Denise Hamilton - Los Angeles Noir

“Gospel,” Cravitz said.

The young men gawked at Esmeralda.

“We won’t kill you this time, boys,” Cravitz said. “But grown folks gotta talk now.” Cravitz gave Aleta a twenty and said, “Help my friends. I ain’t in a hurry.”

Yippie turned to Cravitz and whispered, “We gotta talk.”

The men met in a quiet booth in Satin Dolls.

“I saw something when I arrived at the Château Rouge this morning-someone,” Yippie Calzone said.

“Someone?”

“A woman. A bad woman.”

“Well?”

“I can’t tell you much. Shouldn’t be telling you this. But this hina is bad news. She is a drug dealer. A killer too. I didn’t know she had got this far west.”

“And she’s here to…?”

“Not sure. Her operation is in Nevada. She’s helping her man Paco Santiago make Vegas the new drug hub,” Yippie Calzone said. “If she’s here, your brother is involved. I didn’t see them together; but I’m sure she’s staying here. She had on a mask, but I recognized her. I don’t think she saw me.”

“Cash has been legit since ’92.”

“He ain’t.” Calzone opened his briefcase and pulled out a small plastic baggie filled with a few teaspoons of yellow powder. He handed it to Cravitz. “The new teen poison.”

The dope had a faint lemon scent.

“It’s treated opium. It’s been cut with strychnine and baking soda and some other trash. The high’s killer,” Yippie said grimly.

“How’s it get this weird color?”

“Food coloring,” Yippie said. “They call it butter.”

“Shit,” Cravitz said.

“ Simone ,” Yippie Calzone said.

“You’re giving me classified information.”

“It’s a final gift, birthday boy. I’m settling all my accounts.” Yippie Calzone was not smiling now. “You helped me. Cash helped me. Now I’m helping you. I’m sure this chick brought some of this dope with her. Cash might not know what he’s in for.”

Yippie promised to give Cravitz seventy-two hours to find the dope and get it out of the Château Rouge before he dropped a dime to Vargas.

“That’s it,” Yippie said finally, standing. “I’ve bent the shit outta the law for you, my brother. Now I’m gonna disappear.”

Yippie Calzone left.

“Hey, Quick!” a familiar voice said.

He turned to face Hi-C, his brother’s personal bodyguard, striding toward him. Hi-C was 7’2” without an ounce of fat. He was dressed in the livery of a Château Rouge bouncer: red satin top hat, red satin bowtie, sleeveless red satin shirt, red satin slacks, red satin cummerbund, red patent leather boots. C also wore a black satin mask.

To Cravitz he looked like a masked pillar of fire.

C said, “I been lookin’ fo’ ya all ovah, Quick. Mista Omar say f’you t’meet him in the conf’ence room. He wont me t’fetch ya.”

One did not argue with a pillar of fire.

The penthouse conference room was located on the tenth floor. Its wall-length windows looked out over King Boulevard, framing the pale blue sky and the San Gabriels thirty miles north.

Cash was seated at the head of the long table, dressed like an eighteenth-century pirate. A black satin mask covered his eyes.

Seated in chairs on the table’s other end were a woman and a man, both wearing black masks. The man was dressed all in white with a visor cap, like a 1940s Good Humor man. The woman was Cleopatra-a brass serpent coiled about her paste tiara.

“You remember my road dog, Ernie Jackson?” Cash began with a grin.

“Oh yeah, Bingbong. W’sup?” Cravitz said, with a slight nod.

The woman stood up and slowly walked around the table toward him. She was statuesque, voluptuous. Behind that satin mask, Cravitz could see her eyes flashing with golden fire. Her face was framed with braids that fell below her shoulders.

She held out her hand. Cravitz fought off the urge to gobble her whole.

“Bennita Bangs,” she said simply.

Cravitz took her hand, feeling an electric thrill surge through his bones.

He wondered whether a woman that fine could be a thug and a killer and what it would be like to nibble her honeyed skin.

“Bingbong-I mean, Ernest -and Bennita startin’ up a new record label,” Cash said. “Bennita here done already sweet-talked me into dropping a little pieca change in the boodle. Since it’s yo birthday, I figure I might spread ’round some of th’ good luck to my baby bro…”

Cravitz was still not listening. He was trying his best to crawl into those topaz bedrooms Miss Bangs used for eyes.

“My fiancé is a fox, ain’t she, Quick?” Bingbong Jackson said uneasily.

Cravitz cast a killing gaze at the hustler. “What’s all this good luck gonna cost me?”

“We need to raise two million, Mr.-” Bennita began demurely. “I’m sorry, what should I call you?”

“ Baby would be nice,” Cravitz said.

“We asking our initial investors to pony up what they can- baby . Twenty thousand, a hundred,” Bennita Bangs said.

“I’m tapped out at the moment.” He turned to Cash and winked. “But thanks for lookin’ out, big bro.”

Cash got up and shut the blinds. Even in the dim light of the room, Bennita Bangs glowed.

“Oh, I ain’t asking you for money, birthday boy,” Cash said, “We need you t’provide a little sweat equity for the home team.”

Cash walked over to the safe, which was hidden behind a velvet painting of James Brown onstage at the Apollo. He pulled out a money bag and laid it on the table.

“Happy birthday, partner,” Cash said, choking up. Cravitz opened the sack and pulled out a bag of yellow powder. As he turned it in the light the powder took on a gold, metallic glow.

“This is just a one-time deal. Kinda like a crime- ette . We make this little nest egg, then boom , we back legit.”

Cravitz turned to Bingbong Jackson and said, “Who’d you steal this from, asshole?”

Bingbong protested, “I got this shit legit.”

“I’m counting on you to get the word around. Pass out a taste or two.”

“That little-ass bag of shit go for two-fiddy large, once we cuts it,” Bingbong said.

“I got two words for you,” Cravitz said, fixing his gray eyes on his brother, “Pelican Bay.”

Cash blinked. That stint at Pelican Bay had nearly killed him. When Cravitz stumbled out of there he had called in some chits. Within a decade, the monster-his big brother-had been transformed into an avatar of L.A.’s high society and culture. It was insanity to throw it away.

Cravitz jerked a thumb toward Bingbong Jackson. “I’m ’bout to kick his pindick out of here.”

“You owe me,” Cash said evenly. “You gonna show me love or not?”

“I need some air,” Cravitz said.

Cravitz got back in the T-Bird and called Yippie on the cell phone. “Yes, the broad is there. I’ll get back to you. Remember, keep Cash out of this.”

“You got my word,” Yippie Calzone said.

His birthday was not going well.

At Pico and Dunsmuir, Cravitz pulled into the parking lot of St. Benedict’s. The church was quiet and cool. In the solitude of his meditations, Cravitz began to form an idea. He’d bust into his brother’s vault and remove the dope. Titfor-tat, his brother would have his goons break into his View Park pad and reclaim the contraband.

Cravitz didn’t care. He was determined to do the right thing.

He thanked St. Benedict for the tip.

The Château Rouge was packed when Cravitz returned. There was one masked face he’d recognize even in a coma-a girl from his past, Athena Powers.

They were a heartbeat from colliding.