“And they didn’t find it.”
Without waiting to see her reaction, he turned and disappeared down the hall.
unday morning’s Los Angeles Times was a bad news extravaganza. Temperatures were expected to reach the high nineties for the fourth consecutive day in October, a new record for the city, and no rain was in the forecast. One of two Caucasian policemen responding to a phony rape call had lost an eye to a sniper with a pellet gun in Encino. Weapon sales throughout the L.A. basin were up thirty-five percent from the previous year. And the UCLA Bruins had blown their Pac-10 opener at home to the Washington Huskies Saturday afternoon, 33-14. A junior tailback named Clarence McDaniel had waltzed through the Bruin defense for 141 yards and three touchdowns.
“You want to know how I’m doing,” Gunner said.
Del looked up from the business-section of the paper and set it aside, for good. “Yeah, I would,” he said, signaling their waitress for more coffee.
Del Curry was a good looking little man in his early forties who was hard to lie to, face-to-face. His skin was light brown and his full head of hair was an almost golden yellow. He had a well-groomed mustache and the eyes of a stuffed bird on a taxidermist’s shelf, black and unwavering gems of glass.
“I’m doing fine,” Gunner said, plastering a slice of white toast with grape jelly.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“You get your money up front like I told you?”
“I got enough to work with.”
“And the rest?”
“The rest comes later. When I’m done.”
“Uh-huh.”
“It’s working out this time, Del. Really.” He braved a short glance Del’s way. “It’s not the same worthless shit as before.”
Del’s gaze was unyielding. “This is different worthless shit,” he said.
Gunner just lowered his head and resumed eating.
The bulletin board at the converted corner market the Brothers of Volition called home was uninspiring reading, but it was all the diversion the barren anteroom offered to visitors killing time there.
Posted on the board’s cork face were bits and pieces of the propaganda upon which the Brothers based their sometimes contradictory socialist/black nationalist code: photocopied newspaper clippings from various left-wing periodicals, excerpts from the writings of Karl Marx and Malcolm X, and a colorful collection of inflammatory quotations made by white Americans of considerable political influence, from members of the L.A. School Board to Secretaries of State, both past and present. A hand-lettered banner at the top of the board read, in wavering capitals, WAKE UP, BROTHERS AND SISTERS! WAKE UP!
Gunner gave the board one final, lingering look and took a seat on one of the hard plastic chairs arranged beside it. Not far away, the round-faced kid with the outdated, balloon-like Afro whose job it was to watch the door was still taking him in, glassy-eyed, propped up behind a painted metal desk like a mannequin with an attitude problem. Decked out in the Brothers’ standard uniform of green dungaree shirt and blue denim pants, he had assured Gunner that the detective was welcome to wait around for Brother Mayes to return from the Black Student Union rally he was addressing on the campus of Cal State Long Beach, but he had neglected to mention how severely Gunner would be scrutinized if he chose to do so. Working for Verna Gail may have earned him the right to cool his heels on the premises until Mayes could dismiss him personally, but it obviously didn’t make him a friend of the family.
Gunner spent the next two hours under the microscope of the kid’s undivided attention, melting in the sweltering heat of the room, and was back up at the bulletin board, about to call it quits, when Mayes and his requisite tour party of a half-dozen or so compatriots finally made their entrance.
Wearing the Brothers’ colors to a man, they were in good spirits, chatting among themselves like a band of GI’s returning from battle.
Without waiting to see her reaction, he turned and disappeared down the hall.
unday morning’s Los Angeles Times was a bad news extravaganza. Temperatures were expected to reach the high nineties for the fourth consecutive day in October, a new record for the city, and no rain was in the forecast. One of two Caucasian policemen responding to a phony rape call had lost an eye to a sniper with a pellet gun in Encino. Weapon sales throughout the L.A. basin were up thirty-five percent from the previous year. And the UCLA Bruins had blown their Pac-10 opener at home to the Washington Huskies Saturday afternoon, 33-14. A junior tailback named Clarence McDaniel had waltzed through the Bruin defense for 141 yards and three touchdowns.
“You want to know how I’m doing,” Gunner said.
Del looked up from the business-section of the paper and set it aside, for good. “Yeah, I would,” he said, signaling their waitress for more coffee.
Del Curry was a good looking little man in his early forties who was hard to lie to, face-to-face. His skin was light brown and his full head of hair was an almost golden yellow. He had a well-groomed mustache and the eyes of a stuffed bird on a taxidermist’s shelf, black and unwavering gems of glass.
“I’m doing fine,” Gunner said, plastering a slice of white toast with grape jelly.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
“You get your money up front like I told you?”
“I got enough to work with.”
“And the rest?”
“The rest comes later. When I’m done.”
“Uh-huh.”
“It’s working out this time, Del. Really.” He braved a short glance Del’s way. “It’s not the same worthless shit as before.”
Del’s gaze was unyielding. “This is different worthless shit,” he said.
Gunner just lowered his head and resumed eating.
The bulletin board at the converted corner market the Brothers of Volition called home was uninspiring reading, but it was all the diversion the barren anteroom offered to visitors killing time there.
Posted on the board’s cork face were bits and pieces of the propaganda upon which the Brothers based their sometimes contradictory socialist/black nationalist code: photocopied newspaper clippings from various left-wing periodicals, excerpts from the writings of Karl Marx and Malcolm X, and a colorful collection of inflammatory quotations made by white Americans of considerable political influence, from members of the L.A. School Board to Secretaries of State, both past and present. A hand-lettered banner at the top of the board read, in wavering capitals, WAKE UP, BROTHERS AND SISTERS! WAKE UP!
Gunner gave the board one final, lingering look and took a seat on one of the hard plastic chairs arranged beside it. Not far away, the round-faced kid with the outdated, balloon-like Afro whose job it was to watch the door was still taking him in, glassy-eyed, propped up behind a painted metal desk like a mannequin with an attitude problem. Decked out in the Brothers’ standard uniform of green dungaree shirt and blue denim pants, he had assured Gunner that the detective was welcome to wait around for Brother Mayes to return from the Black Student Union rally he was addressing on the campus of Cal State Long Beach, but he had neglected to mention how severely Gunner would be scrutinized if he chose to do so. Working for Verna Gail may have earned him the right to cool his heels on the premises until Mayes could dismiss him personally, but it obviously didn’t make him a friend of the family.
Gunner spent the next two hours under the microscope of the kid’s undivided attention, melting in the sweltering heat of the room, and was back up at the bulletin board, about to call it quits, when Mayes and his requisite tour party of a half-dozen or so compatriots finally made their entrance.
Wearing the Brothers’ colors to a man, they were in good spirits, chatting among themselves like a band of GI’s returning from battle.
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