Gray Dawn

14

I awoke upstairs, in bed, thinking that I was still on the lower terrace. I must have walked up there, but I couldn’t remember the passage. That was a revelation for me. Over the entirety of my life, I had been aware of every step I’d ever taken. From the back ways of the bayou behind our one-room shack in New Iberia, Louisiana, to the forced marches with fifty thousand soldiers, headed toward Germany’s destruction — I always knew, or thought I knew, exactly where I was headed. As a child, as a soldier, as a Black man walking down white streets, and Black streets too — I had to be aware of my surroundings and my actions, always. But Amethystine interrupted that litany, that endless catalog of mostly unremarkable steps.

“Are you gonna wake up, or do I have to hit you in the head with this pillow?” she threatened jovially, standing there, as real as anything, at the foot of the bed.

“What time is it?”

“Time for you to get up.”

She was wearing one of my yellow dress shirts and her hair was a delightful mess.

“It’s a quarter to eight,” she said. “Do you have time to make me breakfast?”

“I thought it was the woman supposed to make the meals.”

“Not if the man is a great cook and she can’t boil water.”

“I love you,” I said when I hadn’t expected to.

She plopped down on the mattress, her hip pressed against mine.

“If I had my druthers,” she said, “I’d marry you tomorrow and move to Italy, or maybe France. Not in a big city but the countryside, where the olive trees are a thousand years old, and the people remember Alexander the Great in their bones.”

This last confession sat me up. I wanted to say something but all I could manage was to stare at her.

“But I know the kinda man you are,” she continued. “You need to be absolutely sure, no matter what your blood is tellin’ you.”

Still silent, I wondered what she was saying behind what she said.

She leaned close to my face, kissed me ever so lightly, and said, “Don’t worry, baby, I’ll take it slow. I’ma go home tonight and wait for you to call me. I mean, after you make breakfast.”

“I don’t even have your phone number.”

“That’s okay, I put it in the Rolodex on the desk in your office downstairs, while you were out saving the world.”

She threw the blankets back, revealing what my blood had been telling me. And then, after an hour or so, I went downstairs to make her breakfast.

When I got to the office, Clementine Bowers was seated comfortably behind Niska’s desk. Clemmie was a dark-skinned young woman with dimples and blazing dark brown eyes. She wore a wig made into a complex hairdo that was deep brown and gold of color. She and Niska were about the same size and shape, but Clemmie dressed to accent her figure whereas Miss Redman did not.

“Hi, Mr. Rawlins.”

“Hey, Clementine. Niska sick?”

“I don’t think so. She told me to tell you that she was lookin’ into that thing you were talkin’ about, whatever that is.”

“Did she say how long you would be takin’ her place?”

“She said it was gonna be day by day. But I hope it’s at least a few days. We need the money. My mama got sick and Mr. Henderson, down at the restaurant, fired her.”

“For bein’ sick?”

“She been outta work for three weeks.”

“Oh. She okay?”

“I don’t know. She won’t go to a doctor, too scared he might say she got cancer.”

“Cancer?”

“You know, she watch all them medical shows on the TV.”

At my big desk I had to ball my fists and imagine being in a fight to get myself going again. That’s when I picked up the receiver and dialed a number.

“Hello?”

“He there, Myra?”

She didn’t stall this time. Three clicks and: “Suggs.”

“Hey, man.”

“Easy. What’s up?”

“You get anything else on that home invasion?”

“No. No fingerprints, no witnesses, nothing. You find that woman, Lutisha?”

“No, but I’ll call you the minute after I do.”

“Myra looked up those names,” Melvin said in a rush. He most always sounded like he was in a hurry to get on with something else. “That Santangelo’s been arrested for public disturbance a couple’a times. And the James woman was once arrested in a gambling bust.”

“What kinda gambling?”

“Poker. It was a private game at a rich man’s table. They didn’t press charges.”

“Huh.”

“That all you need?” he pressed.

“No.”

“What else?”

“I need to talk to your wife, probably face-to-face.”

Melvin was quiet for maybe six seconds before asking, “What for?”

“Her vast knowledge of unwritten lore.”

“Huh?”

