Dream a Little Death, page 10
“Why?”
“Because there’s no way she would’ve been rehearsing for weeks on end with a real gun. Performers use prop guns.”
I gave him a blank look.
“Think about it,” he said. “If someone wanted to kill her, they couldn’t possibly have swapped a real gun for a prop that night and expected her not to feel the difference. They look the same, but they don’t weigh the same. Not by a long shot.”
“So what are you saying? Somebody gave her a real gun, but told her it was a prop?”
“Exactly.”
It took me a minute. And then I understood. “Then, that night, all that person had to do was load the thing with a bullet.”
He nodded. “And mission accomplished.”
I said, “Too bad I can’t just ask her where she got the gun.”
Teddy picked up the gun, peered at the handle, then wrote something down on a napkin.
I grabbed the napkin out of his hand. “Eight three three one four four four.” Then I looked up at him. “The serial number. You’re brilliant.”
He flipped open his laptop. “Give me twenty-four hours and I’m going to tell you who bought this gun and everywhere it’s been since.”
“And what would you like in return?” I asked, untying the robe I was wearing.
He smiled.
A couple of hours later, I left for Cellar Door. Things were not going well over there. Apparently my mother’s savory seitan pie lover had left her last night for a raven-haired singer-songwriter, and Mom had driven out to Ojai at 5 a.m. for an emergency session with her life coach, leaving Gram all alone in the kitchen, where she’d burned herself pulling garbanzo flour banana breads out of the oven. When I came in, she was rubbing a stick of Satan’s cudgel (i.e., butter) on her hand.
“I know,” Gram said. “At least it’s unsalted.”
I gave her a hug. “Why don’t you go home? I can handle things here until Mom comes back.”
“Let’s not rush your mother,” Gram said. “You know how that can go.”
After we bandaged up her hand, Gram went out front to check up on things while I mixed up a vat of alkalizing fiesta salad, which is one of our best-selling items, second only to our adzuki bean sliders, which are actually quite tasty. Just not compared to a Double-Double. I was getting started on the cilantro-cumin cakes when I heard a crash. I ran out. Gram had dropped a tray of freshly refilled agave dispensers, and the entire floor was awash in sticky nectar. One of the busboys was already mopping it up.
“Gram, please,” I said. “You’re going to hurt yourself.”
“Stop fussing,” Gram said. “Anyway, I’m glad you’re done in the kitchen. I have to talk to the new waitress, and I’d like you to back me up.”
“What did she do?” I asked.
“She asked some customers if she could start them off with drinks, then suggested rosemary lemonade.”
“The nerve of her,” I said.
“It’s not funny. Then she asked if they wanted appetizers and mentioned that her favorite was the ancient grain pizza.”
“I never thought that belonged on the menu. Kamut has a weird texture.”
“You’re missing the point.” Gram’s voice started to rise. “This is not the Cheesecake Factory! Or the Olive Garden! We do not upsell wine coolers and nachos and Mississippi mud pie and whatever else we personally might like to consume in our weakest moments when many of our diners are gluten-averse! Or allergic to nightshades! Or on juice fasts and starving to death!” Then she burst into tears.
“Gram.” I maneuvered her into an empty booth. “Talk to me.”
“It’s nothing. I’m upset about a video I saw this morning.”
“What kind of video?”
“A circus lion freed from his cage who feels the earth beneath his paws for the first time.” She looked up at me, her beautiful blue eyes glistening. “I’m going to send you the link.”
“I can imagine that was really moving, but I’m thinking there’s something else going on. You can tell me.”
In so many ways Gram was ahead of her time. She was a free spirit who lived life on her own terms and didn’t care what others thought of her. But in other ways she was strictly old school. She lived, she breathed, she was made for love. It was Ray. Obviously.
“It’s Ray,” Gram whispered.
“What happened now?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I dropped by last night to bring him something to eat and there was no answer at his door. And no answer on his cell phone. I was worried so I snuck around the back to check on things.”
“And?”
“I peered into the bedroom window,” she said, tearing up again, “and there he was, with his phone in his hand, so he clearly knew I was calling. And he wasn’t alone. He was with some woman.”
