'This is terrible. Do you think maybe something 'as 'appened with Frank?'
'Listen, lady, I don't know what's goin' on with Frank or anybody else. All I know is that it ain't none'a my business and I hope you do okay but I have to go right now …'
'But you must help me.'
'No thanks, honey. This is too much fo' me.'
'But if you do not help I will 'ave to go to the police to find my friend. I will 'ave to tell them about you and this woman, this Coretta.'
'Listen, it was prob'ly your friend that killed her.'
'She was stabbed?'
'No,' I said, realizing what she meant. 'She was beaten to death.'
'That ees not Frank. He 'as the knife. He does not use his fists. You will help me?'
'Help you what?' I said. I put up my hands to show how helpless I was but no one could see me.
'I 'ave a friend, yes? He may know where to find Frank.'
'I don't need to go lookin' fo' Frank Green but if you want'im why don't you just call this friend?'
'I, I must go to him. He 'as something for me and …'
'So why do you need me? If he's your friend just go to his house. Take a taxi.'
'I do not 'ave the money and Frank 'as my car. It is far away, my friend's house, but I could tell you 'ow to go.'
'No thanks, lady.'
'Please help me. I do not want to call the police but I 'ave no other way if you do not help.'
I was afraid of the police too. Afraid that the next time I went down to the police station I wouldn't be getting out. I was missing my catfish more and more. I could almost smell it frying; I could almost taste it.
'Where are you?' I asked.
'At my house, on Dinker Street. Thirty-four fifty-one and a 'alf.'
'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.'
13
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?'
