Farewell, Amethystine

39

I awoke to the sound of a child crying. Looking down I saw that a sunbeam was shining on my left foot. Little Essie wailed loud and long from the kitchen floor, reminding me of air-raid sirens in the night. I had every intention of going downstairs and comforting my granddaughter, but instead I turned over in the bed, falling back into a deep bunker of sleep.

The next thing I heard was Essie and Jesus playing downstairs. The sunlight had moved up to the wall. Jesus’s laugh was more rare than the prehistoric shrimp that hatch after a deluge in the desert once every decade or so. My son’s laughter was the hard-earned humor of a man sentenced to hell and then saved on a whim.

The beauty of that guffaw washed over me, returning the sleep to my eyes.

“Daddy?”

Two seconds after the wake-up call I felt the blunt paws of the guard puppy on my chest. I knew it was him because the other two dogs were lighter, bouncier.

“What?” My eyes were still closed.

“It’s Niska.”

I hadn’t heard the phone ring. At least I hadn’t distinguished it from the sirens blaring in my dreams.

“What’s she want?”

“I don’t know. It’s after three.”

I opened my eyes. The sun was shining somewhere else.

“She says it’s important,” Feather insisted.

“What time is it?”

“I just told you, three.”

“And Niska’s on the phone?”

“Uh-uh. She wants you to call her back.”

“Where’s Jesus and them?”

“They went to Pismo Beach for a picnic. They wanted me to come, but I had to stay and take care of Prince Valiant.”

“Who?”

“That’s your dog’s name. I named him that because he reminds me of Fearless.”

“The two’a you get outta here and let me get dressed.”

I remember her kissing my forehead and the puppy’s nose on my cheek.

“Hello?” she answered.

“Hey, girl,” I said.

“Hi, Mr. Rawlins. You sick?”

“Naw. Just catchin’ up on my sleep. You got somethin’ for me?”

“I think so. A woman called for you. She said her name is...”

Niska gave me a phone number. I called it, got what I needed, and fifteen minutes later I was dressed in proper gray trousers, black leather shoes, a black T-shirt, and a yellow sweater buttoned up to the diaphragm. When the phone rang again, I decided not to answer but Feather didn’t know that.

“Dad!”

“Hello?”

“I expected you to call me by now, Rawlins.”

“Hey, Mel, what’s up?”

“When I called at noon, they told me you were asleep.”

“While you were on holiday in the mountains, I was workin’ night and day. And I’m about to go out now. You need somethin’?”

“Laks is in the wind.”

Those five words, as the hipsters used to say, definitely interfered with my flow. It was like sitting in the cabin again, suddenly aware of a possible assassin in the bushes.

“He left home at four in the morning after getting a call,” Mel continued. “Told his wife that he had an emergency at the office. Half an hour ago they found his car at LAX.”

“That don’t mean a thing.” Another five words.

“No. Fyodor must’a called him the minute he was free.”

“What about him?”

“Fyodor?”

“Yeah.”

“He’s in his office. Probably waiting for that film clip.”

“You didn’t send it?”

“I did... to the chief.”

“Wow. Laks must’a had more bones in his closet than we knew about.”

“Must be.”

There was little more that we could say over the line.

“I’ll talk to you later, Mel.”

“Talk to you then.”

Feather and I played with the new puppy for a while. She told me what Fearless had explained about training a guard dog. After that I headed for the door.

“Where you goin’, Daddy?”

“Out to find somebody.”

“Okay.”

My destination was Brown’s Hotel, on Olympic, downtown.

The man at the front desk was tall, gaunt, and white-ash-colored, in a gray suit. He asked how he could help me in such a way that he might as well have said, Get the hell outta here.

“Chita Moyer,” I replied brightly.

“Yes?” he asked.

“Could you call her room and tell her that Mr. Rawlins is here?”

“For what purpose?”

“She’s the one called me, man. You could ask her that question if you want.”

The concierge turned half away from me to make the call. I couldn’t hear what was being said but there seemed to be some kind of disagreement. Finally, he cradled the phone and faced me.

“You can wait in the lounge,” he said.

There were two turquoise-colored, high-backed, lightly padded chairs sitting next to a tall and slender window that looked down on Olympic. Set between and before the chairs was a round wooden table with a high-gloss top.

Upon the little table lay a folded-up copy of the LA Examiner. I amused myself, reading about things that may or may not have happened.

There was a brief description of the death of Curt Fields on page twenty-four. He was shot in the head and the authorities suspected that he had at least two partners. They had broken into the 2120 Building in order to steal valuable equipment. One of the partners, Aaron Oliver, of Reno, Nevada, was found in the stairwell outside and a floor down from where Curt was found. The police were looking for the partner or partners who committed the murders.

“Mr. Rawlins.”

I looked up and then stood, holding out a hand, which she took after only a moment of hesitation.

“Please sit,” she offered, and we both settled in our moderately comfortable high-backed chairs.

“Mr. Arkady said that he didn’t want to send you up to the room because you were being belligerent. I thought I explained over the phone what happened in San Diego.”

