Los Angeles Noir (5 page)

Feeling suddenly impish, he slowed the roadster to a crawl and slouched low in his seat, kicking it old school with The Shirelles blasting on the box, like some
vato Negro.

The Château Rouge, with Satin Dolls, its notorious adjoining bar, was situated on Martin Luther King Jr. Boulevard five blocks west of Crenshaw. It was a ten-story structure built in 1958 by renowned Los Angeles architect Paul Williams. Its façade was polished black marble, steel, and glass. It looked like a fat stack of bop records ready to be played. The whiteboy architectural critic for the
Times
in 1958 tried his best to dismiss it as “a licorice battleship.” But black folk loved its swank curvilinear forms.

The hotel’s main driveway was already bumper to bumper with fancy automobiles when Cravitz slid up—twenty patrons were lined up for the Chit Chat Room. It opened at 5 a.m. and featured the best and cheapest breakfast in town: two eggs, Louisiana sausage, bacon, grits, two biscuits, and a cup of java for five bucks. The menu also featured New Orleans seafood, chit’lins under glass, East Texas hot wings, smothered chops, ham hocks and brains, and Johnnie Walker Black.

For Halloween, all the valets and chauffeurs wore black satin masks along with their red satin togs. Darlinda Smalls, the valet captain, waved him to the front of the line.

“Us girls got something for you, Quick,” Darlinda said, and all the girls started singing Stevie’s version of “Happy Birthday.” When they were done, Aleta Wright, one of the fine-ass Château Rouge lady chauffeurs, took Cravitz’s keys. It was already eighty degrees and Aleta was dressed for the weather in the Château Rouge’s trademark peek-a-boo red satin tux.

“Hey, bitch!” a voice behind him growled.

Cravitz turned. Behind him stood a quartet of young men. One of them, a tall pasty-faced yella boy with bling braces, held up his fists and showed two sparkling rings, each one spanning a hand, spelling:
FLO BOYZ.

Another brandished a sawed-off shotgun.

“Hey, Monster,” the pasty-faced boy said to the kid with the shotgun, “cover me.”

“What’s your name, son?” Cravitz said to the young thug with the gun.

“Monster P,” the boy said.

“That what your mama named you?”

“You betta recognize, grandpa, you jumped in line ahead of us,” the yella kid with bad acne replied. Monster P, huge and grinning, circled to his left. Cravitz noted that Monster wore his new $100 Lebron James sneakers untied.

“Well, bitch, you gonna move out th’ way? Or do we need to move you?” the pimply faced boy said.

“You from the Floorboards?” Cravitz said.

“Hey, sucka, you mean the Flo Boyz.”

Normally, a slap across the lips was his remedy for obstreperous brats. The challenge of his birthday vow, however, posed a dilemma for Cravitz.

Cravitz was pondering this when he heard, “Drop the weapon, Twinkletoes.”

It was the voice of his childhood hero, Ramon Yippie Calzone. Cravitz turned to see Yippie with Esmeralda in his hand.

Monster P held his shotgun limply, then let it slide to the ground.

“I’m saving your lives,” Yippie Calzone told them. He pointed to Cravitz. “That young brother there is one of the killin’est
hombres
on the whole damn planet. Just look at them cold, gray eyes … I’m a mutherfuckin’ killer, too. Just a few months back, shot down two little boys with this pretty gun. Ain’t that right, Quick?”

“Gospel,” Cravitz said.

The young men gawked at Esmeralda.

“We won’t kill you this time, boys,” Cravitz said. “But grown folks gotta talk now.” Cravitz gave Aleta a twenty and said, “Help my friends. I ain’t in a hurry.”

Yippie turned to Cravitz and whispered, “We gotta talk.”

The men met in a quiet booth in Satin Dolls.

“I saw something when I arrived at the Château Rouge this morning—someone,” Yippie Calzone said.

“Someone?”

“A woman. A bad woman.”

“Well?”

“I can’t tell you much. Shouldn’t be telling you this. But this
hina
is bad news. She is a drug dealer. A killer too. I didn’t know she had got this far west.”

“And she’s here to …?”

“Not sure. Her operation is in Nevada. She’s helping her man Paco Santiago make Vegas the new drug hub,” Yippie Calzone said. “If she’s here, your brother is involved. I didn’t see them together; but I’m sure she’s staying here. She had on a mask, but I recognized her. I don’t think she saw me.”

“Cash has been legit since ’92.”

“He ain’t.” Calzone opened his briefcase and pulled out a small plastic baggie filled with a few teaspoons of yellow powder. He handed it to Cravitz. “The new teen poison.”

