33
WHERE TWEEDY BOULEVARD MEETS Santa Fe there was a garage that specialized in all problems associated with car tires. Inner tubes, retreads, patches, and even axles—they had everything. Their insignia was a gigantic transport plane landing tire. It must have been fifteen feet in diameter. Add that to the fact that it stood upon a twenty-foot pylon and you had a strong symbol of your business. It made sense that that tire would dominate Son’s imagination. It also made sense that Fearless would have known immediately what Son had meant, because he had a deep affinity with the wonder of children.
“But suppose it was some other big tire?” I asked. “They got one out in the valley.”
“I don’t think Kit would be hidin’ in the valley, would you, Paris?”
“Might not even be a wheel,” I said. “Maybe it’s something else.”
“Like what?”
“Like a Ferris wheel for instance,” I said.
“Ain’t no circus or carnival down around Watts right now, Paris. And Watts is all Kit knows. Uh-uh, man. We might as well look here.”
I hated when Fearless’s logic defeated me.
“Where we gonna look?” I asked.
There were three apartment buildings and half a dozen small homes across the street from the garage. Behind there was a very large apartment structure, like a lodge, and there were various other domiciles up and down the block.
“He could be anywhere around here,” I said.
“Let’s go get some wine,” Fearless replied.
Diagonally across from the garage was a small banana-colored bodega. The sign above the front door read BRUCE’S STORE.
The Mexican behind the counter had sad eyes and a drooping mustache. But he was smiling still and all. It wasn’t a friendly smile, more like the secure sneer of a man who’s got a shotgun under the counter.
“You Bruce?” Fearless asked right off.
“No. Brucey owns the store. He don’t work at night.”
“He a white guy?”
“No. Like me.”
“Then how he gonna have a name like Bruce?”
“His name was Guillermo when he was born in Ensenada. But he came here to pick lemons and stayed to open this store. He said he didn’t want just our people to come here, that he wanted everybody to be welcome, so he changed his name to Bruce.”
The shopkeeper’s smile warmed while he spoke.
“Legally?” I asked.
“Yes. It’s on his driver’s license. Do you need something?”
The little market was set up like a California liquor store. At the back was a coffin-shaped, glass-doored refrigerator filled with juices, milk, sodas, and beer. The aisles had mostly snack food. Behind the counter were rows of cheap wine.
“Gimme a bottle’a that Thunderbird, will ya?” Fearless said.
The clerk, who was trim and fifty, pulled down a pint bottle, slipping it into a brown paper bag that seemed fitted to our purchase.
“Forty-nine cents,” the clerk said.
Fearless paid with a five-dollar bill. While he was receiving the change he said, “Maybe you could help me out.”
The chill returned to the man’s smile.
“Oh?”
“Yeah. I’m lookin’ for my cousin Kit. Brown like Paris here and he got a silver tooth up front.” Fearless pointed at one of his own teeth with a baby finger. “And he drink this here Thunderbird like it was orange juice.”
“Oh yes. I know him. Kit? He never said his name. But I seen him go into that big gray building behind the garage.”
WE CROSSED THE STREET and went up the block to the front of the big building. I was wondering as we went how we could search for Kit while keeping a low profile. After all, the police rousted Fearless for just knowing the Watermelon Man.
As we neared the double doors that gave entree to the monolithic building, Fearless touched my shoulder.
“Look over there,” he said, pointing to the street.
“At what?” I asked.
“That gray Rambler over there.”
“What about it?”
“That there is Leora Hartman’s car, I bet.”
