City of War (9 page)

Skycaps and a Walk on the Beach

LAX is never fun, but Monday afternoons are usually lighter than normal. I was driving my Dodge Ram, and I pulled into the parking garage opposite the Delta terminal. Surprisingly, I found a space on the street level. I crossed to the terminal and took up a position along an iron fence about thirty feet down from passenger drop-off. Traffic was moving easily, and the skycaps were handling people as quickly as they arrived.

After ten minutes, I had what I wanted and approached a heavyset skycap in his late fifties whom I had seen the other men deferring to. He was wearing an ID that gave his name as Mitchell Adams.

“Excuse me, sir,” I said. “May I have a word with you?”

He sized me up and said, “I saw you standing down there. You was figuring out who was running this shift.”

It wasn’t a question, and I didn’t answer.

“I know all the cops, and you ain’t one a them or TSA neither, or the airline, so if you want something, you’ll have to talk to my supervisor, and he ain’t here.”

“Mr. Adams, my name is Rail Black.” I didn’t offer my hand. “And I’m trying to find someone.”

“Like I said, you’ll have to talk to my supervisor.”

Most people don’t know it, but skycap service in many large domestic airports is the exclusive province of African-Americans. I don’t mean the airlines only hire blacks. They don’t hire anyone. It’s contracted out, and the real power is a group of smart, hardworking, African-American men who run a patronage system as tight as Chicago aldermen. And since a hustling skycap can make $125,000 a year, there’s no shortage of people showing up on bended knee.

“I think you’re the supervisor. But even if you’re not, you call your own shots.”

He looked at me expressionlessly for a moment, then smiled. “You’re a pretty smart fella. Who you looking for?”

“Walter Kempthorn.”

“This is about the picture he took, ain’t it?”

“Yes.”

“You with some insurance company?”

“No, just a civilian with a couple of questions.”

“No sworn statements? No testifying?”

“Nothing.”

He looked bemused. “Walter’s always taking goddamn pictures. Drives a lot of guys around here nuts. Especially when they’re out having a few drinks, unwinding. Had to step in a couple of times to keep him from getting his ass kicked. But he’s my nephew, and blood is blood.”

“He here today?”

“No, he’s home. Layin’ low.”

“Why’s that?”

“Somebody called this morning and said they wanted the negatives. That they’d be sending someone around tomorrow. And if he didn’t hand them over, they’d burn down his house—with him in it.”

“You believe that?”

Mitchell Adams shook his head. “I figure if it was real, they wouldn’t have said nothin’. They’d have just showed up.”

“That what you told Walter?”

“I told him the negatives might be the best friend he had.

That he should give them to a lawyer and sit tight. See what happens.”

“You’re a pretty smart fella yourself, Mr. Adams.”

“Call me Mitchell. You want to talk to Walter?”

“If it’s possible.”

“You got somebody I can call? Check you out?”

“You know Sister Vonetta? Runs the St. Regis school?”

“I heard of her.”

I borrowed Mitchell’s pen and a piece of paper and wrote Sister V’s phone number on it.

He looked at the number then at me. “My shift’s over in an hour. You check out, I’ll be at Roxy’s Diner on Imperial Highway. You think you can find it?”

“We’re both smart fellas, remember?”

He seemed to like that.

Walter Kempthorn’s house was on a neatly kept street just off Artesia Boulevard. I parked behind Mitchell and followed him up the walk. The windows were closed and the blinds drawn, giving the place a we’re-not-home look, but Mitchell didn’t bother to knock. He produced a fistful of keys, selected one and opened the front door.

“One of my places,” he said by way of explanation. “When it comes to the rent, Walter’s a slow pay, but he keeps the place up, and he watches over his mother.”

The house was as neat inside as out.

“Paula?” Mitchell called out. “It’s me.”

“She ain’t here,” a voice answered, and then a good-sized man in his twenties stepped into the room. He was dressed like a lot of young black men: loose-fitting jeans, oversized white T-shirt and an Oakland Raiders cap with the ultra-flat brim pushed off-center.

Mitchell said, “Walter, this is Mr. Black.”

Walter said nothing and didn’t move.

So I said, “Pretty good camera work the other night on the freeway. You really know what you’re doing.”