“What do you mean, some woman?”
“I don’t know! Some woman!”
“Were they—?”
“Oh, I’d say they were well on their way.” Gram stifled a sob. “The thing is, we were talking about getting married! I was planning to pledge myself for life!”
For the fifth time, that would be. “There’s got to be an explanation. He’s under so much stress with work, and—”
“There’s something else I’ve got to tell you,” she said. “About Ray.”
“Hold that thought.” I looked down at my phone. It was Teddy. I stepped out into the parking lot.
“I’ve got a name,” Teddy said. “Omar G. Patterson.”
Didn’t ring a bell.
“He purchased the gun six years ago,” he said. “It hasn’t changed hands since. At least officially. And as far as the FBI knows, it’s never been used in the commission of a crime.”
“Do you have contact info for him?” I asked.
There was a long pause.
“Never mind.” I checked Facebook and Instagram. Nothing. Twitter and Pinterest. Nope. There was always 411.com, but the basic search costs $19.95, and I didn’t have a credit card handy.
“Dreama. This is a really, really bad idea.”
“Yes!” I’d hit pay dirt with LinkedIn. “Omar owns a business. Called Omar’s.”
“You’re Googling Omar’s, aren’t you?” Teddy asked.
“Absolutely not.” It was located on 54th and Central Avenue, in South Los Angeles.
“Now you’re mapping it.”
“No way.” Given current traffic conditions, I could be there in twenty-four minutes.
“Why don’t you cut the crap? You’re not fooling me. I get you, remember?”
Ouch. Every time a man says he “gets” me all I get is hurt.
“I’ve got another call,” I said. “See you later.”
It was only later, once I was in the car, that I realized I’d forgotten to say thank you.
The other thing I’d forgotten was to ask Gram what else she’d wanted to tell me about Uncle Ray.
Too bad.
Because that was when it all started to fall apart.
Chapter 19
I exited the freeway at Alameda, and took Central Avenue the rest of the way. It was a colorful ride. Just after 4th Street, I passed the wholesale bong district. After Olympic, the best place to buy a counterfeit Disney princess piñata. Then there was the Streamline Moderne Coca-Cola bottling plant, built to look like an ocean liner, complete with portholes and a catwalk. By the time I crossed under the 10, I was in South L.A.
Back in the 1940s, this particular strip of Central was solidly African-American, full of jazz clubs and hotels that catered to the likes of Duke Ellington and Billie Holiday, who weren’t welcome elsewhere in the city. I’d done some research on the area for the noir tour. In Walter Mosley’s hardboiled classic Devil in a Blue Dress, Easy Rawlins gets into hot water there, looking for a white woman named Daphne Monet who liked to live on the edge. The same could be said of Velma Valento, the femme fatale in Chandler’s Farewell, My Lovely, whose opening scene took place at Florian’s, the dive on Central and 54th where Velma used to sing. These days, Central and 54th was home to Gomez Appliances, La Bendicion Meat Market, and a peluqueria with a sign reading, “Fade/Taper/Fo Hawk/Mo Hawk.” Something for everybody.
I pulled up in front of Omar G. Patterson’s place of business. The sign read, “Granero del Gallo de Oro.” According to Google Translate, that meant “golden chicken granary.” My mind immediately went to cockfighting. Above the doorway were formal portraits of what seemed to be local pit bull V.I.P.s, as well as a photo-realist rendition of a twenty-pound bag of Iams ProActive Health lamb meal. Now I was thinking the full gamut of bloodsports.
Inside, however, things were somewhat more sanguine. There were Hannibal Lecter–esque muzzles, but also harmless items like flea powder and Skip to My Loo pet toilet training liquid. Yeah, it was yellow.
“Puedo ayudarle?” asked a young girl with thin, painted-on eyebrows.
“I’m looking for Omar G. Patterson,” I said.
She called out to a guy behind the counter, who was arranging the choke chains. “Ella esta pidiendo el gordo.”
“El gordo” means “the fat one.” I think.
