new space that felt unlived in. This brought about a certain quality of intimacy that we’d never experienced in the home we knew so well.
“Daddy?”
I knew from her tone that something serious was up.
“Yeah?”
“You said that you were going to tell me about my real parents.”
I think it was her making dinner that defeated me. She was a young woman asking a man she trusted to tell her the truth.
The story of Feather’s parents’ lives, and deaths, was X-rated. Sheshouldn’t have heard it until she’d reached her twenty-first year, not her twelfth, but I knew I couldn’t avoid it for a decade more.
“It’s a sad story,” I said.
“Are they dead?”
We sat there in the dinette for more than two hours. I told her about Vernor Garnett, her maternal grandfather, who killed her mother and her father. I said that it was because he was an important man and was embarrassed by his daughter Robin’s wild lifestyle. I didn’t say it was because Robin had had a Negro daughter and tried to extort money out of Vernor to hide that fact.
“I was on another case,” I told her truthfully, “and came across those killings. After it was all over I found you with a friend of your mother’s. Vernor was going to prison and your grandmother and her son Milo had left for the East Coast. I didn’t want you with the county so me and Juice took you in.”
“Is my grandfather still in prison?” Feather asked.
“He died.”
“And my grandmother?”
“She knew about the crimes but the law couldn’t, or wouldn’t, prosecute her. She moved back east, like I said, I don’t know where.”
Feather got up from her chair and sat on my lap—there were tears in her eyes. I held her and she held me; both of us orphans on a dark street at night.
After some time I carried her up to her bedroom. She changed into her nightgown in the bathroom, crawled into her bed weeping, and I sat there beside her bed until an hour after she’d fallen asleep.
The phone rang at seven minutes after midnight. So much had happened that I forgot about the possible appointment.
“Hello?”
“Ease,” Mouse said. “What’s happenin’?”
“It’s all fucked up, Raymond,” I said to my oldest and deadliest friend.
I went on to tell him about Frisk and Manning, Mantle and RosemaryGoldsmith—who I had begun to think of as Rose Gold. I mentioned Uhuru Nolicé and almost getting killed on Crenshaw.
“Who is this Uhuru whatever?” Mouse asked.
“It’s an alias that Mantle’s using.” I went on to tell him about the shootout with the police, the so-called assassination, and the armored car job Manning had mentioned.
“That’s some bullshit right there,” Mouse said.
“What you mean, Ray? I read about all those crimes in the papers. You sayin’ they didn’t happen? Men shot at me in my car.”
“Did they hit you?”
“No.”
“Then they weren’t real killers, now were they?”
“They might have meant to kill me and missed.”
“Look, Easy, I don’t know about this Bob Mantle dude. I mean I seen him fight before but I don’t know about his politics or whatever. I do know that those three cops got shot was killed by Art Sugar and his crew. Art was runnin’ drugs and there was a shootout over on Slauson. I know that ’cause Art’s right hand in Chinatown, Lem Leung, wanted me to help him get on a slow boat to Hong Kong.”
I didn’t ask if Mouse had helped the middleman on his journey; nobody was paying me for that.
“I guess he could’a shot that vice principal,” Mouse continued, “but the armored car job couldn’t have been your boy because I know the people did it. They offered me a piece but you know I don’t shit where I eat.”
Raymond Alexander had his finger on the pulse of crime in L.A., and elsewhere. He wouldn’t have lied or passed on possibly faulty information, not to me. But if Bob Mantle couldn’t have committed at least two of those crimes, then why was the LAPD so sure of it? Why
“Daddy?”
I knew from her tone that something serious was up.
“Yeah?”
“You said that you were going to tell me about my real parents.”
I think it was her making dinner that defeated me. She was a young woman asking a man she trusted to tell her the truth.
The story of Feather’s parents’ lives, and deaths, was X-rated. Sheshouldn’t have heard it until she’d reached her twenty-first year, not her twelfth, but I knew I couldn’t avoid it for a decade more.
“It’s a sad story,” I said.
“Are they dead?”
We sat there in the dinette for more than two hours. I told her about Vernor Garnett, her maternal grandfather, who killed her mother and her father. I said that it was because he was an important man and was embarrassed by his daughter Robin’s wild lifestyle. I didn’t say it was because Robin had had a Negro daughter and tried to extort money out of Vernor to hide that fact.
“I was on another case,” I told her truthfully, “and came across those killings. After it was all over I found you with a friend of your mother’s. Vernor was going to prison and your grandmother and her son Milo had left for the East Coast. I didn’t want you with the county so me and Juice took you in.”
“Is my grandfather still in prison?” Feather asked.
“He died.”
“And my grandmother?”
“She knew about the crimes but the law couldn’t, or wouldn’t, prosecute her. She moved back east, like I said, I don’t know where.”
Feather got up from her chair and sat on my lap—there were tears in her eyes. I held her and she held me; both of us orphans on a dark street at night.
After some time I carried her up to her bedroom. She changed into her nightgown in the bathroom, crawled into her bed weeping, and I sat there beside her bed until an hour after she’d fallen asleep.
The phone rang at seven minutes after midnight. So much had happened that I forgot about the possible appointment.
“Hello?”
“Ease,” Mouse said. “What’s happenin’?”
“It’s all fucked up, Raymond,” I said to my oldest and deadliest friend.
I went on to tell him about Frisk and Manning, Mantle and RosemaryGoldsmith—who I had begun to think of as Rose Gold. I mentioned Uhuru Nolicé and almost getting killed on Crenshaw.
“Who is this Uhuru whatever?” Mouse asked.
“It’s an alias that Mantle’s using.” I went on to tell him about the shootout with the police, the so-called assassination, and the armored car job Manning had mentioned.
“That’s some bullshit right there,” Mouse said.
“What you mean, Ray? I read about all those crimes in the papers. You sayin’ they didn’t happen? Men shot at me in my car.”
“Did they hit you?”
“No.”
“Then they weren’t real killers, now were they?”
“They might have meant to kill me and missed.”
“Look, Easy, I don’t know about this Bob Mantle dude. I mean I seen him fight before but I don’t know about his politics or whatever. I do know that those three cops got shot was killed by Art Sugar and his crew. Art was runnin’ drugs and there was a shootout over on Slauson. I know that ’cause Art’s right hand in Chinatown, Lem Leung, wanted me to help him get on a slow boat to Hong Kong.”
I didn’t ask if Mouse had helped the middleman on his journey; nobody was paying me for that.
“I guess he could’a shot that vice principal,” Mouse continued, “but the armored car job couldn’t have been your boy because I know the people did it. They offered me a piece but you know I don’t shit where I eat.”
Raymond Alexander had his finger on the pulse of crime in L.A., and elsewhere. He wouldn’t have lied or passed on possibly faulty information, not to me. But if Bob Mantle couldn’t have committed at least two of those crimes, then why was the LAPD so sure of it? Why
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