“What the fuck’s it to you?” Walter spit back. “You got
one blood Uncle Tommin’ for you today; you ain’t gettin’ a second.”

Without warning, Mitchell Adams reached out and slapped his nephew across the face, hard. The Raiders cap flew off, and Walter’s eyes went wide. He rubbed his cheek and started to pick up his hat.

“Leave it,” said Mitchell, and Walter did. Then Mitchell locked eyes with his nephew, and in one of the coldest voices I’ve ever heard, he said, “You and me will deal with the disrespect later. Right now, we’re on manners. Man’s invited to your home, you smile and say, ‘Glad to meet you.’”

Walter’s tone went from confrontational to petulant, but he wasn’t ready to back down all the way. He looked at Mitchell warily. “I didn’t invite him. You did. So you tell him how glad you are.”

Mitchell held his gaze level, and Walter blinked a couple of times, but he kept himself together. After a moment of watching them stare at each other, I said, “What I’d like, Walter, is to borrow your negatives. I promise you’ll get them back in pristine condition, and I’ll pay you for the accommodation.”

Walter didn’t say anything, so I went on. “If I could, I’d look at them here, but I’m not an expert, and the guy who is needs his own equipment.”

“A hundred grand,” Walter said suddenly.

“Excuse me?”

“I said a hundred grand. I got one guy says he’s willin’ to kill me for them, and now you show up. Must be mighty valuable pictures. So you want them, it’ll cost you a hundred large.”

I saw some nervousness in Walter Kempthorn’s eyes, but there was something else there too. Deeper, more feral. The slap across the face had brought it closer to the surface. I spoke softly. “If you’ll look closely, at least one of your shots shows a young lady getting out of the back of a van. You won’t be able to miss her. She’s not wearing any clothes. She was escaping a kidnapping.”

If Walter had been teetering on the edge, now he went over. “What the fuck do I care about some white bitch I never met? Here’s the way it is, man. I carry your fuckin’ bags at the airport ’cause people hear a black man say, ‘Yes sir, right away, sir,’ and they reach deep. That, and my uncle here is such an important fuckin’ guy that when I take a day off, nobody says boo. But when I’m on my own time—which is right now, motherfucker—I’d just as soon shoot you as look at you. So it’s a hundred grand, or get the fuck out of my house.”

I don’t get angry often, but I almost grabbed Walter Kempthorn and choked the fucking life out of him. It would have been a fool’s errand.

I believe in life force. That some people are more alive than others. You can feel it when they enter a room. It’s sometimes confused with star quality or charisma, but it’s more. Charisma can get men to follow you into battle. Life force can make them volunteer to die.

The strongest I’ve ever witnessed was JFK’s, and he was killed before I was born, so I’ve only seen it on film. It must have been overpowering in person. I’ve heard people say that the moment he died the sun dimmed. I believe them.

The second strongest was my father’s. It didn’t matter who was in a room. The only person anyone noticed was him.

But there’s also negative life force. People whose spirit is so dead that it’s already begun slipping into the next life. I had it happen on a plane once. A guy sat down next to me, and without looking up, I knew there was something wrong. I didn’t even want to hear his voice. I got off. Took another flight.

Mitchell Adams was a man who’d seen a lot, but he radiated life. His eyes twinkled, and his movements were confident. But at Walter Kempthorn’s core was something that sucked out any warmth or light he might have once had. He occupied space but offered only despair.

I said, “You know something, Walter, if I thought you were worth the trouble, I’d negotiate with you, and you’d
probably end up with ten grand for just doing a good deed. But anyone who can be so disrespectful to a member of his family in front of a stranger is nothing but a punk, and I don’t waste my time with punks.”

Then I really bore down. “The great thing about being an owner is that you can set your price. And the great thing about being a buyer is that I can decide to pay it—or not. And right now, I wouldn’t take your fucking pictures if
you
gave
me
ten grand. Because then I might have to see you again, and that’s something I hope never to do.”

I turned to Mitchell. “I know you said there’s some good in there, but it’s close to flickering out.”

I could see the pain in Mitchell Adams’s eyes. “We got a good-sized chunk of a whole generation like this,” he said sadly. “Those of us who fought the last century’s indignities so these guys wouldn’t have to now find ourselves shedding more tears for them than we ever did for ourselves. The good news is Walter’s got a real job, and he’s got his cameras. Maybe one day he’ll get something else to go along with them.”

