A Little Yellow Dog

14

Simona Eng lived in the San Fernando Valley with her father, Conrad Eng.

During our lunchtime talks in the maintenance office Simona had told us about her father. Mr. Eng was a tall Chinese gentleman who had come to the United States from Hong Kong when he was only five. His father was already dead from weak lungs and a hard life of labor; his mother was dying. Conrad was raised by Hilda Coke, daughter of a prosperous orange farmer from Pomona. Hilda had met the Engs on board the liner Sea Carnation, a Dutch ship that had a route across the Pacific early in the century. Hilda had found a great deal of pleasure in the playful boy and was heartbroken when, the night before they landed in San Francisco, his mother succumbed to pneumonia in her cramped quarters in the lower decks of the Carnation.

After leaving the home of the Coke family in his late teens Conrad had become a butler. His wife, Irene, was an Italian cook. Conrad only worked until his middle years, when chronic weakness and a mild confusion set in. Early on, Simona’s mother died, leaving her daughter and slightly doddering husband to fend for themselves in the San Fernando Valley.

Their house was small but impeccably well kept. The mums and honeysuckle made me jealous. The oranges were the pride of their race.

“Hello,” Mr. Eng said. He’d come to the door in a full butler’s tux with vest and bow tie. He was two inches taller than I but a full forty pounds lighter. He wavered a little on his feet, reminding me of a reed or a tall stalk of wheat.

“Mr. Eng?”

“Yes,” he said through a bright smile. The question in his eyes found no words.

“Is Simona in, sir? My name is Mr. Rawlins. We work together.”

“She’s very sad today,” he confided in me. “You know children shouldn’t stay in. Old people have to stay out of the sun. But children need it.” His smile was wonderful.

“May I see Simona?”

“Just a moment,” he said. He turned and wandered into the small house.

He left the door open and I came in. I wasn’t spying on Simona but if I happened to see something you couldn’t blame me for that.

All that I saw was beauty. The pale violet walls and sunny green-and-yellow carpets. The furniture was constructed from cherry. There was silver and glass here and there and light coming from every window. Passing a framed mirror on the wall I saw my own smiling face.

“Mr. Rawlins.” Her voice broke the smile.

I turned and said, “Hey, Simona. How are you?”

She was wearing a gray sweatshirt with tight exercise pants and red tennis shoes.

“What are you doing here?” Her father had kept all of the manners to himself.

“The police came to see me this morning.” I decided to keep the lie in place, not knowing whether Jorge had called or not.

“About the killing?”

“About you.”

Simona looked around to see if her father was anywhere near. “Can we go outside, Mr. Rawlins?”

“Sure.”

We cut across the front lawn to an old wooden gate that had a doorway but no door. Ivylike vines made a roof for the corridor that led toward the back of the low house.

The yard was a large plot. It was surrounded by three high walls from the neighbors but was still sunny. The lawn bulged toward the middle; a fake well built from weathered pine was placed at the highest point. Simona sat on the grass near the well and motioned for me to join her.

“Nice place,” I said.

“My dad works around the house all day,” she said. “He likes… doing things more than talking or looking at the TV.”

“Did he decorate from memory?”

“What do you mean?”

“From China?”

“I don’t know really,” she answered, a little perplexed. “He left before he was five. He always says that he doesn’t remember anything, but then…” She looked around her.

I yanked a blade of grass from the lawn.

“What did they say?” she asked. “The police, I mean.”

“That they thought you knew more about that man they found than you said.”

“Why?”

“They didn’t say,” I said. “You know that cop Sanchez has a hard eye.”

Simona shivered and nodded. “I know, but… I don’t see what he could want with me.”

“You don’t have to lie to me, Simona. I already told Jorge that the cops had been asking about you. He told me that you knew that man,” I said. “I told him that I didn’t think you had anything to do with anything anywhere near somebody gettin’ killed. I don’t, but I figured I better come out here and warn you about what they were saying.”

Simona was biting her lip. She shifted her position and I noticed how shapely her legs looked in those close-fitting pants.

She noticed me noticing and shifted into a more modest pose.

“You’re right, Mr. Rawlins,” she said. Maybe it was just to get my eyes back on her face. “I wouldn’t be involved. I hadn’t seen Roman in over a year.”

“Roman?”

“That was his name. He was Mrs. Turner’s brother-in-law.”

“So you really knew him?” I was amazed that a young coed, from this manicured little house, would actually lie to the police.

“He came to one of these parties that Mrs. Turner used to give — more like teas, actually.”

“Who would go to those parties?” I asked. “I mean, were there other people from the school there?”

“Mr. Langdon went,” she said and then she frowned. “Miss Charford and Miss Hollings too — Mr. Preston came once. She used to have them every six weeks or so, but that was a long time ago.”

“How come she stopped?”

Simona let the lids of her eyes get heavy, so they almost closed — that was her way of getting dramatic.

“It was after Roman came,” she said. “Idabell’s husband brought him to that first tea but pretty soon Roman was having parties of his own. Holland didn’t want to have the teas anymore, he wanted to go to Roman’s parties.”

“I guess Roman didn’t have finger sandwiches, huh?”

“No,” she said softly. “They would smoke marijuana sometimes. I mean, I never did, I only had some wine, but some of them would. And Roman… well, Roman…”

“How well did you know him?” It was the right question at the right moment.

“He spoke French,” she said as if that should have explained everything. “He was very sweet. At least he was at first. But then, when I couldn’t help him, he just dropped me. If it wasn’t for Jorge I don’t know what I would have done. I couldn’t eat or work…”

“What did he want?” I heard my voice. It was softer than chamois cloth.

“Huh?”

“Roman. What did he want from you?”

“I don’t know. He liked it that I spoke French. At first I thought he was lonely for that. His parents spoke French in the house when he was a boy. But then he wanted me to go to Paris with him. He said that I could study at the Sorbonne. I told him that I couldn’t go. He said that if I wanted to be a teacher it would help a lot if I studied in Europe. But I told him that I couldn’t leave my father alone for even a week. And that we needed my salary.”

“So what’d he say to that?”

“He said that he’d come up with the money I needed. That scared me and I said no. We went out a few times after that but then he just never called again.”

“Where did Roman have his parties?” I asked.

That was one question too many. Simona looked into my eyes wondering if I might not have a reason for being out there; a reason of my own.

“I don’t remember,” she said. “I never drove. Different places, you know.”

A large jay landed on the ground near us. She cocked her head in our direction and then proceeded to gouge an earthworm from the lawn.

“Can I get you something, Mr. Rawlins?” Simona asked.

I could see her father, in his butler’s suit, standing inside the back door of the house. He was watching us. Suddenly I got the impression that the simple-headed old man had an antique pistol in his pocket. All I had to do was grab Simona trying to make her tell me where the parties were held. I’d grab her and he’d squeeze off a lucky shot that would lodge in my brain. It would be ruled self-defense; a father saving his daughter from rape out by the old fake well.

“When will you be coming back in to work?” I asked.

“Tomorrow,” she said. “Mr. Rawlins?”

“Yeah.” I stood up.

“Do you think that the police knew that I was at those pot parties?”

“No. But if there were other teachers from the school around there, then you better tell the sergeant that you were there. Tell him that you were in shock when you saw your old boyfriend and that you couldn’t bring yourself to say that you knew’im. Sanchez won’t like it but in the long run it’ll be better for you.”

“You really think so?” the young woman asked.

“Uh-huh. And, Simona?”

“Yes, Mr. Rawlins?”

“The cops’d be mad if they knew I came down here to warn you. Maybe you shouldn’t mention it.”

She looked at me and nodded. But who knew what she thought?