had passed since I last killed a man. Keith Handel was a thug and a killer, a ruthless man who would, who
had
murdered his own confederates for money. I thought he was trying to kill me. If he got the upper hand he probably would have. But that night I was lucky. I strangled him while he was trying to do the same to me.
“In the war,” I said.
“Is war your excuse?”
“Where I come from people don’t have any use for excuses.”
That got me another minute-long stare.
“Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr. Rawlins?”
“You could answer my question.”
“Let me be very clear,” he said. “I did not summon you or go to your house on Moving Day, as you call it. I didn’t give you any money or suggest these things you say about my daughter are true. You are in the employ of the Los Angeles Police Department. So I suggest you address your questions and bring your findings to them.”
Looking at Old Stony’s hard facade, I wondered if stainless steel could rot.
He had, I believed, given me the answers to my questions, but I didn’t understand their meaning.
The door behind me opened and I didn’t have to look to know that Red and Mr. Push-up had somehow been summoned to see me out.
17
As we climbed out from Goldsmith’s underground lair—Red, Mr. Push-up, Gregory Teeg, and I—I wondered about what crime had been committed. It could be that this was a simple kidnapping for ransom. It could be that Goldsmith’s desk was actually a prehistoric boar trained to stand still and act the part of an inanimate piece of office furniture.
I was breathing pretty hard at the halfway mark of our ascent. This exertion made me crave a cigarette. When we were outside of the concrete bunker I pulled out a Pall Mall and a box of matches.
“No smoking on the property,” copper-hued Teeg said.
“Why not?”
“Too many combustibles and flammables in the air.”
I made it home by six forty-five. Feather was there in the bare living room, sitting in the chair and reading a book. She had rooted out our old brass lamp and a dark side table made from elm.
“What you readin’?”
“La Condition Humaine,”
she said. “
Man’s Fate
by André Malraux.”
“In French?”
“I don’t really understand it but I can read the words pretty much. Bonnie gave it to me.”
“You hungry?”
“There’s chicken and dumplings on the stove,” she said, putting the book down and standing up to kiss me.
She’d also made a green salad in the French style with a garlicky vinaigrette dressing. I sat at the rectangular table in the eight-sided room and my daughter served. Both my children had matured early. They were smart and focused from childhood, responsible and willing to help. These traits might have had something to do with my child-rearing but I couldn’t explain it. I was a single parent who was often out in the world rather than at home. I had moved my kids around, kicked the woman we all loved out of the house, and was subject to sour moods. I had nearly killed myself and subjected Feather to a prolonged and spotty resurrection.
“How was it out at the Nishios’?” I asked when we were both seated.
“Nice. They have a big family and they all work together making clothes for Bryant’s Department Store in Beverly Hills. They have aunts and girl cousins and wives all there working. Mr. Nishio is the only man, he answers the phone and cuts fabric. Me and Peggy sewed yellow trim into the hems of black cloth dresses. I even learned a few things to say in Japanese.”
“That sounds nice,” I said.
“Oh,” she said. “What happened to your face?”
“Something hit the windshield of the Barracuda and it shattered.”
“That’s terrible.”
“Blessing in disguise,” I said. “I turned it in and got a new car doesn’t hit you like a neon sign.”
“Oh well,” Feather said, putting the old car from her mind.
The house seemed empty, not only because of the sparse furnishings; it was also a
had
murdered his own confederates for money. I thought he was trying to kill me. If he got the upper hand he probably would have. But that night I was lucky. I strangled him while he was trying to do the same to me.
“In the war,” I said.
“Is war your excuse?”
“Where I come from people don’t have any use for excuses.”
That got me another minute-long stare.
“Is there anything else I can do for you, Mr. Rawlins?”
“You could answer my question.”
“Let me be very clear,” he said. “I did not summon you or go to your house on Moving Day, as you call it. I didn’t give you any money or suggest these things you say about my daughter are true. You are in the employ of the Los Angeles Police Department. So I suggest you address your questions and bring your findings to them.”
Looking at Old Stony’s hard facade, I wondered if stainless steel could rot.
He had, I believed, given me the answers to my questions, but I didn’t understand their meaning.
The door behind me opened and I didn’t have to look to know that Red and Mr. Push-up had somehow been summoned to see me out.
17
As we climbed out from Goldsmith’s underground lair—Red, Mr. Push-up, Gregory Teeg, and I—I wondered about what crime had been committed. It could be that this was a simple kidnapping for ransom. It could be that Goldsmith’s desk was actually a prehistoric boar trained to stand still and act the part of an inanimate piece of office furniture.
I was breathing pretty hard at the halfway mark of our ascent. This exertion made me crave a cigarette. When we were outside of the concrete bunker I pulled out a Pall Mall and a box of matches.
“No smoking on the property,” copper-hued Teeg said.
“Why not?”
“Too many combustibles and flammables in the air.”
I made it home by six forty-five. Feather was there in the bare living room, sitting in the chair and reading a book. She had rooted out our old brass lamp and a dark side table made from elm.
“What you readin’?”
“La Condition Humaine,”
she said. “
Man’s Fate
by André Malraux.”
“In French?”
“I don’t really understand it but I can read the words pretty much. Bonnie gave it to me.”
“You hungry?”
“There’s chicken and dumplings on the stove,” she said, putting the book down and standing up to kiss me.
She’d also made a green salad in the French style with a garlicky vinaigrette dressing. I sat at the rectangular table in the eight-sided room and my daughter served. Both my children had matured early. They were smart and focused from childhood, responsible and willing to help. These traits might have had something to do with my child-rearing but I couldn’t explain it. I was a single parent who was often out in the world rather than at home. I had moved my kids around, kicked the woman we all loved out of the house, and was subject to sour moods. I had nearly killed myself and subjected Feather to a prolonged and spotty resurrection.
“How was it out at the Nishios’?” I asked when we were both seated.
“Nice. They have a big family and they all work together making clothes for Bryant’s Department Store in Beverly Hills. They have aunts and girl cousins and wives all there working. Mr. Nishio is the only man, he answers the phone and cuts fabric. Me and Peggy sewed yellow trim into the hems of black cloth dresses. I even learned a few things to say in Japanese.”
“That sounds nice,” I said.
“Oh,” she said. “What happened to your face?”
“Something hit the windshield of the Barracuda and it shattered.”
“That’s terrible.”
“Blessing in disguise,” I said. “I turned it in and got a new car doesn’t hit you like a neon sign.”
“Oh well,” Feather said, putting the old car from her mind.
The house seemed empty, not only because of the sparse furnishings; it was also a
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