Walter Mosley - Debbie Doesn't Do It Anymore

“He’s a person of interest in six murders in Southern California.”

Suddenly I was no longer tired or light-headed. A chill ran down the length of my body.

“No.”

“He went to college at UCLA studying theater. Him and his friends made their money dealing grass and hash. But they ran into trouble with an outside group that wanted to take over distribution for Westwood. The gang sent out a couple of guys to beat up Lyon’s business partner and boyfriend. They went too far and killed him. The two men turned up dead three weeks later, and Jude formed a new gang that drove off the outsiders. Since then he’s been the guy people turn to when there’s no more talking. No one knows how many people he’s killed, but they know the number is higher than what they can put on their charts.

“I’ve been asked by the squad investigating organized crime in L.A. to get you to help them get something on Lyon.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I said. “Even if he wasn’t a friend, what you just told me is the fastest way to get killed.”

Perry sighed, telling me without words that he’d hoped this would be my answer.

“I’m sorry about taking off my clothes and calling you a perv, Lieutenant.”

“No problem, Mrs. Pinkney. Like I said — you’ve had your share of troubles lately.”

“Lately? For the past nineteen years I’ve compared troubles before getting dressed in the morning.”

He smiled and I thought, not for the first time, that we might be friends in a world far different from the one we lived in.

“You really are something else, Mrs. Pinkney.”

“Call me Sandy. That’s my given name.”

“You have to be careful, Sandy,” he said. “I’m here unofficially, but other cops will lean on you. They want your friend in prison or dead.”

“Why?”

“Because he’s a hit man.”

“No. Why do you like me? Why are you here?”

We gazed at each other across the small space between the bed and visitor’s chair.

Perry tilted his head to the side as he did when he didn’t want to tell me that Theon was dead. My question called up an answer that didn’t want to come out; it didn’t want to but had no choice.

“I spend every day talking,” he said. “I talk to cops and criminals, unwilling witnesses, family and friends, bystanders, strangers, and voices on the telephone. And nobody ever says anything that I don’t expect. Nobody looks me in the eye and says anything that means something. I don’t care if it’s a lie or the truth; that doesn’t matter. Some people lie to be helpful; that might be the only way to do right. But what I hear is the same old shit over and over.

“But everything you say is on the ground floor. You’re right there in front of me like nothing I ever saw.”

“I thought you were married, Perry.”

“I am. And I will be five years from now. I’m not talking about getting together. Getting together is what everybody expects. If I told my wife how much I like talking to you she’d ask if I wanted a divorce. She wouldn’t ask what is it that makes our life feel like it comes out of a box of prefabricated wood and plastic screws. I don’t wanna have sex with you. We don’t even have to be friends. I just want to do my job and make sure that a wonderful person like you survives this mess.”

“Wow.” I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“Yeah,” he agreed.

I remember that we both smiled and, after a few minutes, Perry stood up. He put a business card on the stand next to the bed and nodded.

“Thank you,” he said. Then he left the room.

I took in a deep breath and when I exhaled I felt healed. If I were of my mother’s persuasion I would have called myself blessed.

Two hours later Neelo, against his better judgment, discharged me. I was wearing clothes that Lana had dropped off from my new purchases. My Jag was in the underground lot — another gift from Lana. I had my blue bag, chrome pistol, and red phone. Life was flowing on and I wouldn’t have been able to change course even if I wanted to.

I connected the phone to the speaker system of my car and listened to the messages.

“Hi,” Rash Vineland said. “I’m crazy for you. I will do, or... I won’t do anything to be with you. Call me and tell me when I can see you again.”

I would surely call him. I worried, though, that his life might be ripped up over the feelings he harbored.

“We didn’t get to finish our dance,” Coco Manetti said. “I’m looking for you. So either you hide or you give me what I want.”

The one thing I was sure of, the thing Perry told me with a sigh, was that the police would not save me from men like Manetti. I would have to dig myself out of that hole alone — either that or be buried in it.

“Hello?” a mild male voice answered on the second ring.

“Jude?”

“Hey, Deb,” he said. “How are you?”

“Can I meet with you?”

“Sure. When?”

“Now.”

“Okay. I’m at the Bread and Chocolate Theater on Robertson and Olympic.”

“I know the place.”

It was a small, eighty-seat theater behind an Oriental rug store on Robertson. There was no marquee, just a glass-encased space the size of a movie poster with a list of the performances and events going on at the playhouse. The double doors were ajar and I walked in without anyone challenging me.

A red-haired young woman was sitting in a folding metal chair just inside the theater doors. She was reading a script and chewing gum.

“Excuse me,” I said.

“Uh-huh?”

“I’m looking for Jude Lyon.”

“Judy? Yeah, he’s in the house. You work for him?”

“Yes. He asked me to drop by.”

“Go on in,” she said, and before I could thank her she was back in her manuscript.

The whole room, stage and seating, was brightly lit. There were carpenters and painters banging, sawing, and painting on the set. Jude was standing to the side of the slightly elevated stage, looking at the work with a serious eye. When I walked in he seemed to sense my presence and turned to look at me.

He smiled.

I gave him a little wave and he jogged over.

We kissed cheeks. He took me by the wrists and examined my face.

“You don’t look much the worse for wear,” he said.

“Neelo’s a good doctor.”

“What can I do for you, Deb?”

“Can we get a cup of coffee?”

“Sure,” he said, and then he turned toward the stage and piped, “Hey, boys, me and the girl are going to powder our noses. See you in twenty.”

As we walked from the theater I wondered at the many faces of Jude Lyon.

Whenever I saw him with Theon or as an escort he was a timid, shy man — not masculine, not flaming. It made me smile to think that even the bedrock of my beliefs was soft and yielding.

In the coffee shop Jude ordered us lattes and chocolate croissants. We brought these to a little round table set in the window, removed from any other seats and on display to the world.

We sat there for a while in silence, our food and drink forgotten. There was no room for small talk between us right then.

“So, did they figure out who attacked you?” he asked at last.

I shook my head and said, “The police came to my hospital room and told me that they thought you were some kind of criminal and that they wanted me to try to help them trip you up. I told them no, but I wanted you to know what they were saying.”

I knew from Jude’s blank expression that the things Perry said were true. His eyes turned feline, filled with the kind of trouble no one ever saw coming.

“I don’t need you to talk to me about it,” I added. “I just wanted to say that they’re looking at me now and you should be careful calling me or talking in my house or car or whatever. Not that you’ve ever said anything. Theon didn’t either.”