“It’s just things she might know about, Melvin. Got nothing to do with anything she’s done.”

Mel’s wife, Mary Donovan-Suggs, was the most complete criminal I had ever met, and that includes Mouse. There was nary a crime she had not committed, and no law, civil or canonical, that she hadn’t broken.

“Okay,” he said. “She’s at work.”

“Work? Mary?”

“I know, I know. She told me that she wanted to try out civilian life. Said that now we were married she should help with bringin’ home the bacon.”

“Where she work at?”

“She’s a receptionist for these patent lawyers in Beverly Hills. I’ll give you the number.”

“Tyrell and Sloan,” Mary’s singular, husky, and sweet voice answered.

“Mary?”

After a short pause she said in a ridiculously professional tone, “Hello, Mr. Rawlins. What can I do for you today?”

“What you doin’ for lunch?”

“Um, that depends.”

“On what?” I was smiling by then.

“Where did you get this number?”

“From your husband, of course. It’s on the up-and-up, you know, I wouldn’t be foolin’ around — he’s armed.”

Mary had a lovely laugh for a dyed-in-the-wool killer.

“It’ll have to be a late lunch,” she said. “I have a report to finish. Why don’t you come over around two.”

I liked Mary Donovan. She represented a state of mind that, though not innocent, was at least free.

The next thing on the list was the warehouse that Benita followed the bent agents to. This was in one of my least favorite places, Bellflower.

Warehouse 86 was on South Street, a block from Bellflower Boulevard. It was a big place that had many trucks coming in, to load or unload materials of all kinds. Cartons of goods, lumber, machinery, and other merchandise. There were quite a few workers moving around doing their jobs. They were mostly white, which was the custom of specialized unions in those days. I walked through the big doors that were open to truck traffic. Nobody seemed to want to engage me, so I wandered around, looking for the main office.

It was a huge warehouse, containing great towers of wooden crates, some parked cars, crushed boxes, and hay bales along with shredded-paper stuffing that kept items from being jostled too much while being transported around the state, the nation, and even the world.

There were men working with forklifts and mechanized and hand-powered platforms, all of them white men. One or two of them noticed me.

“Can I help you?” a deep-toned woman’s voice asked.

Despite the strength of the voice, I expected to see a petite blonde wearing a short skirt and maybe big-lensed prescription glasses with transparent frames.

I smiled and then turned to behold a heavily muscled woman in dirty white coveralls. Everything about this white woman was strong and rough, from her bristly blond hair to her thick and calloused hands. Her name tag read MILDRED FRANZ.

“Um,” I said, her surprising appearance arresting me. “Excuse me, ma’am. Hi, my name’s Ezekiel... Ezekiel Rawlins.”

She smiled, probably at my good manners, and said, “Hello, Mr. Rawlins. How can I help you?”

“Um, I was wondering if I could speak with the plant manager.”

“About what?”

It was rare for me to experience a civil tone in that town. And so the delaying tactic was no bother.

“I want to ask him if they ever rented out a portion of the plant for private use.”

Mildred cocked her head, taking me in. Her eyes were bold and appraising, gazing at me like a hunter in the deep wood who carried a horn to scare off big brown bears so that she wouldn’t have to shoot them with the Winchester that would, most definitely, be strapped across her back.

“What use would you have for a place like this?” she queried.

“It’s my son, he’s a fisherman,” I explained. “Trawls for mackerel up and down the coast. Lately the hauls have been gettin’ slim, so he struck up a relationship with these potters down south of Ensenada. They make terra-cotta plates and bowls, cups and baking dishes. They’re willing to sell their work wholesale.”

I had made up this fairy tale on the way to the town that many once knew as Hellflower.

“And what does your son plan to do with all this crockery?”

“His wife’s been goin’ around to gift shops and places that sell Mexican novelties, and quite a few of them have said that they’d like to move merchandise like that. So, he figures to bring in monthly loads and then distribute them from a warehouse.”

“Why not get something closer to the water?”

“Too expensive. Makes more sense to use the freeway and cut down on the cost.”

Miss Franz liked me. Not only her mouth but also her eyes were smiling.

