The Museum of Desire

Chapter 27

Milo said, “Let’s check out that market. You mind driving? I need to think.”

I took Olympic east to San Vicente, continued past La Brea where the street turned to Venice Boulevard, hooked a right on Western, and drove a block south of Jefferson.

Tough neighborhood since the fifties, ravaged four decades later by the self-destruction sparked by the Rodney King riots. During the ensuing decades, no shortage of talk about renewal from politicians. But L.A.’s not a movie town for nothing; people get paid well to act.

Some of the storefronts had been rehabbed. More were boarded or empty and the overall feel was drab and sad.

J&M Caribbean Market was one of the bright spots, a single story of cement block painted lemon yellow and lime green, with hot-pink, bubbly-font signage asserting itself under a spotless red awning. A rolling iron accordion fence was pushed to the right side of the building.

A parking lot to the left was secured by a sliding metal-picket gate, now wide open. Two cars in the lot, a wine-colored Cadillac DeVille and a gold Buick Century. I parked between them. Three American sedans grouped like that evoked Detroit in its prime.

We walked around to the market’s entrance. Dead-bolted glass door. Milo rang the bell, someone moved behind the glass, and ten seconds later we were beeped in.

The market’s interior was immaculate, well lit, and fragrant — florals, citrus, a heavy layer of allspice. Fresh maple laminate covered the floor. High white walls were banded at the top by a belt of Z-Brick.

White display cases showcased bags of red beans and rice, precooked meat meals, packages of “fruta” and “gandules.” Conventional produce was stacked alongside plantains, okra labeled as “gumbo,” and tubers I couldn’t name. The beverage case cooled American beer along with Prestige from Port-au-Prince, Red Stripe and Gong 71st fruit beer from Jamaica. Cans of Coke and Pepsi and Mountain Dew shared space with golden Cola Couronne and Pineapple Ginger soda.

Behind the register, candles and the heralded herbs and oils.

One customer, a woman in her seventies, pushing a cart. A young Hispanic man swept the floor, careful to get into the corners. A dreadlocked woman in her thirties worked the register.

She smiled. Warmly, instinctually. Took a closer look and said, “Police?” but held on to a sunny face.

Milo said, “Want a job as a detective?”

The woman giggled, then turned serious. “Please don’t tell me something bad happened on the block. Usually I hear about it before you get here.”

“Nothing, ma’am, sorry if we alarmed you. We’re looking for a message board but I see you don’t have one.”

“Oh, we do,” she said. “Juan removed it to clear and clean a few days ago — we soap and water it regularly, all those hands? When it dries out, it goes back there.” Pointing to four feet of wall space at the right of the door.

“Did you by any chance hold on to any of the postings?”

“No, they’re tossed. Out with the old, in with the new, that way more people get to post. Why’re you interested in the board?”

“A man who we’re told shopped here was murdered last week and we’re trying to find a connection between anyone he did business with.”

“Murdered?” Both hands took hold of her chin. “So something did happen.”

“Not here, ma’am, on the Westside.”

“The Westside — that’s a switch. Who’s this person?”

Milo showed her Roget’s picture.

“Mr. Solomon? Oh, no.”

“You know him by name.”

“He wasn’t a regular but he did come in enough for us to chat. And yes, he did post his ads. A chauffeur, right — poor Mr. Solomon. You think someone who hired him killed him?”

“We’re looking into everything.”

“It couldn’t be my customers,” she said. “I don’t get gangsters, and the Rastas who buy from me are serious about their faith. I even get white folk. Students and faculty from USC and Mount Saint Mary’s. I used to work in administration at Mount Saint Mary’s, my husband’s an electrician there. Last week he sent me a dean of nursing and she bought up all of my sausage. We’re getting a reputation, some of those downtown hipster types are starting to come in, it’s a well-behaved clientele, I wouldn’t tolerate otherwise.”

“Got it, Ms...”

“Frieda Graham. Why would anyone hurt Mr. Solomon? He was such a gentleman... I know, it’s a foolish question.”

Milo said, “We ask ourselves the same thing pretty often.”

“Some job you have. Anyway, sorry I couldn’t be of more help.”

“Could we show you some photos?”

“Of who?”

“People who might be involved — not suspects, just involved. We’d like to know if they’ve ever been here.”

“I can’t remember everyone, but I’ll give it a try, why not.”

Visual pop quiz, Frieda Graham’s focus intense, her responses immediate.

Rick Gurnsey: “Nice looking... no.”

Benny Alvarez: “He looks kind of frail... no.”

Mary Ann Huralnik: “She looks totally out of it... no.”

Geoffrey Dugong: “That beard, we do get some like that, like I said hipsters... no, not him. I’m pretty sure.”

Milo said, “Pretty sure but not certain?”

“Ninety percent,” said Frieda Graham. “Because if I’d seen him clean-shaven, he’d look different. But like this — those beard-rings — he reminds me of that wrestler... Captain Lou Albano? My dad used to watch him.”

She used her hand to block the bottom half of Dugong’s face, studied the eyes. “Ninety-five percent no, I’d remember those eyes, they’re kind of crazy — have you seen Van Gogh’s self-portrait?”

Milo let her stay with the photo. She handed it back, shaking her head. “I’m gonna say no. Those eyes, though — is he like a semi-suspect?”

Milo smiled and showed her Medina Okash’s DMV photo.

She said, “Yes.”