Six Easy Pieces: Easy Rawlins Stories Page 21

  Amber Gate

  THERE WAS A SMALL shoe repair shop at 86th Place and Central Avenue back in those days. But Mr. Steinman, the owner and only employee, also made shoes. And if Steinman made you a pair of shoes you’d have to work in a junk-yard in order to wear them down. It took him three months to finish just one pair. He charged two hundred dollars but that was cheap for the craftsmanship and style. And he didn’t make shoes for just anyone. No. He had to know his customer before agreeing to spend a quarter of a year on a pair of shoes for him. He had to work on your footwear and see how you cared for what you bought in the stores. You had to prove that you would maintain the shine and use a frame to keep up the shape. You couldn’t have scuff marks or uneven heel wear from poor posture if you wanted to wear a pair of handcrafted Steinman’s.

  He was an odd little white man but I liked him quite a bit. And he must have liked me because he had left a message that he’d just finished my third pair of handmade shoes.

  When I opened the front door, a small bell tinkled and there was a rustling behind the wall of hanging shoes that stood between Steinman’s workroom and the front. The front room was less than three feet deep and just about eight feet across. There was no chair for waiting because, as Steinman once told me, “I never hurry at my work, Mr. Rawlins. If they want speed, let them buy cardboard soles from Drixor’s department store.”

  We probably didn’t have one drop of blood in common but we were cut from the same cloth still and all.

  “Mr. Rawlins,” Steinman said. He stood in the small opening that led to his workshop.

  “Good morning, Mr. Steinman.”

  We had given each other permission to use first names years before but courtesy kept us proper except at odd, more intimate moments.

  “Come on in, in back.”

  I followed the little cobbler into his workshop, knowing that I was one of only four or five people who were ever given that privilege.

  The back room was composed of endless shelves cluttered with pairs of shoes tied together by their laces and marked with yellow tailor’s chalk. Women’s shoes were held together by string.

  “Sit, sit,” Steinman said. “I wanted to talk to you. Can I get you something to drink? I have schnapps.”

  This was unusual even for our cordial relations. Often I sat for a half hour or more and talked to Theodore. I had been part of an invading army that subdued his homeland—Germany. But Steinman had come to America as a child in 1910 and had no patriotism for the Third Reich or its war on the rest of the world. We talked about cities and streets that I’d seen.

  “My mother always told me that Germany is one of the most beautiful countries in the world,” he often said.

  I didn’t really agree with her but I always nodded and said, “It sure is.”

  But he’d never offered me a drink before. If he had, he would have known that I’d stopped drinking soon after my first wife left me.

  “No thanks, Mr. Steinman. It’s a little early for me.”

  “Yes. Yes. It is early.”

  “How are you, Theodore?” I asked, sensing that we weren’t conducting simple shoe business.

  “Yes,” he said, nodding his large bald head. “For me things are fine. I have a good business. My children are doing very well. I have three grandchildren now.”

  “That’s great,” I said. I was in no hurry to get to the point. If I had an office, I thought, I wouldn’t have had a waiting room either.

  “But some people are not so lucky.”

  “Who for instance?” I asked.

  “Mr. Tanous.”

  I’d never heard that name before and my expression said so.

  “He’s the man who owns this building,” Theodore Steinman said. “The whole block really. He’s a nice man. A good man.”

  “But he’s got trouble?”

  “Yes. Yes. The police found her in the alley behind this building and they took him right off to jail. Right off. They had no proof but still they took him just like Nazis.”

  “Who did they find?”

  “Jackie Jay, that’s what they called her. She was a…a loose woman I think you say. She made her living being with men. But then somebody killed her.”

  “And the police think it was Mr. Tanous?”

  The little shoemaker nodded. He had broad shoulders and thick hands. For all that he was a small man, Theodore Steinman was a powerhouse. It was sad to see him so defeated over his friend’s arrest.

  “You don’t think he did it?”

  “No. Definitely not. Musa would never commit such a crime. He is a peaceful man no matter how angry he gets. How else could he run a building this size with all the trouble some people can be?”

  “So why do the cops think he did it?”

  “Because he is not a white man.”

  “He’s Negro?” I asked, surprised. I thought I knew every black property owner in the neighborhood.

  “I don’t know where he’s from. Somewhere from the Mediterranean, maybe from North Africa. Maybe even Iran, he never really said.”

  Steinman clasped his hands and stared at the floor. I rubbed my fingers together and considered. A pair of shoes was not worth me getting involved with a murder, but Theodore had given me much more than that. He had always offered me friendship without prejudice.

  My weakness had always been the offer of equality.

  “This Mr. Tanous in jail?”

  “No. He put up five thousand dollars for bail and is waiting for a trial.”

  “Did he know this Jackie Jay?”

  “Most people around here knew her. When she was a little girl she used to come into my store with her father and brother. He father, Robert, would bring me his shoes to fix.”

  “So why are you telling me all this?”

