A Little Yellow Dog

18

All this ain’t over no dog,” I said.

We were driving south and west toward B. Shay’s apartment house. Pharaoh was so excited to be with Idabell that he was leaping around the car and barking. I had to stop the car and make her put him in his cage.

“All what, Easy?” she asked.

“Your husband, your brother-in-law.”

“I don’t know what happened,” she said, rising a little from her dozing posture. “For about three weeks Holland was really upset. He was mad and said terrible things to me. You know I’m from a good family, I’m not used to men using language the way he did. And then he was mad at Pharaoh. It’s true. I left because he wanted to kill my little baby.”

“What was he mad about?” I asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe it was something with a business deal he had with Roman.”

“What kind of business were they in?”

“Roman was a gambler. He didn’t have a real job. He did business ventures now and then but mainly he gambled. He played in Gardena and Reno and Vegas.”

“And what about Holland?” I asked.

“I loved him,” she said. “I mean he was kind and sweet. We’d go out to a movie and then walk back to his house speaking to each other in French. My parents are Guianese but I learned French in school because I came here so young. Holly came when he was a child too but he learned French at home. Sometimes we’d talk all night long. He loved it that I was a teacher. He was proud of me. He’d take me everywhere and say to everybody that I was an educator and that I worked among black children to educate them.”

A police car moved up alongside of us as we went. The cop in the passenger’s seat shone a powerful flashlight on me and then on Idabell. He turned to his partner, they said a few words, and the car turned off onto the next cross street.

“He sounds nice,” I said. “What did he do for a living?”

“He managed paper routes in Hollywood.”

“What?”

“He used to get up early in the morning and go down to his paper shack on Olympic and prepare the paper boys for their bicycle routes. He had six boys doing morning routes, seven in the afternoon, and three who did street sales. He did the whole Sunday route on his own with two helpers.”

“Used to? He give it up?”

“Then Roman came,” Idabell said. “Holly quit after he saw how flashy Roman was with his deals and his gambling.”

“Holland get into that line’a work?”

“He didn’t know what he wanted to do. One day he was going to trade the T-bird in for a Cadillac and go into the limousine business; the next day he was going to be a musician. Roman killed Holland.”

“He did?”

“I don’t know if he actually did it, but when Roman came to town Holly went crazy. He would have done anything to outdo his brother.”

“That’s how come they were dressed like each other?”

“It was only since Roman came,” the schoolteacher said again. “Roman always wore snakeskin shoes and one of three tweed coats, or a black jacket. After Holly saw how he lived he bought the same things, he even spent four hundred dollars on shoes. I told him that he shouldn’t try to copy his brother. But he just told me that the same clothes looked better on him. They were identical twins but Holly was always saying that he was taller and more handsome.”

“Sounds crazy,” I said.

Idabell didn’t deny it.

“Roman really wasn’t a bad guy. He was full of himself though — Holly hated that. He wanted everybody to look at him the way they looked at Roman.”

“But you said that they worked together.”

Ida’s face flashed hard for a moment but then turned soft and tired again. She shook her head and blinked twice before saying, “I don’t know anything about that.”

“Were they close as kids?”

She nodded lazily. “Roman was two minutes older than Holland. Their parents came to Philadelphia from Guiana. When I met Holland, Roman was in the army, stationed in Europe.

“The first time I ever met Roman was here in L.A. That’s when Holly got all crazy. He wanted to go to parties all the time. There’d be drugs, people were having sex in the bedrooms right on top of our coats.” She was waking up with the memory. “Holly said that there was nothing wrong with it. I wanted him to stay at home but he went anyway. And if I didn’t go with him he’d come home smelling of women’s perfume. Either that or he smelled like soap because he’d taken a shower somewhere.”

“Did Simona Eng and Mr. Langdon come to any of these parties?”

“Simona came to protect me.” Idabell smiled. “I had her come to a couple of teas I gave for the teachers. We became friends. I told her how upset I was about going out with Roman and Holly and she tried to come along. I think that she was kinda stuck on Roman for a little while there. But after a couple of parties she convinced me that I should keep away.”

