A Little Yellow Dog

15

I’m a book reader. There’s always a book on my night-stand; sometimes more than one. At that time I was reading Dr. No by Ian Fleming and The Earth by Emile Zola.

I love literature but the phone book was still my favorite reading. It was the ledger of my world. Holland and Roman Gasteau were right next to each other in the G’s. They were born one after the other, in school they were seated in the same row. Their mother probably dressed them the same and they died on the same day.

Roman lived in an apartment building down on La Brea, not too far from my house. I drove by in the late afternoon. It was a great block of a building with two police cars parked out front. I even saw the back of Sanchez’s head in the open arcade that led to the atrium.

I drove on, trying to think of a way into Roman’s life.

Jesus and Feather weren’t at the house when I got there. Usually he’d go to her school after practice and bring her home. Sometimes I’d pick her up. Feather loved it when I came by the school. I liked meeting her. But I had to pass that day. I sat down and tried to think out the problem. Did Holland really threaten to kill Pharaoh? If he did, was that why his brother came to the school? Why did Idabell leave? And why lie about the dog?

The dog?

Where was that damned dog? I still planned to get rid of him. I had softened up a little, though. My new plan was to take him out to my old friend Primo. Primo would know somebody who wanted a dog.

I got up and looked around the house. There was no sign of him anywhere except for a small gift he’d left on my slipper. It was a dry turd so I figured that he’d done it in the morning.

He wasn’t in the yard. Or, if he had been, he’d slipped out through the bushes into the Horns’ property.

I was about to go next door when it struck me — why was I looking for that damn dog? He didn’t know anything, and if he did know, and he could talk, he wouldn’t have told me. That dog hated me more than any other solitary being ever had.

An hour later I had a plan.

Feather came running in the front door.

“Daddy, Daddy, Daddy!”

Pharaoh dashed in at her heels. He was yelping happily until he saw me. Then he crouched down and growled. Jesus walked in over him.

“Hi, Dad,” my son said.

“Where’d that dog come from?” I asked Feather. I could tell that my voice had a sharp edge because a scared look came over her face.

“We left him over with Mr. Horn,” Jesus said. “He was crying so much this morning when we were leaving that Feather wanted to take him to school. But then I said that maybe Mr. Horn wouldn’t mind.”

“That’s an awful lot to ask of your neighbor,” I said.

“Uh-uh,” Feather whined. “Mr. Horn like Frenchie. He said so, huh, Juice?”

Jesus nodded. He looked at me and then looked away. There was still that money in the box upstairs to talk about. But Jesus was too afraid to bring it up — so was I.

I let them settle in. Pharaoh followed me around the house staying at the corners and watching my every move. That dog got under my skin.

After a while I said to Jesus, “Take that ole wagon’a Feather’s and go on down to Mr. Hong’s shop. Get me a box of steaks. Two-pound porterhouse steaks. The aged stuff. Tell’im t’put’em on my bill.”

Jesus nodded and went to get the wagon from the garage.

“Honey,” I said to Feather.

“Yeah?” She was watching Pharaoh watch me. “Frenchie like you, Daddy.”

“Oh? Why you say that?”

“ ’Cause he always wanna look at you.”

That devil dog had everybody fooled but me.

“Honey,” I said again.

“Uh-huh.”

“You know I would keep little heartache here if I could. But he belongs to somebody else who loves him even more than you do.”

“I’ll feed him, Daddy. I’ll build him a house in the backyard.”

“But honey, it’s not that. I know that you’d take care of him. But he’s not ours. Do you understand that?”

“Yeah,” she said through pouting lips. “Can I go play now?”

“Don’t you want to tell me what happened in school today?”

“No. I wanna go play with Frenchie.”

Mr. Hong sent a few bottles of barbecue sauce along with the steaks. He had no idea of how devious my mind was at that time.

The police cars were gone from in front of Roman Gasteau’s building by the time I returned. I took the white carton of steaks from the trunk of my car and went into the external entranceway through a corridor of coral-colored plaster. Once inside I went from door to door. The inner walls of the atrium were also coral. They shone from electric lights and doors that opened on evening TVs. There was talking and music and shows playing. In the courtyard children darted and screamed among the rubber plants and dwarf palms.

My plan was simple. I was Brad Koogan, a name borrowed from a friend who died at the Battle of the Bulge. Brad was going from one apartment to another trying to sell two-pound porterhouse steaks for a dollar each. He got the steaks from a truck driver friend of his. My reasoning ran like this: If somebody thought that I stole those steaks but they were still willing to do business with me, then they might know something about Roman and the circles he ran in.

