Gray Dawn

30

Orchestra Solomon and Reynard came down to the base a few minutes before the official procession of flashing lights arrived. She took the time to try to understand what had happened. I did my best to orient her.

Then came the onslaught of ambulances, police squad cars, unmarked cars that brought a few detectives, and even a police helicopter that passed overhead.

The police captain in charge of the small army was tall and ruddy. His hair was cut in short military fashion and his face looked as if it had been chiseled from granite by an artist that wasn’t quite up to the task. He started his inquiry with me.

“What’s your name, son?” he asked, none too fatherly.

“Um,” I said.

“What’s your name, Captain?” Orchestra cut in.

For maybe three seconds the good captain reacted with silent offense at her aggression. But then he remembered who he was in the great scheme of things.

“Lonigan, ma’am, Captain Frederic Lonigan.”

“Well, Captain, I’ve never met you, but your precinct should have made you aware that I have bodyguards who protect the entry point to the residences above. Today a group of armed men tried to shoot their way to the funicular. They shot two of my people and then were shot themselves.” You could tell that Orchestra was feeling emotional, but she was still in charge, had been trained to be so since she was a small child.

“Um, well, yes, ma’am,” the captain uttered reverentially. “But you understand that we’ll have to question those who participated in the action. And also the witnesses.”

“I suppose,” she said, accepting his words with a touch of disdain. “Cosmo Longo has been seriously wounded and will be brought to the hospital with his brother Gaetano. Erculi, the father of the two, will go with them. You can talk to Agosto and Matteo under my supervision.”

The good captain’s face reddened but he didn’t argue.

Orchestra invited him along with one detective to ride up to her house, where the interrogation could begin.

Erculi climbed into the ambulance that took his comatose son.

Other ambulances took Gaetano and the dead.

Fearless and I went back to my place, where we explained what had happened. I told Hannibal and Violet to stay upstairs.

“Don’t want to get your names in their records,” I told my son.

After that I made coffee and served it around the big table that was still set up on the first floor.

“That crazy man sent his people to do what?” Anger/Lutisha asked.

“He’s after you and your boy,” I said. “Before they killed him, Sasha must’a told his people that he gave the deed to Hannibal and maybe that included Santangelo too. I don’t really know how your name got in the mix.”

“That’s crazy,” my onetime lover said. “He already rich, now he gonna kill innocent people for a little more?”

I had no answer, but, then again, she didn’t expect one.

“You think those killers still out there, Easy?” Paris asked nervously.

“Naw, man. Cops got helicopters lookin’ all over. And you don’t have to worry because once you outta here they won’t be thinkin’ about ya.”

“Yeah, yeah, um, maybe me and Fearless should make our exit,” Paris said, letting this suggestion hang in the air.

“We got to stay here, Paris,” Fearless said. “Cops wanna talk to me and they prob’ly gonna ask you if you heard the shots.”

“I didn’t hear a gottdamned thing!” Paris protested, preparing his defense beforehand.

Maybe forty-five minutes later the doorbell rang.

It was my front door, so I opened it.

Standing there was a forty-something man wearing an olive-green suit. He was five seven at most, exuding an aura of steadfast confidence.

“Mr. Rawlins?” he asked.

“That’s me.”

“Detective Brian Kitagawa,” he said, “here to talk to you and your family.”

“Come on in. You might as well start with me.”

My guests went upstairs to their various rooms and the roof. I set up two chairs next to the terrace. Kitagawa took out a notebook and a black mechanical pencil.

“You stationed in West LA, Detective?” I asked once we were seated.

“No. The Valley.”

“Oh, that’s why we never met before.”

“You know many policemen?”

“My fair share.”

“Why is that?”

“I’m a private detective, have been for twenty-three years. A lot of the cases I get involve working for criminal lawyers and those clients who don’t think they’ve been given a fair break.”

“I see,” he said, giving the impression of keen objectivity. “And you were downstairs when the shooting started?”

“No. I heard the shots, but by the time I got down the hill the shootin’ was over.”