I had just turned onto B. Shay’s street. The architects who planned the apartment buildings that dominated the block didn’t seem to think that their future tenants would be driving cars. There were very few buildings that even had garages and those that did certainly didn’t have enough space. The curbs were packed with cars all down the street. I had to park almost a full block away.

“What about Langdon?” I asked before moving to open the door. “What’s his story?”

“I don’t know,” she said, her tone begging me to stop asking questions. “Roman met him at the same tea that Simona came to. Roman liked talking to people. He started taking Casper to a private black club that they went to behind the Chantilly Club.”

I had cajoled and lulled enough. The time had come to get serious.

“All right now, I’ve heard you out, Idabell. I can see that there was something wrong with your old man and that he pushed you — hard.”

The schoolteacher was fully awake now.

“And I’m willing to help you,” I continued. “But I need to know some things first.”

“Anything,” she said.

“Did you kill Holland or Roman? And if you didn’t, do you know who did?”

“No,” she said with certainty.

“No to all of it?”

“Yes,” she said. “I know nothing about them getting killed.”

“All right,” I said. “All right. What about this thing Holland made you do? What about that?”

“I can’t say anything about that, Easy. Don’t ask me.”

“That’s okay too, but if you can’t help me then I’m gonna have to help myself.”

“What do you mean?”

“That I will drive you down to the police station if I don’t get some kind of satisfaction that you aren’t tied up in a murder.”

“But I told you…”

“What you say doesn’t make any sense, Mrs. Turner. You’re so upset that you’re crying, you’re willing to throw away your whole profession by bein’ with me in your classroom, and then the next thing anybody knows your brother-in-law is dead in the garden, your husband has been murdered, and you’re on the run. All that an’ you don’t know nuthin’?”

“There’s nothing to say,” she said. “Nothing that has to do with the murders.”

“If that’s all you have to say then I’m gonna drive us down to the police station.”

“Why? It’s not your problem. You haven’t done anything.”

“But that’s what an honest man is supposed to do,” I said. “If there’s something wrong he’s supposed to stand up and say, ‘Look here,’ and tell what he knows. If he can’t do that then his whole life falls apart, it just falls apart. Now I’ve given you a chance. I took your dog and I came out here to meet you. You’re a beautiful woman, Idabell, but that don’t mean I got to go to war for you.”

“I thought you liked me,” she said. It was her last attempt.

“I do like you. I wanna help. It’s no good for you to get on a bus and run. The cops will find you. And if you run they’ll prove you guilty. That’s what cops do best. If they think you’re guilty then makin’ up evidence is just cuttin’ corners for them. Believe me.” I paused to let my arguments settle in. Then I said, “What did your husband have you do?”

“He had me bring something from Paris.”

“Bring what?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean? How can you get something and not know what it is?”

“It was in a box. He didn’t tell me what was in it. He said that it was better if I didn’t know. I just picked it up at a place that he told me to go to and then I brought it back. If I hadn’t done it he would have killed Pharaoh.”

“Why you? Why Paris?”

Idabell turned her head and motioned up the block. “Bonnie’s a flight attendant. She got me a ticket. I told her that I wanted to go shopping in Paris with her. That’s what Holly told me to do. And then one day, when she was off with her friends, I went to the address that Holly said to go to.”

“She didn’t know?”

“No. Not until we got back. I told her then because I knew it was wrong. I wouldn’t have done it for anyone but Pharaoh.”

“So if you did everything he wanted, why did you run?”

“He was wrong,” she blurted. The tears came freely. “I never wanted to see him again.”

I put my arms around her. I needed to hold on to someone.

“It’s okay,” I said. “It’s okay. What we need to do is get you a lawyer.”

“A lawyer? Why?”

“Because,” I said, “you need to tell the police this story. A good lawyer can make you look like his victim. Really you were. And then, if they can figure out what it was that you brought back, they can solve the murders.” I didn’t add that I would be out of it and that Sanchez would have another trail to follow.

“Will you help?” she asked in my ear.

“I sure will.” I pulled away from her then. Her whisper reminded me of other things; things I knew I should leave behind.

She smiled at me. “Thank you.”

“No problem.”

“Will you take this note up to Bonnie’s? She’s not there. She won’t be back from her flight until later in the morning. But at least she’ll find this.”