“En la puerta de salida,” the guy said.
I typed the phrase into my phone. It was either a sexual reference, or Omar was just past the exit. I was going with the latter.
Out back there was a disintegrating brick garage with a small wooden sign nailed in front. “Omar’s Car Service, Est’d 1931.” A family business. Nice. Inside were a couple of limousines that looked like they’d seen better days. “Hello?” I called out.
A grizzled-looking man slid out from under one of the limos. “Afternoon, young lady. How can I help you?”
“I was wondering if Omar was around.”
A younger man slid out from under the other limo. He looked like Michelangelo’s David, with prison ink. He gave me the eye. “Sure you’re not looking for me?”
“Shut up, Wilson.” The older man turned to me. “Omar, Sr. or Omar, Jr.?”
I had no idea. “Omar G. Patterson,” I said.
“G for gorgeous,” he said. “That’d be Junior. He isn’t here.”
“Gorgeous? Omar G. looks like a hairy marble,” said Wilson.
The older man said, “Wilson. Help this young lady out. Where is Omar?”
“Where do you think? At your house, in bed with your wife.”
I liked their shtick, but I didn’t have all day. “Excuse me—?”
The older man held up a finger, then turned to Wilson. “You know who’s on tonight? ’Cause these cars aren’t gonna be ready.”
Wilson picked up a bottle of oil and shook it. “Empty. Damn. I don’t know who’s working. Check the schedule, Grandpa.”
“I’m not gonna do that. You’re gonna do that.”
“Darling?” Wilson gave me a smile. It was something special, that smile. “Can you check that notebook sitting on top of that file cabinet there? My hands are dirty.”
I walked over, opened the calendar, found today’s date. “The only name here is Lucius Ramsay.”
Lucius Ramsay.
That name sounded familiar.
Somebody had been talking to me about Lucius Ramsay.
Recently.
The older man nodded. “That’s where Omar G. is. Kissing Lucius’s butt.”
Wilson said, “I’m thinking Lucius better be kissing Omar G.’s butt, if you know what I’m saying. Lucius is kind of cash poor these days.”
Suddenly, I was getting the distinct feeling that Lucius was the one I wanted to see.
“I should’ve known.” I shook my head. “I’ve been wondering where Lucius has been hiding lately.”
Wilson jumped in. “Damn! He owes you money, too?”
Interesting. “Not me exactly. I wouldn’t be this upset if it were about me.” I smiled beatifically, then patted my stomach.
The older man took the bait. “You poor girl. Lucius is incorrigible.”
I swatted away an imaginary tear. “I don’t know what else to do. I thought maybe Omar could garnish his wages or something.”
Wilson said, “I know where he’s staying.” My knight in shining armor. “At his sister’s, two blocks from here. You need the address?”
“That would be wonderful. I’m sure she’d love to see the sonogram of her nephew.” I smiled proudly. “Lucius Jr.”
Wilson stroked his naked chest. “After you’re done there, maybe you and I can go for a ride.”
“Cars don’t run, fool,” said the older man.
“Well, shit,” Wilson said. Then he doubled over laughing.
There was a massive sycamore tree across the street from Lucius’s sister’s place. I parked beneath it and rolled down the window. Then I slunk down in my seat and assessed the situation.
It was a nice block, lined with small, well-tended post-war homes. Apparently, Lucius’s sister hadn’t gotten the memo. Her lawn was patchy, her paint was peeling, her screen door was hanging off the hinges. I could relate. Home maintenance is expensive and time-consuming. And Lucius was clearly no help. I popped open the glove compartment and pulled out my opera glasses. Hopefully, I’d be able to spot Lucius through the front window, getting his butt kissed by a man who looked like a hairy marble, or vice versa. Suddenly, the front door opened, and a petite woman with a sexy blond weave came out. The sister, I presumed. I peered at her through my glasses. Her nails were amazing. Hot pink, and shaped like daggers. Now she was getting into her Prius, putting on her seatbelt, and backing out of the driveway. I watched as she drove to the corner, then screeched to a halt, backed up, swung a U-turn, drove back to her house, and pulled into the driveway.