“But... you were armed.”

“I’m a vet, Mr. Kitagawa. If I hear shooting, I pick up a gun. Your men took my weapons. So I think you’ll see that they weren’t fired.”

“Did you recognize the men that attacked?”

“No, sir.”

That answer, combined with the tone of my voice, called something up in the detective’s flat expression.

“Was the attack a surprise?” he asked.

“If it wasn’t, I don’t think Cosmo or Gaetano would be in the hospital right now.”

“I’m not asking about them.”

“Maybe not, but I’m tellin’ you that if I knew, I would have told them.”

We parried back and forth like that for nearly half an hour. During that time the detective didn’t take down one note.

While Kitagawa was questioning Fearless, the house phone rang. I ran up the stairs to the second floor and plucked the receiver from our wall phone.

“Hello?”

“How’s it goin’, Easy?” Melvin Suggs asked.

“Same old, same old.”

The seasoned cop issued a harsh laugh that reminded me of sheet metal tearing.

“You know,” he said. “That’s what I always liked about you, Rawlins.”

“What’s that?”

“You keep your cool.”

“I had an uncle once who used to say he kept his cool, so he would be ready for the time it was his turn to be put on the cooling board.”

“Okay,” he said, his tone telling me that he was through with small talk. “I got a dozen cops on the workers you said were at Warehouse Eighty-Six, Billy Banks and that Drake Simmons guy.”

“You talk to Mildred?”

“Yeah. I sent Anatole over to her house. He thought the same thing you did, so then he brought her down to talk with me. I think she’s got a crush on you, Easy.”

“So, what you need, Mel?”

“Simmons and Banks drove out to a motel near the airport—”

“LAX?” I asked.

“Yeah. They went into a motel room wearing suits and came out in work shirts and jeans. They left the car they drove there and got into a wood-paneled pickup that was already in the parking lot. From there they drove onto the security grounds of the airport and then went into one of the property hangars where they keep the shipments being loaded and unloaded. They came out with three wooden crates on a hand truck and put ’em in the back of the pickup.”

“What was in the crates?”

“Don’t know yet.”

“You don’t? Why not?”

“We’re not workin’ this alone, Easy. There’s four or five other agencies involved.”

“So now you’re followin’ them?”

“Tried to, but because of miscommunication, we lost ’em. Luckily, because of you, we had people at Warehouse Eighty-Six. The truck passed by there and then went to a parking lot a few blocks away.”

“So, you guys are gonna try and catch the people they’re sellin’ to?”

“That’s the idea.”

“And them makin’ all those moves sounds like somethin’ about to happen.”

“It does. But I got the FBI, the CIA, and the Bellflower sheriffs all involved. An operation of that size and complexity is gonna cost a lot. I’d sure like to have some kinda assurance that something’s happening before pushin’ the button on it.”

“Gimme a couple’a hours, Mel. I got to clean up this and that around here first.”

“Sure, Easy. Make sure you say hey to Captain Lonigan for me.”

“You know about that?”

“You askin’ if I know about a shootout at the entrance to the home of the richest woman in California?”

“When you put it like that, I guess you do.”

“You need anything?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Are there gonna be any repercussions for the department?”

“I really don’t know.”

I called Mama Jo’s telephonic sentry, telling him when I would probably be out there. Then, while Kitagawa continued his interrogations, I wandered over to Orchestra’s home.

It was a three-story block of a structure, reminiscent of an office building in a small town in the Midwest. No frills, bright colors, or oversize windows. Everything about her home was pedestrian — except for its size.

A man I didn’t know answered the door. He was white, or, more accurately, a mixture of angry pink and muted gray, what passes for white in the modern world. Whatever color, he was built for battle. His suit was all blue, cut a little loose in case he had to move quickly. There was a bulge under the left breast of the unbuttoned jacket and scars around the knuckles of both hands.

“Yes?” he asked.

“Mr. Rawlins for Miss Solomon.”

