Little Scarlet (7 page)

It was all guesswork. He was a looter and young. He was black in America, transplanted from the South, and all alone in a room hot enough to brew tea.

Bobby stared at me with anxious, calculating eyes. He wanted to steer clear of trouble and he was wondering if a lie or the truth would accomplish that end.

“I don’t know nuthin’ about what happened to Nola,” he said at last. “I haven’t even seen her since before the riotin’ started. All I know is some men pult that white man outta the red car and beat him. He ran away an’ after that I don’t know nuthin’.”

It could have been true.

“So you didn’t see Nola since the riots started?” I asked.

“No sir.”

“Did anybody around here see her?”

“Nobody I know.”

The police had put a muzzle on the murder. It hadn’t happened — yet.

“I need to know two things, Robert,” I said.

“What’s that?”

“Where does Nola live exactly and who stole the white man’s car?”

“What do I get out of it?”

“For starters I won’t throw you out the window.”

“You think I’m scared’a you, old man?” the youth asked me.

“You should be, son. You should be.”

Grant had a weak jaw. When his mouth hung open he looked pathetic, though I’m sure he thought he was looking mean.

When he saw I wasn’t buying it he broke into a half-hearted laugh.

“I’m just fuckin’ wit’ you, man. Yeah, sure I’ll tell ya. Nola live over on the right over here on the third floor, apartment three. And it was Loverboy stoled that man’s car.”

“Loverboy?”

“Uh-huh. He famous around here. He steals cars for a livin’. One boy tried to set that white man’s car on fire but Loverboy an’ this other dude pushed him down an’ stoled that mothahfuckah.”

“You know his real name?” I asked.

Bobby Grant shook his head.

I couldn’t think of anything else to ask so I left him with his train sets, work pants, and his stacks of empty dishes.

When I got back out on the street the crowd on the corner was gone. That was either a good or a bad thing. Maybe Newell went home to lick his wounds or maybe to get his pistol. But either way, there was no turning back for me then. I went to the apartment building where Nola lived. It was next to a small grocery that had been gutted and torched.

Across the street the Gaynor Furniture store was just a gaping hole flanked by three walls. There was devastation up and down the block and for miles around. For a moment the enormity of what had happened got to me. On TV they had aerial views of this part of the city. It looked like Germany did when we marched in at the end of the war.

It was like a war, I thought. A war being fought under the skin of America. The soldiers were all unwilling conscripts who had no idea of why they were fighting or what victory might mean.

NOLA’S DOOR WAS
locked but I had a slender metal slat in a comb sleeve in my pocket. That slat could crack most simple locks and latches. I also had a letter in my pocket that would get me out of jail if it came to that.

The apartment seemed together. There was no overturned furniture or open, tossed drawers. Nola Payne had been a neat woman. Her bed was made and the floors were swept. The dishes were stacked on the kitchen counter because there were no shelves installed. She had a two-burner black wrought-iron stove.

In her bedroom there was a small photograph in a silver frame set upon a two-drawer cabinet. Nola was in the foreground backed up by a tall brown man with a grin on his lips and his arms wrapped around her waist.

In the trash can in the bathroom there were three bloody rags torn from a sheet like the one Bobby used for a curtain.

I couldn’t find another drop of blood anywhere. Then I remembered that she was shot after being murdered.

Nola’s window looked down on Grape Street. The youth in the overalls was back on the corner with three or four others. Juanda wasn’t there. I was angry at myself for noticing her absence. I wasn’t looking for a woman to play around with. Bonnie was my woman. We nearly broke up over her African prince but then we’d decided to stay together.

I intended to honor that decision.

There was no address book among Nola’s things. That was odd. Such a neat and organized woman would have a place where she kept her phone numbers and addresses. I found her purse. She had a wallet with eight dollars and a silver chain with a broken clasp.

I searched for an address book for ten minutes. No one, especially a stranger, would have taken it, so I thought that it must be someplace obvious — staring me in the face. Finally I gave up. Maybe Nola was a loner and didn’t have to jot down the few numbers she called regularly.