I didn’t think so, but I left it unsaid. Instead, I went outside and was never so glad to breathe fresh air. As I was starting my truck, I saw Mitchell come out, but he didn’t look my way. He just headed for his car.

You can’t think constructively when you’re angry. You have a tendency to forget the problem and just keep drawing a straight line between the guy who pissed you off and putting his head in a vise. I needed a little thinking time, so instead of heading home, I turned west toward the beach.

Playa del Rey is a short stretch of oceanfront and low hills just south of LAX. Because there’s very little parking and a constant river of jets taking off overhead, it doesn’t get much love. But despite being able to count the rivets in a 747’s belly when you’re there, it’s not as loud as you might think, and you can still watch a sunset without being assaulted by humanity.

I parked at a meter along Vista del Mar, left my shoes in the car and took the stairs down to the beach. It was quiet except for a few dozen sunbathers and a skinny, white-haired guy in a dirty U.S. Navy captain’s hat and WWII desert shorts working the sand with a metal detector. I crossed the thirty yards to the water and turned south, the late afternoon sun off to my right. The surf was coming in hard, and I had to pay attention to avoid getting swept off my feet by the tail end of some of the larger breakers. I put my head down and walked hard.

By the time I got back to the Ram, my anger was gone, and the sun was going down. I rinsed my feet with a bottle of Arrowhead and slipped back into my shoes. I suddenly realized I wanted hot food, and plenty of it. The first place I saw was a Del Taco, and I inhaled a Macho Combo Burrito and a Jumbo Coke. I’m not usually a fast-food guy, but it was almost as good as getting laid.

While I ate, I thought about Walter Kempthorn, and when I finished, I turned the truck back toward Artesia Boulevard. I didn’t know exactly what I was going to say because it wasn’t a conversation you could rehearse. But I did know that, photographs or no photographs, I didn’t want to leave it the way it was.

Walter’s house was dark, but I rang the bell anyway. A young kid walking by saw me and called out, “Nobody home, mister. Walter and his mom, they left.”

So I got back in the truck and headed home. I promised myself I’d drive out to the airport the next day.

8

Dinner and Roses

I didn’t tell Kim about Walter Kempthorn. What was there to say, anyway? That I’d let some kid get under my skin when I didn’t have a backup plan? Not smart, and definitely not professional.

Despite the Del Taco, I was hungry again, so we went down the hill for a belated birthday celebration at my favorite restaurant, Tacitus. It was a gorgeous night, and we sat outside on the front patio alongside some movie people and a young couple who were so into each other, I don’t think they knew where they were, or cared.

Tacitus Gambelli runs the best Tuscan kitchen this side of Florence, and it’s always at the top of L.A.’s most romantic restaurants list. I’m sure that makes Tacitus proud, but it doesn’t give enough credit to the lovingly prepared dishes and personal service that are increasingly rare since corporate stores started elbowing their way into the high-end dining experience. Don’t get me wrong, I love a good Morton’s porterhouse as much as anyone, but as sexy as it is, it’s still assembly-line food.

After bruschetta and a pair of Morettis, I had the lamb, and Kim the lobster ravioli. While we ate, Tacitus came by
with a bottle of something from his private stock. A rare Tignanello. After a sip, Kim declared it as good as PlumpJack, which was high praise, I guess, considering it was about seven times the price, and something thieves break into warehouses to steal.

But Tacitus didn’t bat an eye and thanked her in the way men from the Continent have that Americans can’t seem to master. While Kim beamed, I wondered if the Tignanello would have the same effect as my cheaper grape juice had. I hoped so.

As the three of us chatted, a young Hispanic teenager carrying a basket of individually cellophane-wrapped roses came into the restaurant. He was working a foursome in the corner when Tacitus saw him and excused himself. We watched him hustle the boy out.

When he returned, I joked, “So much for capitalism.”

Tacitus shook his head. “I feel sorry for the kid. He’s just trying to make a buck. I used to let them in, but then one of my customers’ purses disappeared. There’s always one jerk who screws it up for everyone else.” At that moment, Tacitus spotted the 20-something star of a hot sitcom arriving with his entourage and hustled off to kiss some actor’s ass.