Cinnamon Kiss

a city than 9 2

C i n n a m o n K i s s

L.A. was back in ’66. It had tall buildings and people who walked when they could and who talked to each other.

There was a ceramic bear on the table. He was half filled with crystallized honey. There was a teacup that had been left out. In it were the dried dregs of jasmine tea — nothing like the flavor left on Axel’s dressing table.

There were also two dog-eared books out, The Wealth of Nations and Das Kapital. On the first page of Marx’s opus she had written, Marx seems to be at odds with himself over the effect that capitalism has on human nature. On the one hand he says that it is the dialectical force of history that forms the economic system, but on the other he seems to feel that certain human beings (capitalists) are evil by nature. But if we are pressed forward by empirical forces, then aren’t we all innocent? Or at least equally guilty? I was impressed by her argument. I had had similar thoughts when reading about the Mr. Moneybags capitalist in Marx’s major work.

She had a big pine bed and all her plates, saucers, and cups were made from red glass. The floor was clean and her clothes, at least a lot of them, still hung in the closet. That bothered me. It was as if she just didn’t come home one day rather than moved out.

The trash can was empty.

The bathroom cabinet was filled with condoms and the same lubricant used by Bowers.

He’d died instantly, between lighting a cigarette and the first drag. She had seemingly disappeared in the same way.

I decided to search the entire apartment from top to bottom.

The super, I figured, was downstairs with his joint. I didn’t have to worry about him worrying about me.

The more I explored the more I feared for the bright young woman’s safety. I found a drawer filled with makeup and soaps.

9 3

W a lt e r M o s l e y

She had a dozen panties and four bras in her underwear drawer.

There were sewing kits and cheap fountain pens, sanitary nap-kins and sunglasses — all left behind.

Luckily there was no brass elephant grinning at me from the closet, no trunk filled with pornography and the accoutrements of war.

After about an hour I was convinced that Philomena Cargill was dead. It was only then that I began to sift through her mail.

There were bills from various clothing stores and utilities, a bank statement that said she had two hundred ninety-six dollars and forty-two cents to her name. And there was a homemade postcard with the photograph of a smiling black woman on it. I knew the woman — Lena Macalister. She was standing in front of the long-closed Rose of Texas, a restaurant that had had some vogue in L.A. in the forties and fifties.

Dear Phil,

Your life sounds so exciting. New man. New job. And maybe a little something that every woman who’s really a woman wants. My hopes and prayers are with you darling. God knows the both of us could use a break.

Tommy had to leave. He was good from about nine at night to day-break. But when the sun came up all he could do was sleep. And you know I don’t need no man resting on my rent. Don’t worry about me though. You just keep on doing what you’re doing.

Love,

L

It was certainly a friendly card. That gave me an idea. I went through Philomena’s phone bill picking out telephone numbers with 213 area codes. I found three. The first number had been disconnected.

9 4

C i n n a m o n K i s s

The second was answered by a woman.

“Westerly Nursing Home,” she said. “How may we be of service?”

“Hi,” I said, stalling for inspiration. “I’m calling on behalf of Philomena Cargill. She had a sudden case of appendicitis —”

“Oh that’s terrible,” the operator said.

“Yes. Yes, but we got it in time. I’m a PN here and the doctor told me to call because Miss Cargill was supposed to visit her aunt at Westerly but of course now you see . . .”

“Of course. What did you say was her aunt’s name?”

“I just know her name,” I said. “Philomena Cargill.”

“There’s no Cargill here, Mr. . . .”

“Avery,” I said.

“Well, Mr. Avery, there’s no Cargill, and I’m unaware of any Philomena Cargill who comes to visit. You know we have a very select clientele.”

“Maybe it was her husband’s relative,” I conjectured. “Mr.

Axel Bowers.”