Paint It Black

Chapter Twenty-three

Queenie Avenue was a narrow street pulsating with neon and the sound of blues melting with the low rumble of the storm. It was raining lightly as Louis and Emily made their way down the slick sidewalk. Here, miles from the water, the street smelled only of city things. Dumpsters, car exhaust, vomit, piss, and the aroma of frying chicken.

They had been walking the street for an hour now, wandering in and out of the bars and take-out joints. So far, no one had recognized Walter Tatum’s picture. Louis wondered if anyone would admit it even if they did. Queenie Avenue seemed like the kind of place that hid its secrets well.

They drew stares as they walked. Louis ignored them. Emily seemed nervous. He felt her inch closer as they approached the last bar. It didn’t even have a sign, just a Budweiser sign glowing in the night.

“I guess you’re in charge here,” she said.

He looked down at her. Her hair was a wet helmet of curls around her small face. “Feeling a little out of place, Farentino?”

She gave a snort. “I went to high school in Santa Monica, California, where every girl is a blond Amazon and every guy is blinded by a C-cup. I was a short, freckled geek with braces, glasses, and no tits.”

“Yeah, but you can change all that. Can’t change your skin color. Come on, last stop, and then we’ll hit a McDonald’s for hot apple pie.”

“There’s something to look forward to,” Emily murmured.

The bar was a small cavern, dense with smoke and dominated by a long bar. A jukebox glowed in the corner, illuminating an old table shuffleboard heaped with beer cartons. The place was packed, laughter mixing with the clink of bottles and Etta James singing “Losers Weepers.”

Louis headed for the bar, Emily at his heels. Louis squeezed between two men seated on stools. He motioned to the bartender, a skinny guy in a lime-green tank top.

“Yo,” the bartender said, “I didn’t do it and I don’t know who did.”

“He ain’t no cop, Jackie,” piped up one customer.

“Sure he is.” The bartender smiled at Louis. “Ain’t you?”

Louis nodded. The bartender’s eyes drifted behind Louis to Emily. “That your lady?”

Louis ignored him and held out the photo. “Do you know this man? His name is Walter Tatum.”

The bartender looked at the photo. “That dude is dead.”

“You know him then?”

“Everybody know Walter.”

Louis felt Emily press in behind him. “He was a regular here?” Louis asked.

“Yup.”

“Was he here March first?”

“Shit, that was three weeks ago, man. .”

“It was a Tuesday.”

“Tuesday? Why didn’t you say so? Yeah, Walt was always here on Tuesdays.”

“Are you sure?” Louis asked.

The bartender turned to the far end of the bar. “Hey, Lucille! Ain’t Tuesday the night Walt Tatum always here?”

Louis looked to the end of the bar. Even in the gloom, he could see her, a large, tawny-skinned woman with an elaborate fountain of red braided hair and huge hoop earrings that glinted in the bar lights.

“Why you asking about Walter?” she yelled back.

“This man here is asking.”

Emily sidled up. “You going to talk to her?”

Louis nodded and walked down the bar. The woman saw them coming and her eyes flared with contempt, but Louis suspected it was at Emily, and not him.

“Do you know Walter Tatum?” Louis asked.

A few other patrons had gathered, interested in what was going on. Lucille stared at Louis with heavily made up Cleopatra eyes. Then she looked down into her glass.

“Leave me be. I’m grieving here.”

“For Walter Tatum?” Louis asked.

“Walter was my man,” she said.

Louis caught Emily’s eye.

“Was Walter here Tuesday, March first?” Louis asked.

Lucille didn’t answer or look at him. Finally she nodded.

“Were you with him that night?”

Lucille nodded again. “He left about two,” she said. “Said he couldn’t stay.”

Louis wondered if Lucille knew about Roberta. Or vice versa.

Lucille spun to face him suddenly. “You know who killed him?”

“No,” Louis said.

“They saying in the papers a white man did it,” Lucille said bitterly, “one of them skinheads or something.”

“We don’t know that for sure,” Louis said. The crowd was pressing close around. Louis glanced up at Emily. She was standing very still, like she was trying hard to blend into the inky smoke. Her face looked very small and very white.

Louis looked back at Lucille. She was staring hard at Emily.

“What are you doing here?” Lucille demanded suddenly.

“I’m an FBI agent,” Emily said. Her voice was firm but her hand fumbled as she reached for the badge that had disappeared into her raincoat.

“Did Walter leave alone?” Louis asked quickly.

Lucille looked back at Louis. “Yeah. He said he was tired and was going home to sleep.” She smiled wanly. “He was always tired after I was done with him.”

Her friends snickered.

“Is there anywhere he might have stopped?” Louis asked.

The bartender had wandered down and was listening. “Not much traffic out there after midnight. All the action’s out on the beach and that’s ten, twelve miles from here.”

“Okay, thanks,” Louis said.

They left the bar. It was raining harder, and they didn’t talk as they hurried back to the car.

Emily let out a breath, leaning back into the seat.

“I would have come to your rescue,” Louis said.

“Shut up,” Emily said, wiping her face on her sleeve.

They sat there for several moments, the thumping bass from a nearby bar beating time to the rain on the roof. Finally, Louis started the car and they pulled out. He took the most direct route back toward Sereno, staying on busy Summerlin Road until they reached the causeway. At the boat trailer parking lot, Louis pulled in and stopped.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Just thinking.”

For several minutes he just sat, watching each car as it made its way past, into the darkness toward Sereno Key.

“This was a waste of time,” Louis said. “The killer did not stalk Tatum from Queenie Boulevard.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“No white guy would hang out there,” Louis said.

Emily nodded. “Zone of comfort,” she said.

“What’s that?”

“Serial killers operate within a zone of comfort,” she said. “And you’re right. If the killer is white, he would not have blended in or felt he could stalk his victim from Queenie Boulevard.”

They were silent for a moment.

“Maybe he isn’t white,” Farentino said. “Have you considered that possibility?”

“Yeah. . but just for Levon.”

“Serial killers rarely choose victims outside their own race,” Emily said. “It’s part of the pattern.”

Louis looked out at the water. Something Roberta Tatum said came back to him. Something about Wainwright believing the killer was black because it was easier to accept black genocide than white racists murdering out of hate.

He looked over at Farentino. Was it easier for her, too?

“My gut says the killer’s white,” Louis said.

“Is that a professional or personal point of view?” she asked.

He put the car in gear. “I don’t know,” he said.