“You did,” I agreed, “and I wasn’t being anything to Mr. Arkady. I’m here because you asked me to come. I don’t think it was right for you to drug me and then call the police. But those are small issues, all things considered.”

“That’s good. I never meant you any harm.”

“Okay. Now what is it you want?”

“I need you to do something for me.”

“That’s what you said over the phone.”

It was her turn. She hesitated a bit before taking the plunge into cold water.

“Last night,” she said, “Harrison went out, for a smoke he said, and never came back. When I looked for your card in my purse, I found a great deal of cash.”

“How much?”

“Around thirty thousand dollars.”

“That’s a great deal, indeed. Why would he do that?”

“As I told you on the phone, Harrison had me drug you because there were people after him and he couldn’t be sure that you hadn’t joined forces with them.”

“You didn’t tell me who was after him.”

“Gangsters.” She shivered as if a cold breeze had found its way to her shoulders.

“Could you be a little more specific?”

“Las Vegas gangsters.”

“Oh.”

“He didn’t tell me very much about them. He did say that they might have wanted to kill him to keep him quiet. Do you know what he was talking about?”

“Maybe, but could you tell me something first?”

“Certainly.”

“If your boyfriend thought I might be trying to kill him, then why would you call me?”

“He changed his mind about you,” she said. “That’s why he didn’t, you know...”

“Didn’t what?”

“Didn’t kill you in the house. That was the plan, but talking with you, Harry was pretty sure that all you wanted to do was help poor Curt’s ex-wife.”

It was an odd feeling, thinking of this frail elder woman as my executioner.

“I think the people after Harrison, if anybody really is after him, would be men called Shadrach and Purlo. He met them at a poker club in Gardena, and Curt was, somehow, working for them.”

“Did they murder Curt?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” I said honestly. “Now, let me ask you something else.”

“Okay.”

“Do you believe Harrison?”

Chita seemed very small in that towering chair. A lovely woman of a certain age, alone in the world and looking at me as if I were the embodiment of that question, as if I were an indictment of her entire life.

“Yes,” she said at last. “I wanted to go back to South America for many years. But my resources had dwindled, and he was a gambler, usually down on his luck. Then he called a few days ago saying that he’d had a windfall. He got into a high-stakes game and won.”

I was enjoying her tale.

She hunched her shoulders and continued. “I knew he was lying.”

“How’d you know that?”

“Harrison is two things: bad luck and a good time. I knew he was lying, but...” Gazing across the lounge, she stopped talking for the moment.

“So, what do you want from me, Mrs. Moyer?”

“I want you to find him and tell him that I’m not afraid.”

“I don’t understand. Didn’t you just tell me that he was lying to you?”

“You asked if I believed him. And maybe I don’t believe him, but I do trust him.”

My expression said that I didn’t understand the nuance.

“A few days ago, James Carnaby from Royalty Cruises’ main office called me,” she said. “He’s the man who sold me and Harrison passage to Buenos Aires. James told me that a man had been asking about me, about when I was leaving. When I asked who it was he said he didn’t get a name but the man looked rough and had a scar over his lip. Harrison tried to play it off. He said it was probably some insurance agent wanting to sell me a useless policy. But after that he was very worried. And then you showed up at our door.”

“You two came here,” I concluded. “And he left in the night.”

“I want you to find him and to tell him that I’m not afraid,” she reiterated.

When she lifted her pocketbook, I considered grabbing it away from her. But, I thought, she probably wasn’t reaching for a pistol, and Mr. Arkady had been eyeing us from the front desk. I didn’t want to spend another night in jail.

Chita came out with a fat envelope.

“Five thousand dollars,” she said, and laid the pregnant letter on the round table.

I became aware of my hands. They were resting on my thighs, not reaching for the parcel.

“Why would you trust me?” I asked.

“Because Harrison said that he believed you were a good man. He really does have a good feel for people.”

“Then why did he drug me?”

“I’ve already explained that. We drugged you just in case he was wrong.”

That moment felt like a perfect little example of life: someone I shouldn’t trust asking for my help, money that I shouldn’t take lying there in front of me, and a man behind the front desk staring from his post, preparing to pounce if I did anything wrong.

“Will you help me?” she asked.

“I don’t see how. I don’t know how I’d find him.”

Chita leaned forward, gazing into my eyes.

“There’s a young man named Paul German,” she said.

“Okay.”

“Harry taught him how to play cards. It’s funny, Harry couldn’t win if his life depended on it, but if he came across someone with talent, he could make them rich. Paul might know how to get in touch with him.”

“Have you called this Paul?”

“I don’t have his number.”

“Look him up.”

“I tried. He’s not listed. He lives in a studio apartment in Westwood, on Astral Lane.” She gave me the address.

“Why don’t you go there?”

“Harrison always said that there was no trust among gamblers, just hard knocks and brass rings.”

“So Paul might be one of the people who want him dead?”

“I’m an old woman, Mr. Rawlins. Go there for me. I’ll pay you five thousand dollars up front, just to deliver a message.”

“Okay,” I said. “All right. You’ll be here?”

“I’m paid up through the next five days.”

“Okay. You can keep your money. I’ll go talk to this guy German and see what he has to say.”