She put the receiver down and a moment later Mouse picked it up.
“You in jail, Easy?” he asked inside of a big yawn.
“At the beach.”
“How’s Jackson?”
“He’s somethin’.”
“Your boy Cicero is what a head doctor girlfriend I once had called a psy-ko-path. I think that’s what she called me too. Anyway he been killin’ an’ causin’ pain up an’ down the coast for years. They say he was a rich kid but his folks disowned him after his first murder. I know where he been livin’ at down here but he ain’t been there for days. I got a guy watchin’ the place but I don’t think he gonna show.”
“Crazy, huh?”
“Everybody say it. Mothahfuckah cover his tracks with bone an’ blood. You know I be doin’ the country a favor to pop that boy there.”
“Yeah,” I said, thinking that deadly force was the only way to deal with Joe Cicero. A man like that was dangerous as long as he drew breath. Even if he was in prison he could get at you.
“What you want me to do, Easy?”
“Sit tight, Ray. If you get the word on Cicero give me a call.”
“Where at?”
“I’ll call Etta tonight at six and tomorrow morning at nine.
Leave me something with her.”
“You got it, brother.”
He was about to hang up when I said, “Hey, Ray.”
“What?”
“Do you ever get scared’a shit like this?” I knew the answer. I just didn’t want to get off the phone yet.
2 8 2
C i n n a m o n K i s s
“Naw, man. I mean this some serious shit right here. It’a be a lot easier takin’ down that armored car. That’s all mapped out. All you gotta do is follow the dots on a job like that. This here make ya think. Think fast. But you know I like that.”
“Yeah,” I said. “It sure does make you think.”
“Okay then, Easy,” Mouse said. “Call me when you wanna.
I’ma be here waitin’ for you or my spy.”
“Thanks, Ray.”
w e h a d j u s t f i n i s h e d rutting on the cold tiles next to the bathtub when Philomena told me about the gallery where Nina Tourneau worked. She enjoyed giving me information after a bout of hard sex. The force of making love seemed to give her strength. By the time we were finished I don’t think she was that worried about dying.
The gallery was on Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills. I put my pistols in the trunk and my PI license in my shirt pocket. Even dressed fine as we were Jackson and I were still driving a hot rod car in the morning, and even though he had a corporate look I was a little too sporty to be going to a respectable job.
I parked in front of the gallery, Merton’s Fine Art.
There was the sound of faraway chimes when we entered. A white woman wearing a deep green suit came through a doorway at the far end of the long room. When she saw us a perplexity in-vaded her features. She said something into the room behind her and then marched forward with an insincere smile plastered on her lips.
“May I help you?” she asked, doubtful that she could.
“Are you Nina Tourneau?”
“Yes?”
2 8 3
W a lt e r M o s l e y
“My name’s Easy Rawlins, ma’am,” I said, holding out my city-issued identification. “I’m representing a man named Lee from up in San Francisco. He’s trying to locate a relative of yours.”
Nothing I said, nor my ID, managed to erase the doubt from her face.
“And who would that be?” she asked.
Nina Tourneau was somewhere in her late fifties, though cosmetics and spas made her look about mid-forty. Her elegant face had most definitely been beautiful in her youth. But now the cobwebs of age were gathering beneath the skin.
“A Mr. Rega Tourneau,” I said.
The name took its toll on the art dealer’s reserve.
Jackson in the meanwhile had been looking at the pale oil paintings along the wall. The colors were more like pastels than oils really and the details were vague, as if the paintings were yet to be finished.
“These paintin’s here, they like uh,” Jackson said, snapping his fingers. “What you call it? Um . . . derivative, that’s it. These paintin’s derivative of Puvis de Chavannes.”