As I walked out of Nola’s apartment I was thinking about Juanda’s yellow-and-white dress. It fit her figure perfectly. I speculated that she was in her early twenties and unmarried. Her skin was dark and she had big nostrils. Her face had an animal quality, like a fairy-tale fox.

I shook my head, dislodging the image. But when I walked into the hallway, there she was.

“Mr. Rawlins?”

“Yes, Juanda, what is it?”

“Um.” She was looking at me with hungry eyes. She expected me to embrace her. I was feeling it too but I didn’t give in.

“Yeah?”

“Newell went to get some’a his friends. They drivin’ around now lookin’ for you.”

“How did you find me?”

“I went to ask Bobby.”

“Why didn’t Newell ask him?”

“’Cause I told him that I’d go over and ask and when I told him Bobby didn’t know he believed me.”

I couldn’t seem to take a satisfying breath. The clamor of new love was rattling around in my chest in spite of my intentions.

I knew it was an effect of the riots, that the passion of release had let something go in me. And Juanda was a black woman looking out for me, taking chances for me. She was a poor man’s dream. And I was still, and always would be, a poor man in my heart.

“Why’d you do that?” I asked.

“I don’t know. I like you, I guess.”

“I’m parked over on Graham,” I said. “What’s the best way for me to get there without having to kick Newell’s ass again?”

My brave words thrilled Juanda.

“Down out the back way. We could go on a Hundred and Thirteenth Street across Willow Brook and over to Graham.”

“You comin’ with me?” I asked.

“Maybe, if you don’t mind. I need a ride to my auntie’s over on Florence.”

I gestured for her to lead the way and she smiled. Everything we did seemed to be important. I knew that any step I took, either toward her or away, I would regret in the morning.

“WHAT’S NEWELL’S PROBLEM
with people?” I asked as we crossed Willow Brook. “I mean, I didn’t start this thing with him.”

“He just jealous.”

“Of me? He don’t even know me.”

“Naw, it’s me,” Juanda said. “He think if he say I’m his girl enough times, it’a wind up bein’ true. But you know I might have other ideas.”

“But what do I have to do with you?”

“You stood up to him and he got embarrassed, that’s all.” Juanda gave me a sidelong glance that made my heart flutter.

I led her to my car.

“This new car is yours?” she asked.

“Yeah. Jump in.”

She squealed and hopped in. For the next few minutes her talk followed a meandering line starting with how her uncle had a car like mine. Her uncle was a plumber for the city, he’d married her mother’s sister twenty years before when Aunt Lovey (whose house we were going to) was only seventeen. Everybody thought it was scandalous for a thirty-eight-year-old man to wed a teenager but Juanda thought that it was okay. She liked older men. But not men like Newell. Newell was always complaining about how people did him wrong, white people mainly, but he didn’t like black bosses, ministers, store owners, or policemen either. When a man got older, she said, he should feel comfortable with the world and not mad because things didn’t go his way. That’s why she liked me. I stood up for myself but still didn’t lord it over people when I had the upper hand. For instance, I could have kicked Newell when he was down but I didn’t. I could have told everybody that I was a friend of Raymond Alexander’s but I didn’t. That’s because I was sure of myself and Juanda liked that, she liked it very much.

It may sound like I’m making light of the young woman in the tight yellow dress but I’m not. I remembered every word she said. They were burned in my memory.

“Do you know Nola Payne?” I asked during a lull in her narrative.

“Yeah. Why?”

“Her aunt Geneva is in some trouble. Nola might be too.”

“Bobby said that Geneva was in jail and that Nola was missin’,” Juanda said.

She crossed her legs and I resisted laying my hand on her bare knee.

“Did Nola have a white boyfriend?”

“Not that I know about,” Juanda said. “I mean, Nola’s a friendly girl and she don’t hate nobody. If she met a nice white man she would go out with him I bet.”

“What about a guy named Loverboy? You know him?”

“Uh-huh. He around. He wear nice clothes and have a nice car but you know he’s a thief and a thief always wind up in jail or another woman’s bed.” It was clear that Juanda judged every man on his prospects as a boyfriend or more. But I didn’t hold that against her. She was a young woman ready to make her nest. A man would have to be an important part of her plans.