Nobody answered the first door I knocked on. Maybe they weren’t home or maybe they got a peep of me and decided that I was bad news.

The next door was answered by an elderly black woman in a red-and-black-checkered robe. Thick bifocals dangled from her neck on a fake pearl necklace. She was small and almost bald.

“Yes, mistah?” Her nearly toothless smile was down-home friendly.

I hesitated for a moment because she was so old and frail. But the street is a wild place and compassion there is more dear than gold. I had to ask myself was this woman worth that much to me.

My answer went like this:

“Hi. My name is Brad Koogan. I’m sellin’ porterhouse steaks, two pounds each at a dollar apiece.”

“Hi. My name’s Celia,” she said. “But, Mr. Koogan, I ain’t tackled a steak in over ten years.”

“Celia,” a man’s voice called from the back of the apartment.

When he came into view I saw that he was the male version of her, checkered robe and all.

“Celia,” he said again.

“Yes, Carl,” she answered, slightly perturbed. “I hear ya.”

“Who is it?” he asked, looking right at me.

“Brad Koogan, sir,” I said. “I’m sellin’ steaks.”

“I don’t buy my meat offa the street, mistah,” he said.

He was gruff but I liked him anyway. Celia was smiling at her man. I lost heart then.

“I’m sorry, sir,” I said. “I’ll move on.”

“What’s your name again?” Celia asked.

“Koogan,” I said. “Brad Koogan.”

“We’re the Blanders,” she told me.

It was an apology for her husband’s rude behavior. I thought that when I’d gone they’d spend a good two hours enjoying themselves arguing back and forth about how she shouldn’t have opened the door to a stranger and how he should learn to be more courteous to people.

I steeled myself to be more ruthless from then on.

The next few doors were closed politely in my face. I was happy to know that there were so many honest people in the world but at the same time it cut into my ability to exploit the situation. I knew that some of the people who closed their doors would call the landlord and ask him to keep hustlers away from them and their kids. If he was a good landlord, like I hoped that I was, he would come down to see what was going on — or he would call the cops.

I had no desire to talk to the police, so I hurried on my way.

Cassandra Vincent wanted three steaks but she didn’t know anyone who lived in the apartment building.

Butch Mayhew wanted me to give him a sampler before he’d agreed to buy. When I told him no he tried to convince me by saying, “I’ll buy all of ’em if the one I taste ain’t tough.”

I wasn’t fooled by Butch. He’d try to get me to leave him a steak to taste. If I refused he’d offer to cook it up right then and there. At least he’d get a few bites in.

“You wanna taste, huh?” I asked.

“Yeah.” Butch had something wrong with his back. His chest jutted forward and his stomach hollowed back toward his spine as if someone were trying to tickle him. He wore a tattered T-shirt and striped boxer shorts.

“You could leave me a small one and go on,” he said. “An’ when you come back around I’ll buy what you got left — if the one I et is tender.”

“That’s okay,” I said. “I’ll cook it for ya. Just show me the stove an’ I’ll burn it right now.”

Butch had a two-burner Phillips-Regent gas stove. It was so crusty and greasy I was surprised that the jet caught the flame from my match. I had to fry the steak because the oven was beyond repair.

“Smells good,” Butch said as he inhaled fumes of burning flesh.

“You live here long?” I asked.

“’Bout six months. But I’ll be gone two weeks after the first.”

“Eviction day?”

Butch grinned and cocked his head.

“Say,” I said. “Tell me, did Roman Gasteau live here?”

“Still do. Or maybe so. I ain’t seen’im in a few days.”

“You know’im?”

“To say hi. Hey, hey, why’ont you flip it ovah, you know I likes my meat bloody.”

“Uh-huh. You got some garlic powder?”

“Naw, man.”

I followed the crippled man’s gaze over to the kitchen shelf. There I saw a crumpled-up handkerchief, a can of Barbasol shaving cream, an uncovered jar of Skippy peanut butter, and a loaf of Wonder Bread.

“I used to run with Roman a while back,” I said. “He give some bad parties.”

“Yeah?” Butch wondered. “He ain’t never asked me. But he live down in one-B if you wanna run down there an’ see ’im.”

“Uh-huh. But if he ain’t there you think anybody ’round here might know how I could get in touch wit’ him? You know I could use a party after pullin’ all’a this meat around after me.”

