'That's not where Frank lives.'
'I 'ave my own place. Yes? He is not my lover.'
'I could bring you some money and put you in a cab over on Main. That's all.'
'Oh yes, yes! That would be fine.'
At four in the morning the neighborhoods of Los Angeles are asleep. On Dinker Street there wasn't even a dog out prowling the trash. The dark lawns were quiet, dotted now and then with hushed white flowers that barely shone in the lamplight.
The French girl's address was a one-story duplex; the porch light shone on her half of the porch.
I stayed in my car long enough to light up a cigarette. The house looked peaceful enough. There was a fat palm tree in the front yard. The lawn was surrounded by an ornamental white picket fence. There were no bodies lying around, no hard-looking men with knives on the front porch. I should have taken Odell's advice right then and left California for good.
When I got to the door she was waiting behind it.
'Mr. Rawlins?'
'Easy, call me Easy.'
'Oh, yes. That is what Coretta called you. Yes?'
'Yeah.'
'I am Daphne, please to come in.'
It was one of those houses that used to be for one family but something happened. Maybe a brother and sister inherited it and couldn't come to a deal so they just walled the place in half and called it a duplex.
She led me into the half living room. It had brown carpets, a brown sofa with a matching chair, and brown walls. There was a bushy potted fern next to the brown curtains that were closed over the entire front wall. Only the coffee table wasn't brown. It was a gilded stand on which lay a clear glass tabletop.
'A drink, Mr. Rawlins?' Her dress was the simple blue kind that the French girls wore when I was a GI in Paris. It was plain and came down to just below her knee. Her only jewelry was a small ceramic pin, worn over her left breast.
'No thanks.'
Her face was beautiful. More beautiful than the photograph. Wavy hair so light brown that you might have called it blond from a distance, and eyes that were either green or blue depending on how she held her head. Her cheekbones were high but her face was full enough that it didn't make her seem severe. Her eyes were just a little closer than most women's eyes; it made her seem vulnerable, made me feel that I wanted to put my arms around her—to protect her.
We looked at each other for a few moments before she spoke. 'Would you 'ave something to eat?'
'No thanks.' I realized that we were whispering and asked, 'Is there anybody else here?'
'No,' she whispered, moving close enough for me to smell the soap she used, Ivory. 'I live alone.'
Then she reached out a long delicate hand to touch my face.
'You 'ave been fighting?'
'What?'
'The bruises on your face.'
'Nuthin'.'
She didn't move her hand.
'I could clean them for you?'
I put my hand out to touch her face, thinking, This is crazy.
'It's okay,' I said. 'I brought you twenty-five dollars.'
She smiled like a child. Only a child could ever be that happy.
'Thank you,' she said. She turned away and seated herself on the brown chair, clasping her hands on her lap. She nodded at the couch and I lowered myself.
'I got the money right here.' I went for my pocket but she stopped me with a gesture.
'Couldn't you take me to him? I'm just a girl, you know. You could stay in the car and I would only take a little time. Five minutes maybe.'
'Listen, honey, I don't even know you …'
'But I need 'elp.' She looked down at the knot of hands and said, 'You do not want to be bother by the police. I do not either…'
I'd heard that line before. 'Why don't you just take the taxi?'