She’d forgotten to lock up.
Well, that was that.
You don’t lock up when somebody’s still at home. But I had to make sure. I waited for her to get back into her car, pull back out of the driveway, drive down the block, and disappear around the corner. Then I waited another couple of minutes to make sure she was really gone.
No more stalling.
It was time to exit the vehicle and take a little walk—past the pink house with the shiny trike hanging off the front steps, past the blue house with the trash cans out front, past the gray house with the four guys in wifebeaters and baggy shorts sitting on the porch who were certain to have no interest whatsoever in a strange young woman with a Jane Birkin basket trespassing on their neighbor’s property.
So maybe the plan wasn’t fully formulated.
I slumped lower in my seat, and turned on the radio. Music always helps me think. I flipped stations until I found Destiny D-Low’s chart-topping nineties throwback of this fall, “Oil Slick,” which Miles had produced to great acclaim. He’d told her to forget about singing on key and just belt it out, and sure enough, the cracks and squeaks in the vocals were exactly what made the track so powerful.
Destiny D-Low.
She was the one who’d mentioned Lucius Ramsay.
She, Lucius Ramsay, and Big Fatty were thick as thieves.
Big Fatty had raped Carmen.
And Lucius Ramsay worked for the guy whose gun had almost killed Maya.
Oh, shit.
Looked like I’d cranked the music a little too high, because one of the guys in the wifebeaters had crossed the street and was heading straight for me. I tossed my opera glasses on the seat, and started up the car.
“Do. Not. Move,” he said, his middle finger stabbing at the air.
No way out of this one. The rest of his friends were right behind him. And looked like they meant business.
“Hey.” I leaned out of the window. “What’s up?”
The first guy stared into my eyes, then reached into his back pocket for something, which turned out to be a Sharpie.
“Dreama, little Dreama, am I right?” He handed me the marker, then pointed to an open spot beneath his Tupac tattoo. “You think you could sign right there?”
After thanking me, he said, “Nice car like this shouldn’t have that dent on the front bumper.”
“Dent? What dent?” I exited the car and walked around to what was unequivocally a dented front bumper. Unbelievable. There was no dent in my car before Vlad the Impaler got his hands on it. No, I’ll bet it happened at Cedars. This is why I hate valet parking.
“Me and my boys, we can take care of it for a hundred bucks. You need anything else, we can do that, too. Tires, rims.” He popped a small piece of plastic onto the end of his cell phone. “We use Square. But since we have to pay 2.75 percent per swipe to the gangsters at Visa we’d prefer cash, if you’ve got it.”
The price was fair, but I really needed to economize. After I signed the other guys’ arms, and everybody swapped numbers, we chatted for a few minutes. It was good timing, too. Because while we were sharing favorite Instagrams and debating the pros and cons of e-commerce, they missed the man in the black hoodie emerging from Lucius’s sister’s backyard.
It wasn’t Lucius Ramsay.
Nor was it the hairy marble, Omar G. Patterson.
It was my uncle Ray.
Chapter 20
Ray had parked his Dodge Charger a block and a half away. I knew this because I trailed him in my car. Lucky for me there was a garbage man making his rounds so I could sort of idle in his shadow without calling too much attention to myself. It’s a groupie thing.
Once Ray got into his car, he sat there for a few moments just staring into space. I tried not to read anything into it—paralysis, despair, or demoralization, for example. The truth is I had no idea why my uncle would be lurking outside Lucius Ramsay’s sister’s house. There was probably an innocent explanation. But this wasn’t the time to figure it out. This was the time to gather information.
When Ray pulled away from the curb, I was ready. I shot forward, ducking around the garbage truck while trying to keep at least two cars’ distance between us as Ray raced down Central at breakneck speed. Speeding is one of those cop prerogatives, along with parking backward in the red to get your Starbucks. Anyway, I was doing a pretty good job, if I do say so myself, until Ray cut over to Alameda without signaling and I lost him thanks to a slow-moving family of tourists in matching bucket hats who were crossing the street single file. It was totally the baby’s fault.