“Ridley an’ them know’im.”

“He live here?”

“Up in three-A.”

I could tell by the way Butch was looking at me that he was suspicious of my questions. But the main thing on his mind was steak.

I put the pan of fried and bloody meat down in front of him. It smelled good.

I was impressed at the way Butch made Mr. Hong’s tender aged steak seem tough. He chewed and chewed, frowned and grimaced.

“Hey, brother,” he said through a mouthful of meat. “This shit here ain’t prime.”

He wanted to play, and so I gave him a show. I banged on his tile counter and swore at him and all his relations. After I got through yelling I stormed out of his apartment leaving the partially eaten steak in his frying pan.

He’d earned the tip.

Ridley McCoy was a nondescript man. His hair was wavy and his eyes tended toward brown. He had a small nose and dark skin. His pants could have fit with a sports jacket but he could have also worn them to work; they went perfectly with his thin-strapped undershirt. Ridley wouldn’t look me in the eye but I knew that he was interested in cheap steak.

“Where you get’em?” he asked my chin.

“From a guy I know.”

“Could you get some more?” Here he hadn’t even tasted one steak and he already wanted a dozen.

“Maybe I could. Why? You wanna be a regular customer?”

Ridley looked from side to side and then said, “Why’ont you come on in outta earshot.”

His furniture, I was sure, was stolen from a motel. The console TV still had the markings from where a coin box had been attached. There was a small Formica-topped table that stood on a single chrome stalk in the corner. The battered Venetian blinds were levered shut and there was only one lamp, leaving the room uncomfortably dark.

One half-open door led from the room. Maybe that was a bedroom, or maybe he slept on the couch.

“How many steaks could you get?” he asked in a whispery little voice. It was the kind of voice that got you mad because you had to strain to hear it.

“I cain’t hear you, man,” I said loudly. “Somebody ’sleep in there?”

Ridley looked at the door and then back at my chin.

“Girlfriend,” he said.

“Well, maybe I better come back later.”

“Naw, man. That’s okay. She could wake up,” he said. Then he shouted, “Penny! Penny, come in here!”

I heard a rustling and then a thump; a few seconds passed and then came a groan. Soon after that the door opened. A young brown woman wearing only a man’s dress shirt came into the room. When she saw that Ridley wasn’t alone she brought two fingers to the base of her throat — I guess that was all the modesty she had left.

“Wha?”

“This is Brad, Penny. He got some steaks he wanna sell.”

“So? I was ’sleep.”

Ridley went to his roommate and gave her a big unfriendly hug. The tussle pulled the shirt far up enough for me to see that she didn’t have anything on underneath. Neither of them seemed to care what I saw.

“Why’ont you bring out some wine, baby,” Ridley said to her.

Penny went back into the bedroom and turned on a light. I could see her, through the now open door, go into another room. She returned with a quart of Black Wren red wine and a small stack of Dixie cups. She set the cups and wine on a small motel coffee table and sat down on the couch, pulling her bare feet up under her thighs.

There was a time I would have walked across fire for a woman like that. I could still feel the heat.

“Come on, girl,” Ridley complained. “Cain’t you pour it?”

“Pour it your damn self,” she replied. “I was ’sleep.”

Ridley did the honors and said to me, “Sit’own.”

I perched myself across from the man and his mate. Penny had a broad face and hair that would never let you know where it was going. Her lips were there to curse, kiss, or complain. And her widely spaced eyes saw a spectrum of light that most men never suspected existed.

“Mr. Koogan here is sellin’ steaks,” Ridley said to Penny. Then to me, “How many more steaks can you get?”

“How many can you eat?”

“I was thinkin’ that I could sell some. I know just about ev’rybody in this buildin’. The one across the street too. Maybe I could go partners wit’ you if you could get enough steak.”

That was business in L.A. An opportunity comes and you make a grab for it. Ridley didn’t know a thing about me, or my steaks, but he was willing to cement a partnership anyway. He was on me faster than I got to Idabell.

“Well, that sounds good,” I said tentatively. “How many you want?”

Ridley’s eyes almost met mine, he was that excited. Penny yawned and I wondered if there were any black dentists in L.A.

“I bet I could sell fifty’a them, if they really prime, in two, three days.”

“Fifty?” I was impressed.

“Yeah,” Ridley said.

Penny’s gaze rolled across me. She had no idea what we were talking about but she was still an important part of the negotiations.

“Well,” I said, doing the numbers in my head. “You gimme thirty-five dollars an’ we got a deal.”

