A Little Yellow Dog

32

I didn’t know about Bill Preston. Maybe he was honestly too afraid to handle those letters. Maybe he thought that they might get lost in the mails or misunderstood by a self-confident Sanchez.

Maybe he killed Idabell and he knew that the postmark would be after her death.

None of that mattered though. I wanted to read those letters and so I took them.

I bolted the fire door, intending to burn the letters if anyone tried to break in on me.

Then I sat down to read. The first letter was in the lovely hand of Idabell Turner. The words were barely contained by the blue lines of the classroom essay paper. It was dated on the morning we made love.

Holland’s letter was also handwritten, printed actually. The script was larger than in the note I’d found in his wallet but there was still that angry slashing slant to his words. He’d used such force with his ballpoint that the paper was torn in spots.

The letter wasn’t signed but I was sure that it was genuine. I was also sure that he’d meant every word. He loved his wife; he wanted her to happily be his slave; he would kill her if she didn’t accept her role.

Idabell had waited a month too long to run away. She should have done it on the night she got that letter. The minute the pistol appeared on that page it was bound to go off.

I folded the letters and put them in my pocket. There was no reason to give them to the police. They didn’t prove a thing that would help me.

I had completely forgotten about Ace when he caught up with me on my way to the parking lot and Mouse’s car.

“Mr. Rawlins,” he called from far off. “Mr. Rawlins.”

I watched the small man approach me across the blacktop. He took the baseball cap from his head when he reached me.

“Mr. Rawlins, I have something to talk to you about.”

“Is it important, Ace? I got things on my mind.”

“I think so.”

“What, then?”

“Newgate called me to his office yesterday. When I went there he was with that Sergeant Sanchez fellah. They, uh, they started asking all kinds of questions about you, Mr. Rawlins. They wanted me to be a Benedict Arnold and give you away. Sanchez wondered if there was anything I could tell him about you.”

“Like what?”

“If you stole something, maybe. If you broke the rules with some of the children.”

“Naw.” I believed it but I didn’t want to.

“Yes, sir. But I told them that I didn’t know a thing except that you were the best boss I ever had.” There was passion in his voice that I’d never heard from him before.

“Well thanks, Ace, uh, thank you.”

“But I mean it, Mr. Rawlins. I’ve worked for a lotta people down here in Los Angeles. And up until you I didn’t have much use for them. The way they put a hand on your shoulder and pat you like you weren’t no more than a dog. The way they tell you things like they knew it all and you were just stupid. But I like you, Mr. Rawlins, because you make it a good place and when people get harsh you don’t come down on me even if I did something wrong. Like that time I left the window in the electric shop open. All you told Mr. Sutton was that it was a mistake. You told him that you allow for mistakes.”

I had forgotten the incident. I had misjudged Ace. What else had I lost or missed?

“So I’m gonna tell you something, Mr. Rawlins,” Ace said. “You know I don’t talk to the cops much. I mean, they’re okay for traffic and like that but if you start testifying the police will find some reason to turn it around on you.”

I had never heard him say as much in the whole time he’d worked for me.

“I won’t tell the cops, but I’ll tell you just in case it means something to ya.”

“What’s that, Ace?”

“That man who was killed in the garden. He had a key to the fence. I seen’im go into the garden four or five weeks ago. It was that week I was opening up early for you. You know I came in a whole two hours early because I was so nervous that I’d get something wrong. I didn’t dare do the boiler without going through all the steps of bleeding it out first. Anyway, that’s when I saw him.”

“Why didn’t you say something?”

“If something happened I would have, but I didn’t know. I didn’t want to get into any trouble if nothing was wrong.”

All the times I distrusted Ace, all the times I saw his respect as guile — now all I saw was a kindred spirit; a man trod on by his history, his poverty. A man who knew that the people in power wouldn’t notice his broken bones, or if they did, they would blame him for his own misery.

I put out my hand and said, “Thanks, man.”