Los Angeles Noir - Denise Hamilton [17]
“Never thought I’d be afraid of dying, Quick. But I am,” Yippie said. “This was the week I killed those boys—five years ago tomorrow.”
Cravitz drained his glass and set it on the table. “So what if you make it through the week? Maybe your dream killers will go away,” he said, attempting a smile.
“Maybe,” Yippie ventured.
“It’s settled then,” Cravitz said. He picked up a pad and scribbled. “Here,” he tore off the note and handed it to his friend. Yippie’s strong hands trembled as he took it. “I want you to go to this pad in La Caja.”
“The canyon above Pacoima?”
“That’s it. It’s Cash’s hideaway, but I’ll make him give me the keys. You pack and stop by the Château Rouge tomorrow morning at 7. The place is a dump. No air-conditioning. But the toilet flushes and the power’s still on. Lay low until the weekend is over.”
“Your fuckin’ brother hates me.”
“Cash hates everybody,” Cravitz said dryly. “But he’s legit now. Even your boy the mayor likes him. There’s hope for him yet.”
Yippie smiled. “It might work. I’m not ready to die. I’ve still got work to do. I owe this city so much.” He pushed Esmeralda slowly across the table. “Happy birthday, old friend.”
Cravitz snapped up the pretty pistol. “I can’t take away your baby. I’ll have Cash lock her in the safe tomorrow. You can pick her up when all this bad business is past. She’ll be safe at the Château Rouge. Ain’t a hoodlum in the world crazy enough to try to jack Cash Cravitz.”
“Simone,” Yippie observed quietly—so true.
The two men stood up.
“You sure Cash is gonna be down with this?” Yippie said.
“That mean ol’ man will do anything I ask.”
2.
He tipped Pauli, the parking valet, twenty bucks when he brought around the black Escalade. Cravitz jumped in and kicked Wilson Pickett’s “In the Midnight Hour” on the box. He perused his pretty self in the mirror.
Cravitz’s coal-black, bald, magnificent head was adorned with two small hoop earrings. His eyes were gray. Angular, muscular, and deliberate, his black silk Armani duds made him flash and shimmer like a blade. And on this eve of his twenty-ninth birthday, Cravitz felt like a man reborn. He’d helped his friend; now he would try to help others.
Cravitz paused to admire his neon sign blinking Universal Detection. He peeled off.
There were scores of revelers out in Leimert Park. Cravitz took Vernon to Angelus Vista and sped west, up the slopes home to View Park.
Cravitz rose at 4 a.m. on Saturday, Halloween day, and promptly got things going. Two hundred sit-ups, zip, zip. Then he put on John Coltrane and oiled his magnificent head with cocoa butter until it sparkled like obsidian. He scanned Jet, Guns & Ammo, and the Wall Street Journal on the john and concluded a leisurely toilette with a brisk wash-up, a vigorous flossing, and a shave.
He put on his robe and slippers and strode out into darkness of his rose garden. His rambling View Park home was situated along the ridgelines of the north-facing heights. He clambered to the garden summits.
As the sun rose, Cravitz touched his forehead reverently against the earth and said a prayer to the awakening world and to his ancestors and vowed, as he had every year for a decade, to be a good man and do at least one good thing for someone more needy than himself. For twenty-four hours he’d drink only water and fast from his bad habits: gratuitous violence, pussy-chasing, wine, and greasy-ass food consumption.
Things were going swimmingly until Cash called.
“Happy Halloweeeeen, little brother,” the old dude began.
Cravitz winced. His big brother Cash had burned up careers as a policy man, a dope man, a loan shark, and a hustler. He’d done time at Folsom, at Vacaville, and at Pelican Bay. For many of L.A.’s starry-eyed wannabes, he stank of money, power, and the streets. He was now in his fifties but still had the tastes and habits of a small-town hood.
“It’s your world, play-ah. S’up?” Cravitz said not very convincingly.
“Naw, you d’play-a, play-a,” Cash bellowed.
“What ya want?” Cravitz said.