“What do you want?” he asked me.
“Just don’t count me out unless I’m on the canvas. That’s all I ask you for. That, and I might be out of work a couple’a days. You could tell Newgate that you needed me for somethin’. Give him a call and tell him that I’ll be needed for a few days at the area office. Tell him that I’ll check in at the school but I’ll be out a lot too.”
Stowe gazed at me like some dumb animal mesmerized by a snake. He nodded after a while and took off his glasses—then put them back on again.
He’d do what I asked him to.
I’d do what I had to.
CHAPTER 14
SIMONA ENG LIVED in the San Fernando Valley with her father, Conrad Eng.
During our lunchtime talks in the maintenance office Simona had told us about her father. Mr. Eng was a tall Chinese gentleman who had come to the United States from Hong Kong when he was only five. His father was already dead from weak lungs and a hard life of labor; his mother was dying. Conrad was raised by Hilda Coke, daughter of a prosperous orange farmer from Pomona. Hilda had met the Engs on board the liner
After leaving the home of the Coke family in his late teens Conrad had become a butler. His wife, Irene, was an Italian cook. Conrad only worked until his middle years, when chronic weakness and a mild confusion set in. Early on, Simona’s mother died, leaving her daughter and slightly doddering husband to fend for themselves in the San Fernando Valley.
Their house was small but impeccably well kept. The mums and honeysuckle made me jealous. The oranges were the pride of their race.
“Hello,” Mr. Eng said. He’d come to the door in a full butler’s tux with vest and bow tie. He was two inches taller than I but a full forty pounds lighter. He wavered a little on his feet, reminding me of a reed or a tall stalk of wheat.
“Mr. Eng?”
“Yes,” he said through a bright smile. The question in his eyes found no words.
“Is Simona in, sir? My name is Mr. Rawlins. We work together.”
“She’s very sad today,” he confided in me. “You know children shouldn’t stay in. Old people have to stay out of the sun. But children need it.” His smile was wonderful.
“May I see Simona?”
“Just a moment,” he said. He turned and wandered into the small house.
He left the door open and I came in. I wasn’t spying on Simona but if I happened to see something you couldn’t blame me for that.
All that I saw was beauty. The pale violet walls and sunny green-and-yellow carpets. The furniture was constructed from cherry. There was silver and glass here and there and light coming from every window. Passing a framed mirror on the wall I saw my own smiling face.
“Mr. Rawlins.” Her voice broke the smile.
I turned and said, “Hey, Simona. How are you?”
She was wearing a gray sweatshirt with tight exercise pants and red tennis shoes.
“What are you doing here?” Her father had kept all of the manners to himself.
“The police came to see me this morning.” I decided to keep the lie in place, not knowing whether Jorge had called or not.
“About the killing?”
“About you.”
Simona looked around to see if her father was anywhere near. “Can we go outside, Mr. Rawlins?”
“Sure.”
We cut across the front lawn to an old wooden gate that had a doorway but no door. Ivylike vines made a roof for the corridor that led toward the back of the low house.
The yard was a large plot. It was surrounded by three high walls from the neighbors but was still sunny. The lawn bulged toward the middle; a fake well built from weathered pine was placed at the highest point. Simona sat on the grass near the well and motioned for me to join her.
“Nice place,” I said.
“My dad works around the house all day,” she said. “He likes … doing things more than talking or looking at the TV.”
“Did he decorate from memory?”
“What do you mean?”
“From China?”
“I don’t know really,” she answered, a little perplexed. “He left before he was five. He always says that he