“That sounds like a very good business idea,” she said. “But this warehouse doesn’t rent out space or grant any kind of access.”

“Do you mind if I ask the manager about that? You know, sometimes no can become yes, in the right circumstances.”

“That is very often the case,” she agreed, still smiling. “But in this situation, you’re talking to the owner. And I have no intention of renting out space.”

Another revelation. This one I had to experience a hundred times before reality took hold.

“I’m so sorry, Miss Franz. You know, I’m always thinking that there’s a man in charge. And also, that even a man boss, nine times outta ten, wouldn’t be the kinda guy to get his hands dirty.”

Now grinning, the warehouse owner said, “That’s okay. I have the same problem. I’m so used to men being in charge that I often ignore the women who I should be talkin’ to.”

“Well,” I said, “I’m sorry we couldn’t have worked something out. But do you know anyplace else around here that might fit the bill?”

Looking me in the eye, she said, “The Bellflower business community is not the most welcoming crowd unless you’re a paleface, if you know what I mean.”

Before I could answer, one of the burly warehousemen walked up to us. He was about my height with a little extra around the middle. Even though he was younger than I, his red hair was receding and sprinkled with gray.

“Any problem, Millie?” he asked, staring at me.

“No, Roger, why?”

“Um, uh, I don’t know. I just wondered.”

“Everything’s fine. You can go on back to whatever you were doing.”

Roger hesitated and then wandered off.

“You see what I mean?” she asked.

“Only too well.”

Having learned all that I could at the drug-drop warehouse, I went to my Dodge, which was parked at the curb across the street. Before the key was in the car door a man said, “Hey.”

It was Roger again. His taciturn expression caused me to look around. He was technically alone but, across the street, standing in the maw of the warehouse, two of his friends were watching us closely.

“Hey,” I responded.

“What you want with Millie?”

He was standing half a step too close, making me think again about performing a pre-tracheotomy.

“Nothing important,” I replied.

“What?” he insisted.

“Hey, man, I come up to you askin’ ’bout your business?”

Roger wasn’t expecting any lip. He probably got used to being top dog before dropping out of high school.

“I just want to make sure you’re not causin’ her problems.”

“That’s funny, you don’t look like HR.”

“What?” was his favorite question.

“My business is my own. Now, if you wanna ask Miss Franz about what I did and did not say, you could do that.”

Roger glanced at his friends across the street, showing me, if I didn’t already know, that he was not alone.

I opened the car door.

“Hey, man,” Roger warned. “I’m talkin’ to you.”

“Not no more,” I said.

Half a block away I could see him in the rearview mirror, watching.

Traveling from Bellflower to West Los Angeles was a long drive to get nowhere. Beverly Hills was another white town. The only difference was the number of zeros behind the positive whole number on people’s paychecks.

Tyrell and Sloan LLC was located on North Canon Drive near Burton Way. It was on the third floor of an ivy-covered five-story office building. At that time there was no need for security in places like that. Criminals, on the whole, preyed on their own, and in Beverly Hills, the police were never too far away.

The doors to the patent lawyers’ office were made of light green glass. I could see Mary sitting at a wide, modern desk, tapping away at an IBM Selectric. When I pushed the right-side door open, she stopped typing and turned her head.

The people I make it my business to study are those whom I care about or them who pose a threat. Mary was both. Her white skin was tan and her hair what they call a dirty blond. Her brown eyes were clear, hiding their duplicitous potential.

She gazed at me a few seconds before smiling.

“Easy.”

“You know how to type?” I asked.

“Sixty-five words a minute with hardly ever a mistake.”

“Where’d you learn that?”

“I’ll tell you at lunch,” she said, letting me know that her talent came from the other side of the tracks.

“Mair,” a man’s voice called.

He came out from one of the two office doors behind Mary’s desk. He was tall and well-padded; his natural hair looked like a wig on top of a jowly face that tapered toward the forehead. He was in his forties and surprised to see me.

“Yes, Mr. Sloan?” Mary answered.

“Um,” the partner uttered. Then to me: “You’re making a delivery?”

“No, sir,” Mary said lightly. “This is my friend Ezekiel Rawlins.”

