“What did you say?” she asked him.
“Chavannes,” he repeated. “The man Van Gogh loved so damn much. I never liked the paintin’s myself. An’ I sure don’t see why some modern-day painter would want to do like him.”
“You know art?” she asked, amazed.
At that moment the chimes sounded again. I didn’t have to look to know that the police were coming in. When Nina whispered into the back room I was sure that it was to tell her secretary to call the police. After the riots people called the police if two black men stopped on a street corner to say hello — much less if they walked into a Beverly Hills gallery with paintings based on old European culture.
2 8 4
C i n n a m o n K i s s
“Stay where you are,” one of the cops said. “Keep your hands where I can see them.”
“Oh yeah,” Jackson said to Nina. “I read all about them things. You know it’s El Greco, the Greek, that I love though.
That suckah paint like he was suckled with Picasso but he older than the hills.”
“Shut up,” one of the two young cops said.
They both had guns out. One of them grabbed Jackson by his arm.
“I’m sorry, Officers,” Nina Tourneau said then. “But there’s been a mistake. I didn’t recognize Mr. Rawlins and his associate when they came in. I told Carlyle to watch out. He must have thought I wanted him to call you. There’s nothing wrong.”
The cops didn’t believe her at first. I don’t blame them. She seemed nervous, upset. They put cuffs on both Jackson and me and one of them took Nina in the back room to assure her that she was safe. But she kept to her story and finally they set us free. They told us that we’d be under surveillance and then left to sit in their cruiser across the street.
“Why are you looking for my father?” Nina asked after they’d gone.
“I’m not,” I said. “It’s Robert Lee, detective extraordinaire from Frisco, lookin’ for him. He gave me some money and I’m just puttin’ in the time.”
Miss Tourneau looked at us for a while and then shook her head.
“My father’s an old man, Mr. Rawlins. He’s in a rest home. If your client wishes to speak to me you can give him the number of this gallery and I will be happy to talk with him.”
She stared me in the eye while saying this.
“He disowned you, didn’t he?”
2 8 5
W a lt e r M o s l e y
“I don’t see where that’s any of your business,” she said.
I smiled and gave her a slight nod.
“Come on, Jackson,” I said.
He shrugged like a child and turned toward the door.
“Excuse me, sir,” Nina Tourneau said to Jackson. “Do you collect?”
You could see the question was a novel thought to my friend.
His face lit up and he said, “Lemme have your card. Maybe I’ll buy somethin’ one day.”
t h e p o l i c e were still parked across the street when we came out.
“Why you didn’t push her, Easy?” Jackson asked. “You could see that she was wantin’ to know what you knew.”
“She told me where he was already, Mr. Art Collector.”
“When she do that?”
“While we were talkin’.”
“An’ where did she say to go?”
“The Westerly Nursing Home.”
“And where is that?”
“Somewhere not too far from here I bet.”
“Easy,” Jackson said. “You know you a mothahfuckah, man. I mean you like magic an’ shit.”
Jackson might not have known that a compliment from him was probably the highest accolade that I was ever likely to receive.
I smiled and leaned over to wave at the policemen in their prowler.
Then we drove a block south and I stopped at a phone booth, where I looked up Westerly.
2 8 6
44
Why you drivin’west, Easy?” Jackson asked me.
We were on Santa Monica Boulevard.
“Goin’ back to Ozone to pick up your car, man.”
