most sophisticated metropolises of Europe. His hair was dark, combed back slick and dapper. And he moved with a sophistication that seemed to transcend grace to the degree that Baker immediately pegged the man as being as queer as any of the swishy downtown types. Bernhardt and her escort were obviously familiar with each other. It was clear through the comforts of their smiles and their relaxed shoulders. They touched each other like it was common, unlike the consciously perpetrated brushing of potential lovers. Baker watched the man hold the door for her as she walked into that greasy dive with the same elegance and sophistication that she had just conferred on Al Levy’s.
They disappeared into the back (though they were certainly not seeking an out-of-the-way table for clandestine purposes, rather from celebrity habit). Once their cab drove off, the street scene in front of Ralph’s looked as lonely and desolate as the rest of the post-nine-o’clock downtown, where only a few windows were made alive by sickly yellow bulbs, and a wind that didn’t seem to be there in daylight wound the streets like a scrounging snake kicking up stray sheets of paper that whipped through two or three violent somersaults before settling somewhere else up the sidewalk; where the scraping of trash and a whistling wind that was paradoxically silent were the only sounds other than that of a bum’s cough or sneeze that echoed through the concrete canyon in such randomly acute angles that it was nearly impossible to pinpoint its origin; and where the purity of a desolate temperate night smelled both pungent and fragrant.
The cabbie said, “I don’t meant to…” He looked straight ahead. Didn’t bother to crane his neck.
Baker was still staring out his window. The rumbling of the cab vibrated his hands. “Don’t mean to what?”
“You know.”
“I’m not sure I do.”
The cabbie paused. Then spoke as though he had carefully chosen his next word. “Meddle.” His pronunciation divided the word by its two syllables.
“Meddle?”
“You know, get involved. Tell you what to do.”
“I know the meaning of the word.”
“Then why ask?”
“I didn’t mean to imply that I didn’t know the word
“You know,” the cabbie said, “the Chinese do crazy things in this kind of situation. I lived up in San Francisco—let’s just say that I’m glad that I got out before the quake. But I know the Chinese. I know the crazy things they will do.”
Baker was barely listening.
“They’re very private people, they are. Very private.”
“Who is that?” Baker gave partial attention.
“The Chinese. The Chinese is who I’m talking about. They are private people.”
“What about them?”
“I’m just saying that they are private people. Chinese handle things their own ways.”
“Well, thanks for telling me that.” Baker needed to decide what to do. He had Bernhardt back at the vicinity of his crime. Every reporter on the police beat knows that that is the first place the cops go in a manhunt—back to the scene of the crime. Some think it is to relive the power and the glory, others think it is to try to make peace with the violence. For Baker it could have been either. It didn’t matter. His assignment was sitting in the exact chair where he had sorted his notes from the bishop’s interview. They wouldn’t have to turn up the wattage of the electric lamp to get him to spill his guts. He’d cop to it. Rat himself out. He was there. Part of the plan. An accomplice. And that’s murder by the legal definition.
“See, a Chinese guy in your situation…”
Jesus Christ, enough about the Chinese.
“…He wouldn’t do what you’re doing. He would just off her in their home, then bury her out back. Whole little private Chinese community would know, but they wouldn’t care. They’d say she had it coming. Honor. Wouldn’t cry a tear for her. Husband would have the right to keep his honor. That’s how they work. Honor and privacy. That’s the Chinese for you.”
“You think she’s my wife? That’s not my wife. She’s double my age. She would be my mother, if anything.” He was irritated that he found himself justifying his position to someone who was ultimately going to charge him when all was said and done.
“I told you I don’t want to meddle.”
“She’s just someone who I’ve been trying to catch up with.”
“You a private dick for somebody else?”
“It’s not like that.”
“If you say so…So there she is. Should I turn off the meter now?”
Baker couldn’t go through with it. It wasn’t that he was chicken shit, or even that he was too inebriated to steady his thoughts, it was that he wasn’t ready. He had his subject. He had his chance to get her, turn in a story, and get Scott off his back. But he didn’t have his angle. If he went in now the very least that he might get out with was some puff piece that would sadly chart a second-rate comparison to Seabright, something that would slaughter his credibility on the news beat (and that stuff will dog you the rest of your life). He closed his eyes for a moment, heavy and tired from the weight of the alcohol. In his mind he saw the Phoenix, Arizona, that he had grown up in. Small streets with low roofs. The intense heat thundering down. Tall brown mountains surrounding the valley, cutting a jagged edge across the horizon. A city of five thousand people who were all afraid to cross over Baltimore Street, terrified by the thought of open desert and vengeful Navajos. To a young man dreaming of escaping the livery stables and ostrich farms of Grand Avenue, the bright splashing orange sunsets seemed like they took place in some land greater and more powerful, whose color was not a gift but an accidental overflow pouring down the mountains. It took twenty years of dreaming to get across those mountains. Twenty years to find the center of the sunset. And he still didn’t know which way to turn.
“Let’s go,” Baker said. “Drive.”
“Sure?”
“I said, let’s go…And try to avoid Second. I don’t want to go by the cathedral there.”
The cabbie released the brake. “Where to then?”
“Take me down by C. C. Brown’s. You know it?”
Cabbie just nodded and drove, like it was all inside code.
Baker looked back at Ralph’s. Couldn’t see a goddamned thing. He had to trust his instincts and hope that he hadn’t let one get away.
CHAPTER FOUR
THE dilemma for insomniacs is distinguishing the line between night and morning. The moment when Sarah gives up all hope of sleeping, driven by the rationale that it is morning anyway, and the promise of night has now been completely abandoned. She checked her clock to see a painful reading of 4:57 A.M. Partway into five o’clock meant usually giving in to the morning, forgetting about rest altogether, drawing a bath, and opening a curtain and letting the dusty little portents of the day filter in. But the three minutes before five were just enough to abuse the system, pitting a sleep deprivation that begged for mercy against an incarcerated web of nerves pleading for an early pardon.
They had been up late last night, she and Max. That greasy pit had indulged them until the doors were actually locked. They had sat at the rear booth while chairs were stacked on tables and the stench of ammonia sanitized the floor, their stomachs churning and cackling in deep-fry regret. The lights had dimmed to a conservative working level, while the volume from the kitchen rose in aggressive English and timid Spanish and banging cast iron. She hadn’t even brought up the idea of getting out of the business—not especially after all the attention she had received earlier in that opera set restaurant. But in the midst of the everyday world, where the grilled cheese ruled the plate, and the purple darkness diminished the front window, she could see an end. The point where the young