“Oh. Oh, I see,” Blindman Sloan said. “I see.”

He turned away and went back into his office, closing the door.

“You ready for lunch?” my friend’s wife asked.

“I could eat two horses.”

Grinning at me, she stood up, showing off her form-fitting button-up-the-front tan dress and grabbing her off-the-rack, faux-leather, maroon-colored pocketbook.

“Do you mind if we walk?” she asked when we were on the street.

This is an unusual request in Los Angeles, no matter when it is posed. Anywhere you want to go is too far away, and a man without a car is the Southern California definition of a loser.

“Not at all,” I told her. “You feelin’ all cramped up in there?”

“Drives me crazy. Them callin’ me Mair and always touchin’ my arms. I stopped carrying my knife ’cause I was worried I might stick one of ’em.”

I laughed out loud, getting a little attention from other pedestrians.

“How’ve you been, Easy?” Mary asked.

“Good, good.”

“How’s Amy?”

“You know, I decided not to see her anymore.” I don’t know why, but I just didn’t want to share the idea that Amethystine was back in my life.

“Oh, still? You know, I see her now and then. She says that she wants to get back with you. And Amy’s the kinda girl gets what she wants.”

“No argument there.”

We chatted idly until getting to a solitary door to a nondescript, maybe-office-building on Camden below Wilshire.

The door opened onto a slender stairway. Up two floors, through another door, and we were in a small restaurant with maybe a dozen little tables. Two other couples were there.

A middle-aged man with a salt-and-pepper beard stood behind the host podium. He had olive skin and eyes that refused to be any one color.

The man said, “Mary. So good to see you.”

“Hi, Gregor, this is my friend.” I noticed that she didn’t give me a name.

“So good to meet you,” he greeted, coming around the lectern and grabbing me by the hand.

His big hands were both padded and strong — worker’s hands.

“Can we have the table by the window?” Mary asked him.

“Sure, sure. Take it.” His accent was from another land — it wasn’t French, German, or Italian. If I were to guess, I would have said the music of his words came from somewhere in Eastern Europe.

After we sat, another black-haired, olive-skinned man, this one younger, came to greet us. He bent down to kiss the left side of Mary’s face and then smiled at me. Mary ordered for us and the young man went away.

“So, Mr. Rawlins, what can I do for you?”

I wasn’t quite ready to get down to business, so I said, “This is an out-of-the-way place. And they seem to know you well.”

“They’re Albanians, by way of Greece. Old friends. I always come here to do business when I’m on the west side. I meet here with your friend Jackson Blue every other month or so.”

“How you even know Jackson?”

“Amy introduced us.”

I’d forgotten that Amethystine knew Jackson before we met.

“What kinda business you and Mr. Blue do?”

“I provide him with information about patents that come across my desk and those that are logged in the triannual publication that all reputable offices share.”

“I thought Melvin said that you were trying out the straight life.”

“I am,” she declared. “Pretty much. I mean, I’m just sharing ideas with a corporation that can make money for the inventors. Nobody’s getting ripped off.”

I smiled and asked, “So, you ever meet with any members of law enforcement?”

That question summoned up Mary’s poker face.

“Why?” she asked softly.

“I’m tryin’ to get a line on a couple’a crooked BNDD agents.”

“You want to do business with ’em?”

“They’re leaning on a friend of mine.”

“Oh. No, I don’t know anyone in particular, but I could look into it if need be.”

“It do be, indeed.”

“Okay then. I can get into it today.”

After giving the agents’ false names and bare descriptions I asked, “So, um, what can I do for you in return?”

“Don’t you insult me, now, Easy Rawlins. I owe you more than anyone. I mean, even with Mel it’s usually a even trade-off. But you have saved my ass more than once, and when I offered you that ass you turned me down.”

“I never meant to insult you, girl.”

She gave me a forgiving look and then the feast was served.

The meal was family-style, served all at once. Moussaka, chicken souvlaki, grape leaves stuffed with rice, and something I’d never had before, tomato fritters. It was amazing.

About halfway through the meal Mary said, “I wasn’t insulted. That’s when you first met Amy. And let me tell you, if it wasn’t for you, I woulda fucked that girl myself.”