Tears appeared in her eyes and she hurried away.
The man in the tuxedo said, “Excuse me, sir, but we’d like to be seated.”
“Don’t you see this man standing in front of you?” Green asked. “Are you blind or simply an ass?”
The Tux backed up and Hans said, “Come on, Mr. Rawlins, let me show you to your table.”
On our way, Hans touched a waitress on her shoulder and whispered something to her.
“Right away, Mr. Green,” she said, and then made her way to the podium.
THE TABLE Hans had for me was perfect. Removed from the other tables, we were still in sight of everyone. The western view looked down upon an LA that was coming alive with electric light.
I sat and so did Hans.
“How do you do it?” he asked me.
“What?”
“I’m a white man,” he said. “An Aryan. I golf, belong to a men’s club. My parents came to America in order to be free and to share in democracy, but ten minutes with you and I’ve had arguments with four people about their bigotry. If that’s what I face in ten minutes, what must life be like for you twenty-four hours a day?”
“Ten years ago I didn’t have it so bad,” I said.
“Things have gotten worse?”
“In a way. Ten years ago you wouldn’t have been able to seat me. Ten years ago I wouldn’t have been in this neighborhood. Slavery and what came after are deep wounds, Hans. And, you know, healing hurts like hell.”
The ugly restaurateur sat back and stared at me. He shook his head and frowned. “How can you be so calm about it?” he asked.
“Because the other choice would kill me and a dozen other folks don’t know the difference between a fellow citizen and an imminent threat.”
“Hello,” a woman said. “I didn’t know it was going to be a party.”
Tourmaline was wearing a very tight fitting knee-length white dress. There was a blue hat shaped like a delicate seashell on the side of her head. The white high heels did not impede her grace.
Hans and I got to our feet.
I noticed that it was the woman Hans had whispered to who had brought Tourmaline to our table.
“Hi,” I said. “This is Hans Green, the manager here. Hans, this is Miss . . .”
“Goss,” she said, just in case I had forgotten her last name. It’s always nice when your date wants to keep you from being embarrassed.
Hans bowed and kissed her hand. “Easy is a lucky man.”
He held out a chair for Tourmaline, and she sat with exceptional grace. “Is there anything you don’t eat or drink, Miss Goss?” he asked, as I regained my seat.
“I don’t like veal very much,” she said.
“Then leave the rest to me.”
Hans and the new hostess walked off.
“I’m glad we didn’t go to some little place down on Central,” I said.
“Why’s that?”
“Because I’d have to fight the men off down there. Hans had his eyes poppin’ outta his head and he just told me that he was an Aryan.”
Tourmaline smiled. “Who are you?” she asked.
“Easy Rawlins at your service.”
“I mean, how can you get into a place like this and have the manager visiting at your table? You a gangster or something?”
My blood was thrumming. I smiled and hunched my shoulders.
“Every once in a while I get together with my friends Ray and Jackson,” I said. “We shoot the shit and joke around. Jackson is what he calls an autodidact. That means —”
“Self-educated,” Tourmaline said.
“Yeah. Anyway, Jackson calls the three of us the vanguard, the people up front blazing new trails. We make inroads to all kinds of places. From this restaurant on.”
Tourmaline was impressed, but it hardly showed.
“Where’d you learn all those big words, Mr. Rawlins?”
“Reading and talking. What about you?”
Before Tourmaline could answer, Melinda, the demoted hostess, came over to our table. She was wearing a green-and-white waitress’s uniform and had her long red hair tied back.
She put glasses of water in front of us.
“Mr. Green and the chef are planning your meal, but is there anything special you want?”