The dope had a faint lemon scent.

“It’s treated opium. It’s been cut with strychnine and baking soda and some other trash. The high’s killer,” Yippie said grimly.

“How’s it get this weird color?”

“Food coloring,” Yippie said. “They call it butter.”

“Shit,” Cravitz said.

“
Simone
,” Yippie Calzone said.

“You’re giving me classified information.”

“It’s a final gift, birthday boy. I’m settling all my accounts.” Yippie Calzone was not smiling now. “You helped me. Cash helped me. Now I’m helping you. I’m sure this chick brought some of this dope with her. Cash might not know what he’s in for.”

Yippie promised to give Cravitz seventy-two hours to find the dope and get it out of the Château Rouge before he dropped a dime to Vargas.

“That’s it,” Yippie said finally, standing. “I’ve bent the shit outta the law for you, my brother. Now I’m gonna disappear.”

Yippie Calzone left.

“Hey, Quick!” a familiar voice said.

He turned to face Hi-C, his brother’s personal bodyguard, striding toward him. Hi-C was 7’2” without an ounce of fat. He was dressed in the livery of a Château Rouge bouncer: red satin top hat, red satin bowtie, sleeveless red satin shirt, red satin slacks, red satin cummerbund, red patent leather boots. C also wore a black satin mask.

To Cravitz he looked like a masked pillar of fire.

C said, “I been lookin’ fo’ ya all ovah, Quick. Mista Omar say f’you t’meet him in the conf’ence room. He wont me t’fetch ya.”

One did not argue with a pillar of fire.

* * *

The penthouse conference room was located on the tenth floor. Its wall-length windows looked out over King Boulevard, framing the pale blue sky and the San Gabriels thirty miles north.

Cash was seated at the head of the long table, dressed like an eighteenth-century pirate. A black satin mask covered his eyes.

Seated in chairs on the table’s other end were a woman and a man, both wearing black masks. The man was dressed all in white with a visor cap, like a 1940s Good Humor man. The woman was Cleopatra—a brass serpent coiled about her paste tiara.

“You remember my road dog, Ernie Jackson?” Cash began with a grin.

“Oh yeah, Bingbong. W’sup?” Cravitz said, with a slight nod.

The woman stood up and slowly walked around the table toward him. She was statuesque, voluptuous. Behind that satin mask, Cravitz could see her eyes flashing with golden fire. Her face was framed with braids that fell below her shoulders.

She held out her hand. Cravitz fought off the urge to gobble her whole.

“Bennita Bangs,” she said simply.

Cravitz took her hand, feeling an electric thrill surge through his bones.

He wondered whether a woman that fine could be a thug and a killer and what it would be like to nibble her honeyed skin.

“Bingbong—I mean,
Ernest
—and Bennita startin’ up a new record label,” Cash said. “Bennita here done already sweet-talked me into dropping a little pieca change in the boodle. Since it’s yo birthday, I figure I might spread ’round some of th’ good luck to my baby bro …”

Cravitz was still not listening. He was trying his best to crawl into those topaz bedrooms Miss Bangs used for eyes.

“My fiancé is a fox, ain’t she, Quick?” Bingbong Jackson said uneasily.

Cravitz cast a killing gaze at the hustler. “What’s all this good luck gonna cost me?”

“We need to raise two million, Mr.—” Bennita began demurely. “I’m sorry, what should I call you?”

“
Baby
would be nice,” Cravitz said.

“We asking our initial investors to pony up what they can—
baby
. Twenty thousand, a hundred,” Bennita Bangs said.

“I’m tapped out at the moment.” He turned to Cash and winked. “But thanks for lookin’ out, big bro.”

Cash got up and shut the blinds. Even in the dim light of the room, Bennita Bangs glowed.

“Oh, I ain’t asking you for money, birthday boy,” Cash said, “We need you t’provide a little sweat equity for the home team.”

Cash walked over to the safe, which was hidden behind a velvet painting of James Brown onstage at the Apollo. He pulled out a money bag and laid it on the table.

“Happy birthday, partner,” Cash said, choking up. Cravitz opened the sack and pulled out a bag of yellow powder. As he turned it in the light the powder took on a gold, metallic glow.

“This is just a one-time deal. Kinda like a crime-
ette
. We make this little nest egg, then
boom
, we back legit.”

Cravitz turned to Bingbong Jackson and said, “Who’d you steal this from, asshole?”

Bingbong protested, “I got this shit legit.”

“I’m counting on you to get the word around. Pass out a taste or two.”

