Of course, I thought, he’d read my files.
“No,” I said. “I mean, I was. But things didn’t work out.”
“And she left you with the kids?”
I could feel my heart swell in fear. Neither Jesus nor Feather was legally mine. I had gotten Jesus the papers of a child that had died in infancy, but his real story was worse than most orphans. He’d been sold as a child prostitute when he was about two and had probably come from Mexico, or maybe even from further down south.
There was no birth certificate for Feather at all. If the sergeant started looking into my private life everything could have fallen apart.
“Any more questions?” I asked him.
He shook his head but it was more disapproval than an answer to my question.
“Don’t you find it strange that someone would come into the school to hide something, Mr. Rawlins?” Sanchez asked. “I mean, why, how would they even know to do it?”
I wanted Sanchez to see me as an honest and hard worker. So I asked, “What was it they were hiding?” not because I cared or wanted to know but because I thought that that was the kind of question an honest man would ask.
“That’s police business,” he said. “Why don’t you answer my question?”
“No,” I said. “I don’t understand it. But I figure that if you want to do some late-night larceny the garden is the perfect place for it. You can’t see the lights on in the garden building because it’s surrounded by trees and bushes.”
“Oh?” he said speculatively. “And how would somebody know that?”
“Well,” I said, still the stuttering honest man, “I mean, the custodians know ’cause you can’t just look over there and see. You got to walk over there, open the gate, and go down behind the trees to tell.”
“I see,” he said.
I was beginning to dislike Sanchez as much as I did Mrs. Turner’s dog.
“Why don’t we take a walk and look for your night man?” Sanchez asked again.
“I told you. I got to get home to my kids.”
“It’ll just take a little while. We could answer some important questions.”
“That’s your job, sergeant,” I said. “My job is at home.”
He shook his head again.
“Excuse me,” I said. And then I turned my back on him.
CHAPTER 8
NIGHT HAD COME by the time I reached 1646 Butler Place. Butler was on a hill so steep that I had to turn my front wheel into the curb to help the parking brake.
The small house basked in the dim glow of a granite post streetlamp. It was surfaced in corroding light-colored plaster and surrounded by stands of bird-of-paradise plants. There was a small tree that took up what little yard there was; it had dark berrylike fruit hanging from it. I didn’t know what kind of tree it was, but that was no surprise. There was almost every kind of plant in the world growing on the city streets. L.A. is a desert pumped full of water. A haven for plant life, but if anybody ever turns off the tap, ninety-nine percent of the life down here would wither.
There was a light on in the house and a dark ’58 Thunderbird in the driveway. The porch was unlighted and I stood there in front of the door for a good minute before ringing the bell.
I stood waiting on that cool step because I wanted to control my temper. I should have told Sanchez about the dog; if he had been friendly I probably would have. But that cop could have looked into my business; my job history, my kids. And just by looking he could have destroyed all that I had built. I blamed Idabell for that. Leaving her damn dog with me and then lying about his accident. I was an accomplice to something and I wasn’t even sure what.
Nobody answered on the first ring, or the second. I put my ear to the door after five tries; not a sound. The doorknob didn’t turn. The window, hidden by the secret berry tree, was locked.
I could have gone home then—I should have. But the street had been calling me all day long. I had been seduced, hoodwinked, and blamed for a thief; I’d been bullied and looked at like a crook instead of an honest man. I could have gone home but I knew that I wouldn’t be able to sleep.
The side driveway consisted of two slender paths of concrete laid to accommodate the wheels of a car. Spare grass sprouted here and there in the trail of dirt that passed in between the cement tracks.
The backyard was dark and overgrown with shrubs and vines. Anything could have happened back there in the dark. I was no longer in the law-abiding workaday world. I was alone, hanging by a thread again.
The back door wasn’t open but the sliding window was. I slipped my hand in and twisted the knob.
The back porch housed an old-time washing machine. A big barrel-shaped thing that had a chrome arch over the top. There were clothes that had been left in the washer for days; they had begun to mildew.
I went from there into an unlit kitchen. Even in the dark I could see the mess. Dirty dishes piled everywhere, the stench of garbage. I could feel grit on the floor through the soles of my shoes.
The dining room held a faint glow from the light of the room beyond it.
I froze there next to the maple table when I saw two shod feet in the next room. They were the feet of a man reclining on his sofa chair.
