Little Scarlet

4

The tall man led Captain Fleck and me into an office that had a sign on it saying DR. TURNER, M.D. We left the third white man and Suggs in the colorless hallway.

Turner’s office was a welcome relief. There was an orange-and-blue carpet, a brown desk, and four splashy landscapes on the wall.

And there was a test there for us. The room had three chairs: one behind the desk and two in front. The tall man went to the guest chair on the left. Captain Fleck turned toward the doctor’s chair, but I was closer. I cut him off, taking the padded swivel chair for myself.

Fleck stood over me and stared down, waiting for me to give up the preferred seat.

It was crazy. All of it. I never did anything like that when involved with the intricate dance necessary to keep out of trouble with the law. I rarely spoke around white men with authority. I never willingly said anything intelligent. And to go so far as to tease a cop—that wasn’t even me.

But there I was, sitting back in the head man’s chair with Captain Fleck staring death down on my head.

“Sit down, Lee,” the tall white man said.

For a moment Fleck remained motionless.

“Lee.”

He faltered and I smiled. If we were alone he would have drawn his pistol, I’m sure. But all he could do was obey his master’s call. It’s no wonder I always order sweet and sour when I go to a Chinese restaurant. You can’t enjoy the pleasures of one without at least the presence of the other.

When we were all seated and comfortable the tall white man said, “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Rawlins. My name is Jordan, Gerald Jordan.”

“You’re the deputy chief,” I said, remembering at last, “the one in charge of the curfew.”

“That’s right. But the curfew has been lifted. Everybody can go where they want when they want as long as they obey the law.”

Deputy Commissioner Jordan was a terror on the TV. He called the rioters thugs and criminals who had no respect for property and no reason to riot other than their own immoral desires to loot and destroy. Jordan’s inflammatory words had probably caused the violence to last a day longer than it would have. On television he always wore a black dress uniform with medals across the left breast. That’s why I hadn’t recognized him in the makeshift morgue.

“Well, Deputy Commissioner, what is it you want from me?”

“I’m not here, Mr. Rawlins,” he said.

“No? Am I here?”

“Not with me. As far as any records are concerned, we had you come down to identify Nola Payne. You failed to do so and were taken home.”

“And who brought me here?”

“Detective Suggs brought you, and Captain Fleck debriefed you.”

“I see.”

Jordan smiled. I liked him. I liked him the way a slave learns to love his master or a prisoner develops an affinity with his warden. Gerald Jordan was the white man in charge. He was the closest I had ever come to the source of our problems. I wondered if I killed him right then, would the problems of my people become that much lighter? Of course the idea was ridiculous. Realizing the impotence of my fantasy, I laughed.

“Something funny, Mr. Rawlins?” Jordan asked.

“Not you, sir.”

“Let’s get down to business, shall we?”

“It’s your show.”

“Lee?” Jordan said.

The bald captain cleared his throat.

“Nola Payne was found by her aunt in the living room of her third-floor apartment on Grape Street earlier today,” the sour captain reported.

“Not to me, Lee,” the deputy commissioner said. “Mr. Rawlins is the one who will need this information.”

Fleck would have much rather spit in my face but he controlled himself. He did a quarter turn in the visitor’s chair and fixed his gaze on my forehead.

“She was strangled to death and then shot —”

“Was she raped?” I asked.

“She had intercourse within six hours of her death. It might have been rape but there are no bruises, cuts, or tears to back that up.”

He twitched his mustache as if to ask, Anything else?

I shook my head.

“Miss Landry,” he continued, “that’s Miss Payne’s aunt, called the police immediately but it took a while for anyone to come because of the problems in that area. When the patrolmen finally arrived they found Miss Landry in a hysterical state. She was screaming that a white man had murdered her niece. No matter how much they tried to calm her she kept shouting that a white man had raped and killed her niece. The officers took her into custody because they were afraid her ranting would incite another riot.”

“So they arrested her?” I asked.

“No, Mr. Rawlins,” Gerald Jordan said. “She was distraught. The officers were directed to bring Miss Landry here, where the doctors could sedate her, ease her pain.”

Whenever Jordan smiled I wanted to slap his skinny face. The riots were still going on in my chest.

“You drugged her?”

“Would you rather I let her start up the riots again?”

“Where is she?”

“Down the hall,” Fleck said. “She won’t be awake until the morning.”

“We need to know what happened down there, Mr. Rawlins,” Jordan said, pretending to care.

“Why?”

“Because we want L.A. to get back to normal.”

“You mean you want businessmen back at their desks, the shoppers to go back to the stores, and tourists buying mouse ears at Disneyland.”

“This is no joke, Rawlins.” That was Fleck. “The LAPD needs your help and if you know what’s good for you you will cooperate.”

“What is it you want me to do exactly?”

“Talk to Miss Landry when she awakens,” Jordan said. “Go down to Grape Street and find out the circumstances of Miss Payne’s death if you can.”

“I don’t get it. Why are you so worried about a dead black woman? You’re not doin’ this for every Negro killed.”

The captain and his boss shared glances. Jordan shrugged.

“On the second day of the riots we had a report that a white man was dragged from his car down on Grape Street. He was harassed and beaten but finally managed to escape. No one has heard about him since. Under any other circumstance we could ignore the report. Maybe the man got away and went home. But a story about a black woman being murdered by a white man across the street from where a white man fled could cause rumors that might flare up into something ugly.”

Like Nola Payne, I thought.

“So you want me to find the white man?” I asked.

“We want you to find out anything you can,” Jordan said.

“And what will you do with what I find?”

“Try to keep a lid on the flow of information.”

“What if a white man did kill her?”

Jordan and Fleck shared glances again.

“We don’t want a murderer going free,” Jordan said. “No matter his color. In this case if it came out that a white man killed Miss Payne and we put that man up on trial, then the people will see that we mean to maintain the balance of justice.”

His words might have been an ad for cigarettes or whiskey. He didn’t care about justice. He didn’t care about a dead black woman or her killer. The only way that either one of them could ever bother him was if someone came around and held him accountable for the consequences of their actions.

“Okay,” I said.

“What does that mean?” Captain Fleck asked.

“I’ll do it. I’ll go down there and ask around. I’ll try and see what happened.”

Jordan might have been smiling. I couldn’t quite tell. His lips moved about an eighth of an inch and the flesh around his eyes eased up a bit.

“Thank you,” he said.

“But I’m going to need something in order to get this done.”

“And what is that?”

“There’s a white man in this someplace. That might mean that I’ll have to go around in white neighborhoods. In order to do that I’ll need some kind of identification from the police department.”

“Once you find out anything you come to me,” Captain Fleck said. “You don’t have any business in a white neighborhood.”

“Then forget it,” I said.

I stood up from the comfortable doctor’s chair and took three steps toward the door.

“Wait outside, will you, Mr. Rawlins?” Jordan asked. “I’ll see about what you need.”

I passed through the door and waited around for a few moments. But I didn’t like that, so I wandered down the hallway, pretending that I wasn’t waiting on the policemen’s whims.