“Thirty-five dollars!”

I was surprised that he could shout.

“Yep,” I said. “That give you a profit of fifteen when you sell’em.”

“Uh-uh, man. I’m the one gonna be doin’ all the work. I should get at least half.”

I tried to look like I was upset but at the same time greedy to have a man out there doing my sales.

“Okay,” I said. “Fifty-fifty.”

“When could you bring’em by?”

“I could get’em by tomorrow. But I’ma need my money.”

“What money?”

“Twenty-fi’e dollars for fifty steaks.”

“You get that when I sell’em.”

I shook my head, a somber man of experience. “No, brother. Uh-uh. I tried that once. Actually that’s why I’m here at your buildin’.” I held my breath.

“What’s that?” he asked.

“Dude name’a Roman owe me some money. Right after I unload these steaks I’ma go down to Roman’s place an’ have me a talk wit’ that man.” I stroked my chin and looked menacing.

“Roman gone.” That was Penny. The mention of the Gasteau brother had gotten her to sit up.

“Moved?”

“I’ont know,” Penny said. “Cops come here today askin’ ’bout him. They took everything outta his place in bags.”

I slammed my hand down on the table so hard that both of my hosts jumped. “Goddam!”

After he settled a little Ridley asked, “He owe you a lotta money?”

“Fi’e hunnert dollars. Is that a lot?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

“You know where I could find him?” I asked Penny.

She cut a glance at Ridley and said, “No.”

I could see that Ridley was torn between greed and jealousy. He wasn’t a bad-looking man but he wasn’t tall and handsome; he didn’t wear snakeskin shoes. I was sure that Penny had given Roman the eye, and maybe even a little bit more of her anatomy. Ridley didn’t want to bring that man into their motel-decorated home. But one thing I was certain of — Ridley would have dropped Penny in a minute if there was a dollar to be made.

“What about that place?” he asked her.

“What place?”

“That place I told you not to go to no mo’.”

“I thought you didn’t even wanna talk about that,” she said, sneering at her man, moving her head from side to side in a disdainful rhythm. “I thought you said that you was gonna tear my head off if I ever even said somethin’ about it.”

“And now I’m sayin’ t’tell the man here!” Ridley was asserting himself.

Penny turned to me. “There’s a club up in the Hollywood Hills,” she said. “The Chantilly. It’s a white club but the man who run it got a place around back for black — the Black Chantilly. It’s a big house and a private club like. They got a room for dancin’ an’ one for gamblin’. They got private rooms too—”

“An’ what the hell was you doin’ up there?”

Ridley was up on his feet. He swung at her with an open hand and missed, on purpose it seemed to me, over the top of her head. Penny screamed and went down on the floor, ducking under the low coffee table.

“You said you wanted me t’tell’im where Roman was!” Penny shouted. “I didn’t say nuthin’!”

“You the one said he was gone!” Ridley swung at the air again. “Maybe you know where he went to!”

“Noooo!”

“Hey! Hey, Ridley,” I said, using his name for the first time since he’d given it. “Hey, man. You wanna talk about them steaks?”

Ridley took a deep breath. Penny looked up at him and he jerked his hand like he meant to swing again, but he just wanted to see her flinch one more time.

“Hey, man,” he said to me. “Sorry, but you know this here bitch just don’t ack right. She gonna lay up on her ass wit’ me payin’ the rent, an’ then got the nerve t’be winkin’ at some fancy-assed mothahfuckah upstairs. She lucky I don’t kill both they ass!”

Penny crouched down further.

“Get the hell outta here, bitch!” Ridley screamed at her. “Why the fuck you come out here near naked in front’a some strange man?”

Penny moved quickly, staying close to the floor as she went. She made it to the bedroom, slamming the door behind her.

Ridley was staring at the closed door.

“Women like to drive a man crazy,” he said.

“Don’t you know it,” I agreed, hoping to calm him down. “I’ll tell you what I’ll do, brother.”

“What?”

“I’ll leave these nine steaks here wit’ you tonight and then I’ll come back tomorrow with fifty more. You gimme the four dollars and fifty cent an’ then I’ll come back for the balance in two more days.”

I handed the box over to him and he took it. He let his gaze ride high for a moment to catch a glimpse of my eyes.

“What you doin’ here, man?” he asked.

“Sellin’ steaks an’ lookin’ for a man wear snakeskin shoes.”

“You gonna hurt him?”

“If I can,” I said. “If I can.”