Little Scarlet

35

I came back to my office after dropping Juanda off at her auntie’s house. We were halfway to Grape Street when she decided that she didn’t want to be around where Harold had just been living. We kissed when she got out but that was just reassurance. She was scared.

I knew that by warning Juanda I ran the risk of people starting to talk about Harold and running him into hiding but I had no other choice. Juanda was a woman and there was a woman killer in her neighborhood. No secret was worth her life.

TANYA BRYANT, Bill Bryant, Joseph, Martin, JaneAnne, Penelope, and Felicia all lived in colored neighborhoods. I called their numbers asking for Harold. Not one of them knew a Harold with their last name. At least none of them admitted to it. There were two H. Bryant listings. Harvey and Helena.

Only Tom Lakely of the phone book Lakelys lived in a Negro community. But he didn’t answer his phone.

There were no Ostenbergs anywhere near SouthCentral L.A.

I knew that Harold didn’t have a phone, but he did have a relative. I tried to think about Harold. We only spoke for a few minutes the day I was snooping around Jackie Jay’s neighborhood. He talked about having the flu, about the police arresting him. About Jackie. He said that he didn’t know her at first but then he said . . . he said that his mother’s name started with a “J.” What was her name?

I was forty-five that year and my memory, though still pretty strong, had begun to drop certain details. Names of relatives and friends from long ago slowly floated away. Numbers and sequences blended together. I remembered the smelly Harold telling me that Jackie’s name started with a “J” just like his mother’s. But the name was . . . the name was . . .

I finally decided that it didn’t matter. I had the first letter. That would have to be enough.

I pulled out my phone book, and starting with the Brown listings, I called every “J” in our neighborhood. Janes and Joes answered most often. There was a Jeanette, a Julia, a Jules, and a Jay. One woman answered and I asked her if she had a son named Harold.

“No, mister,” she said. “Are you sure he said Jocelyn Brown was his mama?”

Jocelyn!

“Yes ma’am,” I said. “Thank you, ma’am.”

I spent the rest of the afternoon going through the Smiths. I called until the tip of my pointer finger was sore from dialing.

I made a few notes about people who sounded cagey, but no one seemed to be a good prospect.

Once when I hung up, the phone rang.

“Hello?”

“Hi, baby,” Bonnie said. “Are you still looking for that man?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I’ve been trying to call you for hours but the phone line was always busy.”

“I think I might know the killer’s last name,” I said. “I’ve been calling all day trying to get a line on my guy Harold.”

“Do you need some help?”

I was born as poor as it gets in America. No running water, no heat, and only internal organ meat to eat once or twice a week if we were lucky. I never owned a new article of clothing until I was sixteen and already on my own for seven years. In my mind I still had that home to return to but I was no longer poor. Bonnie’s offer and Juanda’s embrace were gifts many a rich man could never claim. I was saved by the love of black women. Harold wouldn’t live to see 1966.

“Well,” I said, “I’ve only been calling in the Negro neighborhoods. I figure that his mother would be around here. But maybe they’re in the valley or down around Santa Monica. Maybe you could call those numbers.”

“Sure,” she said happily.

“You can’t give your name or anything else,” I said. “You can’t sound like there’s any problem at all.”

“Okay.”

I gave her the last names and Jocelyn. She took a deep breath and told me that she loved me.

I hung up the phone, wondering how long my perfect life could last.

The phone rang again.

“They call, Easy?” he asked even before I could say hello.

“Yeah, Jackson, they sure did. And I hope you plan to do right by these people and Jewelle.”

“What they say, man?”

“I only talked to the banker,” I said. “He gave me his home number. He said that they wanted to hire you for a responsible position. I told him that you were trustworthy and good. I hope you don’t make me a liar.”

“Easy, he don’t even know who you is, brother. It’s not like you put your name on the line.”

“It’s just like that, man. It’s just like that.”

“Well, don’t you worry, brother. I know them machines better’n the men who made ’em and I haven’t even seen one yet.”

Of all his failings, one thing Jackson didn’t suffer from was false pride. If he said that he was good at something, he was most probably the best. And if he said he was the best, then all the masters had better run and hide.

“I got somethin’ for ya, Ease,” he said.

“What’s that?”

“Boy name’a Harold. He cranky and mean and been livin’ in the street since he lost his job in nineteen fifty-six.”

“Where?”

“He been stayin’ at a mission over on Imperial Highway. They serve two meals a day there and let people stay as long as they don’t cause no trouble.”

“Did you get Harold’s last name?”

“Brown,” Jackson said. “Harold Brown.”

I held my breath. My luck was incredible. All I had to do was sit at my desk and whatever I wanted—sex or love or information—just poured in over my phone and through the door.

“I don’t get it, Jackson. Where’d you find all’a this?”

“Axed around, man. Axed around. You know, Easy, you takin’ care’a me. I sure in hell better make sure that you doin’ fine.”

“Who did you ask?”

“I got to keep my secrets now, Ease.”

“This is no time to play with me, Jackson.”

“There’s a sister work for the Congress of Negro Baptist Churches used to like me some,” he said. “I called and asked her if she knew how I could get a line on a man that’s homeless. I told her that his son just died. You know when you tell a woman about the death of a man’s son she’s all upset. Anyway, she give me a list of missions and I just called until I found the man meet your needs.”

“They just told you who he was?”

“I reeled out a story, Easy. You not the only one can do that. I told ’em that a man from their place, a big boy named Harold, had found my wallet and give it back to me wit’ all the money in it. I said that I wanted to reward him. You know wit’ a success story like that they was ready to let me spend a night with one’a their sisters.”

I could almost hear his grin.

“You a good man, Jackson,” I said. “You’re a dog but you’re a good man.”