“What do you do, Mr. Rawlins?”

She inched over on the seat and I held my breath.

We were driving on Central toward Florence.

Juanda touched my thigh with three fingers.

“You gonna tell me?”

“I own a couple’a apartment buildings here and there,” I answered her honestly, as far as it went.

I was a property owner but I didn’t want to tell her about my job at Sojourner Truth or my little office on Eighty-sixth and Central. I worried that if I opened up that far I’d never be able to close the door on her.

“That’s nice,” she was saying. “My daddy always says that real estate is your best investment because rent is always part of your salary.”

“You know where Loverboy lives?” I asked.

“No. Why?”

“I think I might need to talk to him.”

“That’s my auntie’s house right up there,” she said.

I pulled to the curb. A large, light-colored woman was sitting on the front porch. She frowned at my car, obviously not expecting her niece to be inside.

“I got a pencil and paper in the glove compartment,” I said.

“Yeah?”

“Why don’t you write down your number. I might need to ask you some more questions about Loverboy and Nola.”

Juanda’s grin was victorious. She jotted down the number and put it on the dashboard.

“Don’t forget to call me now,” she said.

“I sure won’t.”

I did a U-turn on Florence even though there was a National Guard bivouac across the street. I wanted to see if the Guard were enforcing traffic laws — they were not.

Three blocks from Juanda’s aunt, on the opposite side of the street, was an unscathed two-story building that had a large white tarp hanging from the second-floor window. The red letters spray painted on the tarp read
SOUL BROTHER
. Sitting on the front porch of the barbershop-turned-bookstore was Paris Minton, the sole proprietor of Florence Avenue Bookshop.

I pulled up to the curb and jumped out. The exuberance I felt over Juanda now fastened onto my joy that Paris’s bookstore was saved.

The little bookworm rose to greet me.

“Hey, Easy,” he said. I could hear the exhaustion in his voice.

Paris was short and had a slight build. His skin was the same dark brown as mine.

“Paris. What you doin’ outside?”

“Been sittin’ out here for six days and nights, man. Me an’ Fearless tryin’ to keep people from bustin’ up my store.”

“Damn. You didn’t get any sleep?”

“Not too much,” Paris said ruefully. “Every hour or so some new mob come by and wanna set a torch to my walls. But Fearless stood ’em all down.”

Paris’s friend, Fearless Jones, had his name right up there next to Mouse as being the most dangerous man in L.A. Fearless had been a commando in World War II. I had heard about him when I was in France. They said that he and one general made up for a whole battalion. The general, Thompkins, would point Fearless at the enemy and then pull the trigger. Both of them came out of the war with more medals than they could wear.

“Where is Mr. Jones?” I asked Paris.

“He left me last night,” Paris said. “Him and this girl Brenda went down to San Diego for a few days.”

Paris sat back down on his wooden stairs and I leaned against the banister.

The avenue before us was well traveled by National Guardsmen and cops and lined with burned-out, gutted structures.

“So what you think, Paris?”

“Ain’t had much time to think, Easy. I had to do some fast talkin’ to keep my store here. They burnt down the market next door. I had to keep that side of the house soaked with a hose to keep the flames off.”

“You talk to many of the white people owned these stores?” I asked.

“A few came back yesterday,” he said. “Some more today. They’re like in shock. I mean, they don’t know why it happened. They don’t see how it is that black people could be so mad at them. One guy own the hardware store up the block said that if he didn’t put his store in, then there wouldn’t be no hardware store. He said that the people who live around here don’t want to own a business.”

“What’d you say to that?” I asked.

“What can I say, Easy? Mr. Pirelli works hard as a motherfucker out here. He don’t know how hard it is to be black. He can’t even imagine somethin’ harder than what he doin’. I could tell him but he wouldn’t believe it.”

I liked Paris. He was a very intelligent man. But he was a pessimist when it came to human nature. He didn’t think that he might teach that hardware store owner anything, so he just nodded at the man’s ignorance and let it ride.

Who knows? Maybe Paris was right.