The butler I had never met took a moment to digest my request and then stood back and away from the entrance.

Everything about the Solomon house went against my sense of design. The rooms were small and boxy, painted in the passive hues of muted white, ecru, and pale blue. The weave of the carpeting was cut short, and the color was a uniform tan. There were original, almost primitive, paintings of early Americana origin hung at regular intervals and the ceilings were a uniform nine feet from the floor. The furniture was of sleek fifties design and the temperature was neither warm nor cool.

I was led to one of the many sitting rooms that made up the first floor of the home. There, the butler and I came upon Orchestra. She was seated on a blue chair in this chamber, sipping from a long and slim frosted glass that held a green libation.

“Ezekiel,” she greeted, standing up from her chrome-and-maroon cushioned chair.

“Sadie.”

“Would you like a drink?”

“I’d love one, but I have a lot to accomplish today, so no.”

“You may go, Arnold,” she said to the armed butler.

“Yes, ma’am,” he said.

She watched him leave and then said, “Have a seat.”

I took a blue chair near hers.

“This has been a terrible day,” she confided. “I’m only happy that your daughter is away. I’d hate to see Feather affected by all this... this carnage.”

“Look, Sadie, I take complete responsibility for this mess. And I’m willing to move out. The only thing I’d ask is if I could hold on to the lease for Feather. I know she would love to stay. She’ll probably get married one day and have some kids—”

“Don’t be foolish, Ezekiel,” she said, interrupting my well-thought-out spiel. “You are part of our family here. And that Von Crudock monster; no one could predict what he would do. No, you are not leaving. We need you.”

I would have moved out if she wanted me to. I hated having brought violence and bloodshed to our mountain home.

“What do you think of Arnold?” Sadie asked me then.

“Who is he?”

“I have a deal with a private security agency to have staff to fill in, in circumstances like these.”

“But it was hardly two hours ago when it all came down.”

“Erculi had Matteo make the call. That’s part of the deal I have with him and his sons. A new crew came in to cover for those not here. The contract I have with their firm assures immediate replacement.”

“You mean there’s other Arnolds downstairs and at the other posts?”

“Yes.”

“Hm.”

“What are you thinking?” she asked me.

“I don’t know. I’m pretty sure you can trust Erculi and his sons. They live here. But these stand-ins, I mean, they leave here with all your secrets and one day somebody offers ’em a boatload’a money... they might not be able to resist sellin’ you out.”

The mistress of the mountain stared hard at me and then said, “You see? No one else might have said that to me. I’ll have Erculi change things around enough so that we can maintain security.”

“I’m sure he would have done that anyway.”

“You’re probably right,” she said after taking a sip from her gin, sugar, and lime drink. “But the difference is that you explain the problem where Erculi will just make the changes.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I sure hope that Cosmo pulls through.”

Orchestra’s eyes tightened in response.

Detective Kitagawa was coming down the blue-brick path as I was headed for home.

“Mr. Rawlins,” he said out of politeness.

“Detective, you get what you need?”

“I don’t know yet,” he said, wincing a bit as if he were looking into a too-bright light. “It is very strange.”

“You don’t think they were just a gang wantin’ to loot a rich woman’s enclave?”

“I don’t know.”

He waited a moment, blessing this acknowledged ignorance with a short span of silence, nodded once, and then walked on.

A few steps farther on I met Paris Minton. He was scurrying along, looking all around for potential dangers.

“Easy,” he said, unable to hide his nervousness.

“Where you goin’, Paris?”

“I’ma get my ass away from here, brother. Fearless can stay if he want to, but all this violence get on my nerves.”

“I understand what you sayin’, but the shootin’ is over and the shooters dead. So, what you worried about?”

“Police make me nervous, man.”

“Why? You didn’t shoot nobody.”

“Plenty Negroes didn’t do nuttin’ been thrown in jail or hung from some tree. You know that’s true.”

“That’s a fact, Mr. Minton. It is. But our greatest danger, the worst enemy, is lettin’ that truth lead us down the wrong road.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Knowledge like that makes us feel guilty. And when you feel guilty you act like it.”

