was tight after that conversation. I wanted some whiskey but knew better. Drinking and broken hearts were okay as long as there was no car key in your pocket and no loaded .45 on the shelf.

The phone rang again and I almost didn't answer. If it was Bonnie I wouldn't be able to resist. This thought reverberated until finally I picked up the receiver.

“Hello,” I said in a strangled voice.

“Are you okay, Easy?” Asiette Moulon asked.

I cleared my throat and said, “Yes. Yes I am. Especially with you on the phone.”

“I wanted to know if you called the police.”

“I sure did. They caught them men too.” There couldn't have been a better antidote for a broken heart. “I'm sorry about what happened.”

“I want to see you again,” she said in answer.

“That would be…um, magnificent.”

“I 'ad a wonderful time,” she said. “I like the way you make love to me.”

“I could have stayed in that shower all night long.”

We went on like that for a while, enumerating each other's charms and talents. It was pretty exciting and so she finally said, “Should I come ovair?”

“I got to wrap up some business first, Asiette. But by early next week I should be free.”

After talking to Asiette for over an hour I needed that cigarette.

In the sixties full-grown adults didn't spend all that much time on the telephone. So I didn't expect any more calls. But one came in near nine.

“Hello?”

“Is this Ezekiel Rawlins?” a mature woman asked.

“Yes?”

“This is Sarah Sanderson. You left a message here under my previous name—Garnett.”

“Oh,” I said, calculating the time back east. I supposed that she waited until her new husband was in a deep sleep before calling. Maybe she put a sleeping powder in his warm milk.

“Where did you get my number?”

“I got a friend has access to a service. He could hook me up with Mao Tse-tung's digits if I wanted. We met once quite a few years ago.”

“I remember you,” she admitted. “What do you want?”

“Before your first husband, Vernor, murdered your daughter, she put her baby with Sylvia Bride, whose real name was Phyllis Weinstein. Before Vernor killed Sylvia she put the baby with someone else. After it was all over I took the girl and brought her home to live with me and my son. Your daughter christened her Feather and I stayed with that name. It's all she has left from her blood relations.”

While I spoke the mother made various unintelligible sounds, reminding me of Mania the elder.

“And do you want money?” she asked after I was finished.

“No, ma'am.”

“Then why did you call?”

“Didn't you hear what I just told you? You have a granddaughter in the world that you have never met.”

“So?”

“So? Little Feather wants to know her grandmother and her uncle. She's a great kid and deserves to at least meet her real family.”

“I'm sorry but that would be impossible.”

“Why?” I wanted to know.

“She's…You understand, Mr. Rawlins. She's not, not white and I could not include her in my life. I'm very sorry but there's nothing I can do for the child.”

“She is of your blood, Mrs. Sanderson. She's your dead daughter's child.”

“I thought that she was dead,” she said as if in answer.

“You hoped she was dead, you mean.”

“I am not a monster, Mr. Rawlins. I'm just a woman trying to survive.”

“Your husband was a monster. He murdered Robin. And now you're killing the memory of her by turning your back on Feather. You're just as evil, just as much a demon.”

She made another few noises and then hung up.

I sat there for a few minutes, holding the phone. I loved Feather. She was my child and I could not understand how her own blood could turn on her because of pigments in the skin.

When the tone of the receiver turned into a louder beep I pressed the button and then dialed another number. I hadn't dialed it in a very long time but I remembered it because it spelled out a sexual epithet.

“Top Shelf,” a woman said brightly.

“Hey, Doris.”

“Who is this please?”

“Easy Rawlins.”

“The Prodigal Son,” she declared. “I thought you were dead.”

“Lotta that goin' around. Augusta Tryman still with you?”

“And more beautiful every day too.”

“Ask her to drop by,” I said, and then gave her my new address.

“Yes, sir.”