“Maybe you better keep it,” I suggested. “You know this thing with the cops could be kinda tricky. You don’t want to incriminate yourself.”

“I can trust Bonnie. Anyway, the letter says that I’m sorry, that’s all.”

She kissed my lips. Her lipstick tasted like chemicals.

I took the note in hand. She smiled and then leaned toward the window, huddling against the damp chill that had settled in the car. I walked down the street angling my umbrella against the wind and rain. I went up the stairs and down the hall to Miss Shay’s apartment. But I didn’t shove the letter under the door; I put it in my pocket instead. Idabell didn’t understand that you had no friends once you’d gone across the line from the law. But I’d help her.

I was happy walking alone and making my own decisions. I knew a lawyer. She didn’t care for me much but she knew her job better than most. I was free for the first time since I’d met the little yellow dog.

As I walked back down the block to my car I saw a man walking in the opposite direction across the street. He wasn’t wearing a raincoat or even a hat; that’s why, I figured, he was moving so fast through the rain.

Idabell was still resting against the passenger’s window.

“I left it,” I said.

She didn’t answer me. Pharaoh began whimpering. He wasn’t hungry for company but truly sad in his cage.

I remembered the man running down the street.

That was when I knew Idabell was dead.

She’d been shot twice in the temple, right through the window. No pulse, no breath. Her eyes were open. There was very little blood.

I don’t know how long I sat there looking at her. Pharaoh whimpered and I tried to get myself moving. But where was I going to go? I wanted something to happen: Idabell to rise as she had before from her friend’s floor; a shot to punctuate her death; anything but the pelting rain and the dog’s cries.

I drove off in a kind of daze. At first I looked for the man who’d been running. He’d disappeared, though. He might have turned left or right at the corner but I was in no condition, or position, to execute a thorough search.

There were thoughts in my head; things that I had to do. But anything I had to think about fled when I tried to catch it. Fragments of final words and prayers went through. The address of a hospital on Santa Monica Boulevard was there.

She was dead. I knew dead from World War Two. I knew dead. What I should have done was to pull into an alley and throw her into the street. That’s what I needed to do. If I reported the crime the cops would have me up on charges with the first waking judge.

I drove on while Pharaoh sang his dirge.

Finally we came to a small park that was partially secluded by a hedge. I drove up into an alley behind the park and turned to Idabell.

I tried to think of anything she might have carried that pointed to me. In her purse I found my phone number on a piece of paper. I rummaged through the bag and took out all the papers I found and her pocket phone book. Then I looked through her clothes.

The whole time I kept breathing slowly to keep my mind clear. There were no pockets on her, no identifying tags that I could see.

It was almost four. I had to act. I got out of my side and went to open her door. A gentleman, I took her out as gently as I could and lifted her as if we were dancing. She was heavy, not like in room C2.

I walked her to the park bench and laid her out there in the dark and leafy alcove. The rain muffled Pharaoh’s cries.

When I got back into the car I lowered her window so that nobody would see the bullet holes. I didn’t care if the seat got wet. Three blocks away, across the street from the hospital, I called them and reported the body in the park. My voice caught as I repeated the words to the dispatcher. Then I hung up and hurried away.

All the way back down Pico Boulevard, Pharaoh was yowling; Idabell’s death was alive in his senses and my mind.

I stopped at a closed gas station past La Cienega and busted out the passenger’s window. There was a large trash bin, almost filled with refuse, near the toilets. I tore up her driver’s license and Board of Ed ID and sprinkled the confetti around. I rubbed off the purse as well as I could, leaving three hundred and some odd dollars. I figured that even if anyone found the purse they’d think twice before turning it in with no ID and a three-hundred-dollar windfall.

I buried the purse and tattered IDs as far as I could.

It was when I was getting back into the car that I noticed the croquet set was missing from the backseat.

I parked in front of my house and let Pharaoh out of his cage. He sniffed and sniffed at Idabell’s seat, whining and begging to be reunited with her. After a few minutes I picked him up and carried him into the house.

It was the only time we didn’t express hatred or disdain for each other.

That’s because we were both in mourning and on the verge of seeking our own separate brands of revenge.