save me. Maybe nothing could.
“You got a cigarette, Melvin?”
“In the kitchen. I’ll go get it.”
He went through an arched doorway that had no door. I reached into my gym bag, into a secret sleeve under a Velcro strip that the police had missed, and came out with an envelope I had thought I might need before the day was up.
“Old Golds,” Melvin said when he came back. He had pulled on a pair of jeans; I took this as a good sign on a bad day.
I handed him the envelope.
“What’s this?”
“A thousand dollars,” I said. “Consider that a down payment on us working together on the case.”
“I thought you were going to find Mary for me.”
“I am. But four murders, an armored car job, and a kidnapping trump a simple missing person. You pay the rent, hire a cleaning lady, and get a haircut and I’ll be calling in about Uhuru-Bob.”
Melvin lit my cigarette.
I inhaled the fumes, knowing for a fact that I would never die due to complications arising from tobacco smoke.
“You got a picture of your girlfriend?” I asked.
He pulled a wallet out of his pocket and took from it a Kodak snapshot of a pretty young woman with long brown hair and a smile that would have worked on any child or mark.
12
The drive from West Los Angeles down to South Central was like following a social science chart starting from working-class Culver City, where people thought they were middle class, down to the crime-riddled black community, where the residents were under no such illusions.
Maybe, I thought as I pulled up to the curb on South Central Avenue between 76th Street and 77th Place, it would be better falsely believing that you were living the good life rather than knowing you probably never would.
My office was on the east side of the street, on the third floor of a block-long building. The workspace was smaller than my new master bedroom but it was large enough for the extra-wide desk that sat with its back to a window looking over Central, and a blue sofa that was just the right size for a three-hour nap.
The first thing I did was change out of my gym outfit into regular clothes. Then I went to the window and looked down on the street. Midday pedestrian traffic had been on the rise since the riots. Employment was definitely down and hope, especially for black men, was pretty low too.
If I wanted a better class of client (that is to say, anyone with disposable cash) I should have moved downtown or west of there. But as I got older, experience with my people had become not only exhilarating but nostalgic. Every new black face I met was a hopeful long shot and at the same time I was reminded of experiences so broad that they seemed to cover multiple lifetimes. No amount of silver could buy the passions in an aging man’s heart.
After my mawkish musings about the street, I sat down and pulled out the phone book. After that I dialed a number.
“Metro College,” a man’s friendly voice said.
“Records department please.”
“We don’t have a records department, sir.”
“I need to talk to someone about a student you have who is applying to me for a job.”
“The administration office is what you want, sir,” the friendly, officious switchboard operator informed me.
The next thing I heard was another ringing phone.
“Student services,” a mature woman said.
“Is this the administration office?” I asked. I didn’t need to but I wanted to respond to the operator’s obliquely condescending attitude.
“Yes, sir, it is,” the woman said and I felt a little stupid.
“And who am I speaking to?”
“Miss Hollings.”
“Well, Miss Hollings, my name is Jason Silver. I run a little mom-and-pop assembly shop on Robertson. Actually we’re in an alley off Robertson, behind a hotdog stand. We put together toys and party favors that are prefabricated in Japan. That way, you see, the Japanese can say
Made in the U.S.A
. and still have some control.”
“And?” the woman asked. “How can I help
“You got a cigarette, Melvin?”
“In the kitchen. I’ll go get it.”
He went through an arched doorway that had no door. I reached into my gym bag, into a secret sleeve under a Velcro strip that the police had missed, and came out with an envelope I had thought I might need before the day was up.
“Old Golds,” Melvin said when he came back. He had pulled on a pair of jeans; I took this as a good sign on a bad day.
I handed him the envelope.
“What’s this?”
“A thousand dollars,” I said. “Consider that a down payment on us working together on the case.”
“I thought you were going to find Mary for me.”
“I am. But four murders, an armored car job, and a kidnapping trump a simple missing person. You pay the rent, hire a cleaning lady, and get a haircut and I’ll be calling in about Uhuru-Bob.”
Melvin lit my cigarette.
I inhaled the fumes, knowing for a fact that I would never die due to complications arising from tobacco smoke.
“You got a picture of your girlfriend?” I asked.
He pulled a wallet out of his pocket and took from it a Kodak snapshot of a pretty young woman with long brown hair and a smile that would have worked on any child or mark.
12
The drive from West Los Angeles down to South Central was like following a social science chart starting from working-class Culver City, where people thought they were middle class, down to the crime-riddled black community, where the residents were under no such illusions.
Maybe, I thought as I pulled up to the curb on South Central Avenue between 76th Street and 77th Place, it would be better falsely believing that you were living the good life rather than knowing you probably never would.
My office was on the east side of the street, on the third floor of a block-long building. The workspace was smaller than my new master bedroom but it was large enough for the extra-wide desk that sat with its back to a window looking over Central, and a blue sofa that was just the right size for a three-hour nap.
The first thing I did was change out of my gym outfit into regular clothes. Then I went to the window and looked down on the street. Midday pedestrian traffic had been on the rise since the riots. Employment was definitely down and hope, especially for black men, was pretty low too.
If I wanted a better class of client (that is to say, anyone with disposable cash) I should have moved downtown or west of there. But as I got older, experience with my people had become not only exhilarating but nostalgic. Every new black face I met was a hopeful long shot and at the same time I was reminded of experiences so broad that they seemed to cover multiple lifetimes. No amount of silver could buy the passions in an aging man’s heart.
After my mawkish musings about the street, I sat down and pulled out the phone book. After that I dialed a number.
“Metro College,” a man’s friendly voice said.
“Records department please.”
“We don’t have a records department, sir.”
“I need to talk to someone about a student you have who is applying to me for a job.”
“The administration office is what you want, sir,” the friendly, officious switchboard operator informed me.
The next thing I heard was another ringing phone.
“Student services,” a mature woman said.
“Is this the administration office?” I asked. I didn’t need to but I wanted to respond to the operator’s obliquely condescending attitude.
“Yes, sir, it is,” the woman said and I felt a little stupid.
“And who am I speaking to?”
“Miss Hollings.”
“Well, Miss Hollings, my name is Jason Silver. I run a little mom-and-pop assembly shop on Robertson. Actually we’re in an alley off Robertson, behind a hotdog stand. We put together toys and party favors that are prefabricated in Japan. That way, you see, the Japanese can say
Made in the U.S.A
. and still have some control.”
“And?” the woman asked. “How can I help
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