said.
“Fuck that. I didn’t do anything wrong,” he said. “Can you find her?”
“I can do my level best.”
“What do you need from me?”
“Some police work and some personal things.”
“What’s the police work?” the cop asked.
“Roger Frisk came to my door yesterday when I was moving into a new place. He told me that he was looking for a girl named Rosemary Goldsmith, said that she had been in the company of a broken-down boxer named Bob Mantle. I tried to turn him down but he insisted. Hefinally persuaded me and sent a guy named Tout Manning to give me what I needed to move forward.”
I went on to tell him about Benoit’s Gym and the attack. I didn’t waste time complaining about the police interrogation. We both knew that the game was hardball in the street.
When I was finished Melvin said, “Frisk is who he says he is. He’s high up on the chart and there’s nobody above him except the chief. I never heard of this Manning guy. But Bob Mantle … you hit a note with him.”
“What kinda note?”
“The kind they tie to a dead man’s toe.”
I waited while Suggs put the story together in his head.
“Mantle has an alias,” he said after a minute or so, “Uhuru Nolicé.”
The senseless shout that accompanied the shots took form in my mind.
“He’s suspected in the shooting death of a high-school vice principal in Watts,” Melvin reported. “A guy named Emerson, I think. Then there’s an armored car heist in Burbank, and finally a shootout that left three cops dead in Watts.”
I knew about all three crimes. They were front-page news.
“They weren’t connected in the papers,” I said.
“No. The only connection was a telephone call and a letter, both to Bill Tarkingham at the
Herald Examiner
. The call claimed that the vice principal deserved death because he was a traitor to his people. About a week later a letter made of letters cut out from magazines was delivered to Tarkingham. It claimed responsibility for being the mastermind of the shootout. On the phone the caller said he was Uhuru Nolicé. The letter had that name glued to the bottom.”
“What’s that have to do with Bob Mantle?”
“When he was a student at Metro College he became politically active and started going by the name Uhuru Nolicé. He would dress up in African robes and give fiery speeches in the student union. Nobody paid any attention officially until the telephone call but by then he had gone underground.”
The ants were still marching down the wall behind Melvin. Their relentlessness felt somehow daunting.
“Why didn’t Tarkingham report on all this?” I asked.
“He told his editor,” Suggs said, “but because there was no actual confession it wasn’t considered newsworthy. After the letter his boss had a meeting with Chief Parker. They decided to hold back until the police could get a handle on the case. They didn’t want to erode public confidence in the LAPD, and there was some concern that Mantle would be hailed as a hero in some parts of the colored community.”
“He killed those three cops?”
“That’s what the brass thinks.”
“Why? I mean, it was a crank letter made from cutouts. Were there fingerprints?”
“I don’t think so,” Melvin said. He sat up straighter when talking about the details of his profession. “But there were details about the killings that were never in the news … and nobody outside of Tarkingham and Parker’s office knew the name Nolicé.”
“How do you know all this, Melvin? Aren’t you on probation?”
“I got my contacts.”
“And so what am I to Frisk and Manning? Like a sacrificial lamb or somethin’?”
“You are the man to go to if they want their finger on the jugular of the colored community.”
I closed my eyes and brought my hands to the top of my forehead. I wished, irrationally, that I had not come to Melvin; that I had not heard about the killings and Uhuru Nolicé. But I knew that ignorance couldn’t
“Fuck that. I didn’t do anything wrong,” he said. “Can you find her?”
“I can do my level best.”
“What do you need from me?”
“Some police work and some personal things.”
“What’s the police work?” the cop asked.
“Roger Frisk came to my door yesterday when I was moving into a new place. He told me that he was looking for a girl named Rosemary Goldsmith, said that she had been in the company of a broken-down boxer named Bob Mantle. I tried to turn him down but he insisted. Hefinally persuaded me and sent a guy named Tout Manning to give me what I needed to move forward.”
I went on to tell him about Benoit’s Gym and the attack. I didn’t waste time complaining about the police interrogation. We both knew that the game was hardball in the street.
When I was finished Melvin said, “Frisk is who he says he is. He’s high up on the chart and there’s nobody above him except the chief. I never heard of this Manning guy. But Bob Mantle … you hit a note with him.”
“What kinda note?”
“The kind they tie to a dead man’s toe.”
I waited while Suggs put the story together in his head.
“Mantle has an alias,” he said after a minute or so, “Uhuru Nolicé.”
The senseless shout that accompanied the shots took form in my mind.
“He’s suspected in the shooting death of a high-school vice principal in Watts,” Melvin reported. “A guy named Emerson, I think. Then there’s an armored car heist in Burbank, and finally a shootout that left three cops dead in Watts.”
I knew about all three crimes. They were front-page news.
“They weren’t connected in the papers,” I said.
“No. The only connection was a telephone call and a letter, both to Bill Tarkingham at the
Herald Examiner
. The call claimed that the vice principal deserved death because he was a traitor to his people. About a week later a letter made of letters cut out from magazines was delivered to Tarkingham. It claimed responsibility for being the mastermind of the shootout. On the phone the caller said he was Uhuru Nolicé. The letter had that name glued to the bottom.”
“What’s that have to do with Bob Mantle?”
“When he was a student at Metro College he became politically active and started going by the name Uhuru Nolicé. He would dress up in African robes and give fiery speeches in the student union. Nobody paid any attention officially until the telephone call but by then he had gone underground.”
The ants were still marching down the wall behind Melvin. Their relentlessness felt somehow daunting.
“Why didn’t Tarkingham report on all this?” I asked.
“He told his editor,” Suggs said, “but because there was no actual confession it wasn’t considered newsworthy. After the letter his boss had a meeting with Chief Parker. They decided to hold back until the police could get a handle on the case. They didn’t want to erode public confidence in the LAPD, and there was some concern that Mantle would be hailed as a hero in some parts of the colored community.”
“He killed those three cops?”
“That’s what the brass thinks.”
“Why? I mean, it was a crank letter made from cutouts. Were there fingerprints?”
“I don’t think so,” Melvin said. He sat up straighter when talking about the details of his profession. “But there were details about the killings that were never in the news … and nobody outside of Tarkingham and Parker’s office knew the name Nolicé.”
“How do you know all this, Melvin? Aren’t you on probation?”
“I got my contacts.”
“And so what am I to Frisk and Manning? Like a sacrificial lamb or somethin’?”
“You are the man to go to if they want their finger on the jugular of the colored community.”
I closed my eyes and brought my hands to the top of my forehead. I wished, irrationally, that I had not come to Melvin; that I had not heard about the killings and Uhuru Nolicé. But I knew that ignorance couldn’t
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