“That little-ass bag of shit go for two-fiddy large, once we cuts it,” Bingbong said.

“I got two words for you,” Cravitz said, fixing his gray eyes on his brother, “Pelican Bay.”

Cash blinked. That stint at Pelican Bay had nearly killed him. When Cravitz stumbled out of there he had called in some chits. Within a decade, the monster—his big brother—had been transformed into an avatar of L.A.’s high society and culture. It was insanity to throw it away.

Cravitz jerked a thumb toward Bingbong Jackson. “I’m ’bout to kick his pindick out of here.”

“You owe me,” Cash said evenly. “You gonna show me love or not?”

“I need some air,” Cravitz said.

Cravitz got back in the T-Bird and called Yippie on the cell phone. “Yes, the broad is there. I’ll get back to you. Remember, keep Cash out of this.”

“You got my word,” Yippie Calzone said.

His birthday was not going well.

At Pico and Dunsmuir, Cravitz pulled into the parking lot of St. Benedict’s. The church was quiet and cool. In the solitude of his meditations, Cravitz began to form an idea. He’d bust into his brother’s vault and remove the dope. Titfor-tat, his brother would have his goons break into his View Park pad and reclaim the contraband.

Cravitz didn’t care. He was determined to do the right thing.

He thanked St. Benedict for the tip.

* * *

The Château Rouge was packed when Cravitz returned. There was one masked face he’d recognize even in a coma—a girl from his past, Athena Powers.

They were a heartbeat from colliding.

He shut his eyes and cheerfully awaited his fate.

Then he felt Athena’s grip on his arms and the soft press of her boobs against his chest.

“Hey! Quick! I almost ran into you. What luck.”

Cravitz stared at Athena Powers with undisguised delight.

“’Member me? Thena? Jordan’s little sister!” she finally exclaimed.

Fuck yeah, I remember you, you gorgeous doll,
he wanted to say, but he just nodded his head and grinned. He had done a year with Jordan Powers at Juvenile Hall when they were thirteen.

“Jordan told me you was a cop or something. Y’must be on a case. Not a damn murder, I hope.”

Athena chattered on, the patrons at the Château Rouge fading around them.

Then Cravitz blurted out, “You sure have grown, Thena.”

“Yeah,” the young woman said, blushing. “I’m an old woman now. Downside of twenty-five and sinking fast.” Athena pulled nervously at her hair. “Oh my god, I must be a wreck. I been runnin’ all day.”

“No, no,” Cravitz said, “you look … cool.” The last time Cravitz had been this close to Athena she was sweet sixteen, and he was twenty—her brother’s hoodlum friend. On that day, while she was giggling among her cousins and dressed in her great-grandmother’s antique silk gown, he saw her budding into womanhood before his eyes.

“You staying at the Château Rouge?”

“Just for the weekend. I write for
Ebony
. Can you believe it? We’re doing a story on black Hollywood. So I figured I might as well catch the Halloween bash at the Château Rouge.”

“You got a date?” Cravitz heard himself asking. “Oh my,” she said. “Are you asking me?”

“‘Might give you a shot,” Cravitz said evenly.

“Y’know, Jordan is still a thug. He’s gonna kick your ass when he hears you’re trying to get with his little sister,” Athena said.

“Jordan don’t want none a this,” Cravitz replied, spreading out his arms above her head and standing the full measure of his 6’5” height. His dark magnificent head hovered over her.

“I’m in room 313,” she said, then disappeared in the crowd.

Cravitz took his usual route, up the rear stairwell to his brother’s private suites ten floors above. He’d watched his brother work the combination many times.

He cracked the safe within minutes, removed a liner from a trash can, and stuffed the dope inside. Then he drove wearily out to the safe house in La Caja.

Yippie was elated when Cravitz arrived. He put the dope in his briefcase. Esmeralda was poised on his nightstand.

“I think we can keep your dumbshit brother out of the slammer this time but you gotta get that Vegas bitch out of there,” Yippie said. “If Vargas finds out Cash is dealing again …”

Cravitz said he would, and told his friend he’d see him in the morning.

Cravitz took the streets home. Halloween decorations were up everywhere. Hollywood was crowded with phony vampires, angels, wolfmen, and movie stars.

Back home in View Park, he changed into his costume—Priest, from
Superfly
, replete with pimp hat, Jheri curl wig, platform shoes, polyester shirt, bell-bottom trousers, and rose-colored shades. Then he picked up Athena Powers, who was dressed as a sexy Belle Starr, with bells on her six guns and spurs, and starry skies painted across her sheer silk blouse.