seen one yet.”
Of all his failings, one thing Jackson didn’t suffer from was false pride. If he said that he was good at something, he was most probably the best. And if he said he was the best, then all the masters had better run and hide.
“I got somethin’ for ya, Ease,” he said.
“What’s that?”
“Boy name’a Harold. He cranky and mean and been livin’ in the street since he lost his job in nineteen fifty- six.”
“Where?”
“He been stayin’ at a mission over on Imperial Highway. They serve two meals a day there and let people stay as long as they don’t cause no trouble.”
“Did you get Harold’s last name?”
“Brown,” Jackson said. “Harold Brown.”
I held my breath. My luck was incredible. All I had to do was sit at my desk and whatever I wanted—sex or love or information—just poured in over my phone and through the door.
“I don’t get it, Jackson. Where’d you find all’a this?”
“Axed around, man. Axed around. You know, Easy, you takin’ care’a me. I sure in hell better make sure that you doin’ fine.”
“Who did you ask?”
“I got to keep my secrets now, Ease.”
“This is no time to play with me, Jackson.”
“There’s a sister work for the Congress of Negro Baptist Churches used to like me some,” he said. “I called and asked her if she knew how I could get a line on a man that’s homeless. I told her that his son just died. You know when you tell a woman about the death of a man’s son she’s all upset. Anyway, she give me a list of missions and I just called until I found the man meet your needs.”
“They just told you who he was?”
“I reeled out a story, Easy. You not the only one can do that. I told ’em that a man from their place, a big boy named Harold, had found my wallet and give it back to me wit’ all the money in it. I said that I wanted to reward him. You know wit’ a success story like that they was ready to let me spend a night with one’a their sisters.”
I could almost hear his grin.
“You a good man, Jackson,” I said. “You’re a dog but you’re a good man.”
36
If the Watts Community Men’s Shelter was on public school grounds it would have been called a gymnasium. It was a large empty space like an airplane hangar with pitted pine floors. The walls were thirty feet high and the only windows lined the ceiling. On one side there were rows of canvas cots and on the other, rows of tables with benches along them. There must have been five dozen men in the room. The smell of mayonnaise and body odor was overwhelming.
“Can I help you?” a young man asked.
He was black but his hair was straight, not straightened. His words were clear and well articulated but there was a whisper of Spanish somewhere.
“I’m lookin’ for Harold Brown,” I said.
The young man, who was slender and well groomed, hesitated. I knew then that I was going to have trouble finding my quarry.
“This isn’t a hotel, sir,” he said. “People come here for food and shelter. There’s no entertaining here.”
“It’s very important that I see Harold Brown,” I said. “Extremely important.”
“A lacerated foot or a chest infection,” he said. “Those are the things important around here. A good night’s sleep is what we strive for.”
I looked out over the crowd of brown and black men. Some of them were probably made homeless by the riots but the majority were permanent inhabitants of the streets of L.A., San Diego, San Francisco, and every other stop along the rails. Their clothes, no matter the original color, mostly tended toward gray and their shoulders stooped under the almost metaphorical weight of poverty.
“So you not gonna help me?” I asked the prissy gatekeeper.
“If you needed a place to stay I would,” he said.
But it was too late for that.
I took two steps past his desk.
“Sir,” he said, rising to his feet.
I ignored him, walking further toward the gang of lost souls.
“Bernard, Teddy,” the young man said.
To my left I saw two brawny black men straighten up. They wore makeshift uniforms of yellow T-shirts and black slacks.
They were large and young but still I contemplated going up against them. Maybe if they were closer I would
