“You’re her friend,” I said. “Aren’t you worried?”
“Who says I’m her friend?”
“At Jordan you two shared notes on boys.”
“What the hell do you mean by that?” he asked.
I realized that I had gone too far, that no matter how much it seemed that these young men were homosexuals, I was not allowed to talk about it.
“Just that she had a lot of boyfriends,” I said.
Roget made a catty little grunt. It was the closest he came to speaking.
“Well,” Raphael said, “I haven’t even spoken to her since the day she graduated.”
“Valedictorian wasn’t she?”
“She sure was,” Raphael said with some pride in his tone.
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“Is Roget here a friend’a hers?”
“What?”
“She did call here didn’t she?” I asked.
“You the niggah called the other day,” Raphael said. “I thought I knew your voice.”
“Look, man. I’m not tryin’ to mess with you or your friends. I don’t care about anything but finding Bowers for the man hired me. I think that Philomena is in trouble, because why else would she leave her place without taking her clothes and personal things? If you know where she is tell her that I’m looking for her.”
“I don’t know where she is.”
“Take my number. If she calls give it to her.”
“I don’t need your number.”
I wondered if my daughter could die because of this petulant boy. The thought made me want to slap him. But I held my temper.
“You’re makin’ a mistake,” I said. “Your friend could get hurt — bad.”
Raphael’s lips formed a snarl and his head reared back, snake-like — but he didn’t say a word.
I got up and walked out, glad that I’d left my new stolen Luger at home.
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23
Idrove home carefully, making sure to check every traffic light — twice.
Once in my house I gave in to a kind of weariness. It’s not that I was tired, but there was nothing I could do. I’d done all I could about Philomena Cargill. And even though I’d chummed the waters for her I doubted that she was alive to take the bait.
Bonnie was off, probably with Joguye Cham, her prince.
And Feather would die unless I made thirty-five thousand dollars quickly. She might die anyway. She might already be dead.
I hadn’t had a drink in many years.
Liquor took a toll on me. But Johnnie Walker was still in the backseat of the car and I went to my front door more than once, intent on retrieving him.
And why not take up the bottle again? There was no one to disapprove. Oblivion called to me. I could navigate the tidal 1 4 9
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wave of my life on a full tank; I’d be a black Ulysses singing with the stars.
It was early evening when I went out the front door and to my borrowed car. I looked in the window at the slender brown bag on the backseat. I wanted to open the door but I couldn’t. Because even though there was no trace of Feather she still was there. Looking at the backseat I thought about her riding in the backseat of my Ford. She was laughing, leaning up against the seat as the young hippie Star had done, telling me and Jesus about her wild adventures on the playground and in the classroom. Sometimes she made up stories about her and Billy Chipkin crossing Olympic and going up to the County Art Museum.
There, she’d say, they had seen pictures of naked ladies and kings.
I remembered her sitting by my side in the front seat reading
Dozens of memories came between me and that door handle.
I got dizzy and sat down on the lawn. I put my head in my hands and pressed all ten fingers hard against my scalp.
“Go back in the house,” the voice that was me and not me said. “Go back an’ do it until she’s in her room dreamin’ again.
Then, when she safe, you can have that bottle all night long.”
The phone rang at that moment. It was a weak jingle, almost not there. I struggled to my feet, staggering as if Feather were already healed and I was drunk on the celebration. My pants were wet from the grass.