That simple pronouncement banished Paris’s fears for a time. This was due to his towering intelligence. His mind was telling him that I was offering a talisman of protection, if only he would heed it.

“What you mean?” he asked.

“Come on now, man. You know what I’m talkin’ ’bout.”

Paris Minton and Jackson Blue were both genius cowards. They could see so many potential dangers that waking up in the morning or going to bed at night, for them, was filled with trepidations. They were similar but Paris had it a little better because his thinking mind often eclipsed his fears. I could see in his face that he realized the problem. If he left right then, a whole squad of police would see him hurrying away from the scene of a crime. They would mark him for acting guilty.

It was a pleasure to watch.

“You got any good whiskey somewhere, Easy?”

“I don’t suggest you drink and drive,” I said.

“Naw. I ain’t gonna drive. I think I’ll stay around till Fearless need to go. He could do the drivin’.”

Back at the house, nearly my entire extended family had gathered around the long table again. Amethystine was getting drinks; Fearless was telling war stories about the last days of World War II when he was tasked with the slaughter of a Gestapo bureaucrat named Gustav Blaustrahl. When Paris and I walked in, Fearless paused his tale and regarded me.

“So, what are they saying?” Mr. Jones asked.

“They don’t know what happened.”

“Do you?” Violet asked.

Before I could think of some lie, Anger stood up and said, “Come on with me, Easy.”

We climbed all the way to the roof, sitting ourselves down at a low point of the outer wall. I offered her a cigarette and took one for myself.

For a long while Anger puffed on her cancer stick while watching me. Her way of smoking was to fill her mouth with the smoke, then pull in her upper lip and blow the vapors up her nose, inhaling deeply. There was an intensity to this process that was impressive.

“I can hardly believe it,” she said at last. Her sneer was less a snarl and more a question.

“What?”

“What would you have said all them years ago if I aksed you to come run away wit’ me?” she asked, her words reinforced by sincerity. “I mean, would you go on the run with me, leavin’ all you knew?”

“The only thing real to me was you, honey. You know that.”

“But you was just a child.”

“Man enough to make Hannibal.”

Anger’s grin was love in my heart.

“I shoulda asked ya,” she said. “I wanted to. I didn’t wanna be alone out there. You know the only people made me suffer more than them Black men was they women. I got scars inside and out. And in all that time you the only one stood up for me. The only one. That’s why I didn’t take you wit’ me.”

“I don’t understand.”

“I never trusted nobody till you stood up to Edgar—”

“That was the man attacked us?”

“Edgar Jess,” she said on a nod. “You put your life on the line for me. How could I take you away to where we would be in that kinda danger every mornin’ and every night?”

It was my turn to be quiet.

There was a brown-and-red beetle scuttling across the weathered wood floor of the roof garden. That bug was headed for the flowers, worried about birds, shoes, shadows — and, all the while, looking for a mate.

“That’s not why I wanted to talk to you,” Anger said softly.

“No?”

“I been thinkin’ ’bout Santangelo,” she said. “Hannie told me that he give that letter-deed to him to get to me.”

“Why didn’t he get it to you himself?”

“He didn’t know where I was, and when he talked to his brother, Saint said that he knew a way.” Upon saying this, she reached into her brown leather purse and pulled out a red leather wallet. From this she took a small brass key. Then she handed the key to me. “There’s a little post office box sto’ on Western down around Venice.”

“I know it. Mail and money orders, that’s what the sign says.”

“PO box twenty-one B,” Anger added. “I didn’t know that Saint was lookin’ for me. But this mornin’ I remembered that I give him that PO box address in case he needed sumpin’. You know Santangelo was always jealous at how close me and Hannie was.”

“Why didn’t you check the box?” I asked.

“I gave up usin’ it a few months ago because, you know, it was time. That money order joint was the only sure way that Saint could get in touch with me. I bet ya he sent me sumpin’ there. I bet he did.”