Part 7 (2/2)
”Isn't he going to bring your malted?”
”I'm allergic to milk products,” she said. Then she turned her back on me and stared out upon the stone image of her younger, more vulnerable self.
11.
”WHO IS THIS?”
”It's Paris, Ambrosia. Fearless there?”
”He's sleep.”
It was two in the afternoon.
”Wake him up for me, will ya? We got to be movin' soon.”
”Who do you think you are, tellin' me what to do, Paris Minton?”
”Listen, honey. I know you thought that you'd have him longer than this but playtime is over for a while. Fearless needs me to help out with a problem he's got. It's a big problem, and you would not want him thinkin' that you kept him from me at an important point like the one we at right now.”
Love might be light in someone's eyes, but hatred is silent and dark. Ambrosia didn't say a word for a full thirty seconds, and then she put the phone down-hard. She yelled a few well-chosen curses, and then Fearless picked up an extension somewhere in the house.
”Paris?”
”. . . and tell that skinny-a.s.s mothahf.u.c.kah that he bettah not show up at my door to get ya, neither!” Ambrosia yelled on her line. Then she slammed down the receiver in both our ears.
”Yeah, Fearless. It's me.”
”You find Kit?”
”Meet me at the Emerald Lounge.”
”Why'ont you pick me up?”
”Because Ambrosia said she don't want me there.”
”You scared of a woman, Paris?”
”No,” I said. ”It's just that I'm respecting her wishes.”
”I won't let her hurt you.”
”Just get over to the bar soon as you can. All right?”
Fearless laughed and hung up the phone.
I leaned forward over my butcher-block table and recounted the five-dollar bills that had been stuffed in the envelope Winifred L. Fine gave me. There were 186 186 notes. Nine hundred and thirty dollars. Not the millions Milo was talking about, but a pretty big payday for a man who had never earned over two dollars an hour on a regular job. notes. Nine hundred and thirty dollars. Not the millions Milo was talking about, but a pretty big payday for a man who had never earned over two dollars an hour on a regular job.
The name Wexler was still nagging at me. It was as if I had heard it before calling the Bernard Arms. The newspaper was in the trash, the column heading WOMAN FOUND DEAD WOMAN FOUND DEAD in plain sight. I remembered that when I thought about the name Wexler it was as though I had read it before. . . . And there it was-Minna Wexler. The corpse of the young woman in Griffith Park. Wexler. Could it be a coincidence? in plain sight. I remembered that when I thought about the name Wexler it was as though I had read it before. . . . And there it was-Minna Wexler. The corpse of the young woman in Griffith Park. Wexler. Could it be a coincidence?
She had been found by a hobo, Ty Sh.o.r.eman, who had been living in the park for a few weeks. She was stripped to the waist at the time of her death. Strangled. There were signs that she had been tortured before her demise. I thought about the burns up and down Lance's arm. The hobo was held for questioning and then released.
Wexler.
There were three sharp raps on my front door. I s.h.i.+vered in response.
BOTH WHITE MEN WORE DARK SUITS and frowns. One was going bald and the other had hair nearly down to his eyebrows. and frowns. One was going bald and the other had hair nearly down to his eyebrows.
”Paris Minton?”
”Yes, officer?”
”Why you think we're cops?” the hairy one asked.
”Guilty conscience?” his partner chimed.
”How can I help you?” I replied.
”We're looking for a friend of yours,” baldy said. ”A man named Fearless Jones.”
”He ain't here.”
”Do you know where we might find him?”
”No sir.”
My face went blank. The life drained out of my voice. My arms hung down at my side and I was willing to do anything those policemen wanted-except tell the truth.
”When's the last time you saw him?” the ape-man asked.
I stared out at the sky between their faces, pretending to concentrate. ”Maybe four weeks. He's been up north working for a man grows watermelons.”
The cop with the advancing hairline took out a small leather notebook and the nub of a yellow pencil. He jotted down something and smiled at me. I remember being surprised that the one with all the hair was also the man in charge. That seemed unfair somehow.
”May we come in, Mr. Minton?” he asked.
”Sure.” I stepped backward, pulling the door with me. ”Have a seat.”
They entered my front room but neither one took me up on the offer to sit. They scanned the room like dog-pack brothers, looking everywhere. The balding cop stepped into the bookstore, checking for surprises or infractions.
”Sorry for the intrusion,” the other cop said. ”I'm Sergeant Rawlway and this is Officer Morrain.”
”Pleased to meet ya.”
”Nice place you got here,” bald Morrain said from the left aisle. ”You sell a lotta books?”
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