  “They say that you know what goes on in this neighborhood. Maybe you could ask around. Maybe somebody would tell you something that might help Musa.”

  “You know I probably can’t do anything,” I said.

  “But you will try?”

  I hesitated a moment.

  “I can’t pay you, Ezekiel,” he said. “But I can promise you that whenever you need a pair of shoes I will make them. And these,” he picked up a package of brown wrapping paper and held it out to me, “these are free.”

  The time to turn down the job was then, before I laid hands on the package. I should have taken out my wallet and insisted on paying. But that would have insulted my friend and I was raised better than that.

  “Your friend might have to pay a little something too,” I said.

  “He is a rich man,” Theodore said.

  THEODORE LOCKED HIS FRONT DOOR and put up his CLOSED sign. Then he guided me through the back of his workshop into a long, lime-colored-plaster hallway. The dim corridor led to a stairway lit by small windows at the elbow of each half-flight up. The stairs were well maintained and the window panes were clean. There was no dust in the corners or crevices. I was beginning to like Musa Tanous even before we met.

  On the fourth floor we entered another mild-green passageway. This hall was filled with light because there were windows at either end. It was a wide corridor lined with maple doors that were sealed with bright tawny varnish. Theodore led me to the last door on the left side. My heart skipped when we came to that amber gate. I don’t know why. There was no sign on it. It was just a door but somehow it seemed perfect. The hinges were brass and the bottom panel was flush to the floor. I imagined that it was hung just right and would open with hardly a squeak.

  From inside the room a man’s voice rose. There was worry, maybe even fear in his tone.

  “Musa,” Theodore whispered.

  I reached for the brass knob and turned.

  The door was noiseless and that’s probably what saved me from a slash wound or worse.

  It was a good size for an office, rectangular in shape with the long wall leading toward the windows to the street. There was no furniture except for one pine chair. The two men fa
cing each other did not notice the well-oiled door opening. One man was tall and black and powerful, holding a nine-inch butcher’s knife. I would have thought the other one was Mexican if I wasn’t ready to meet a man named Musa.

  The black man felt the draft maybe two seconds after I opened the door. While he turned toward me I threw the shoes, hitting him in the temple. Then I grabbed the chair and tossed it lightly, just enough to block any stabbing he might have been contemplating. I kicked him in the knee and hit him on the jaw with four blows before picking the knife up off the floor. It wasn’t a move from any rule book but real fights never are.

  The black man, who had a boy’s face, fell against the wall but no further. When he saw me with the knife he rolled away and lurched through the door. He pushed Theodore down. I could hear his heavy steps all the way down the stairs we’d taken.

  I helped the cobbler up and then turned to the other man in the office.

  “Mr. Tanous?”

  “Who are you?” he asked in an accent that I couldn’t place.

  He was looking at the knife in my hand. Maybe he thought I stopped his attacker so that I could kill him myself.

  “He is my friend, Musa,” Theodore said. “The one I told you about.”

  “Easy Rawlins,” I put in.

  I walked past Tanous and went to one of the three large windows that looked out on the street. Central was bustling by then. There was a hardware store, a stationery shop, a grocery store, and a liquor store all squashed together across the street. I put the knife down on the window sill and smiled at the waxed pine floor.

  If it wasn’t for the obvious threat to Theodore’s friend I would have spent a good deal of time appreciating the simple room. The dark wood trim and the antique white walls seemed almost regal.

  Instead I turned and asked, “Who was that man I just beat on?”

  “He thinks I killed his sister,” Musa said. His voice was hollow, removed.

  “Mr. Rawlins knows many people around here,” Theodore was saying. “People talk to him. Maybe he can find out what happened to Jackie.”

  “Are you a detective?” Musa Tanous asked me.

  “No. I’m just a guy who trades in favors, that’s all. And I know folks all over the neighborhood, like Theodore says. The kind of people who would know the habits of a girl like he told me about.”

  “But you don’t have some kind of certification, a license?”

  Musa Tanous was slender and very well dressed. His silver-hued suit might have been made from silk. I could tell that it wasn’t an American cut because there was only one button. It was a European design probably made in some eastern country. Tanous had a trim mustache and manicured fingers. He was as neat as his office building. There was a heavy and sweet odor mixed in with the sweat of fear coming off him.

  “Did that guy with the knife have a license?” I asked.

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means that the government doesn’t regulate the action down here. I would expect that you’d know that, bein’ in business and all.”

  “I don’t understand,” he said. “I didn’t do anything. Why are people mad at me?”

  “The kid with the knife have a name?” I asked.

  “Trevor McKenzie. I told you he’s Jackie’s brother.”

  “Jackie Jay?”

  Musa looked over at Theodore. The smaller man nodded.

  “Yes,” Musa said. “She did not use her last name.”

  “And what was he doing here?”

  “He said that he was going to kill me for what I did to his sister.”

  “Did you kill her?”

  A passionate anger rose in Musa’s eyes.

  “Listen, man,” I said, heading off his tirade. “The cops think you did it. Her brother thinks you did it. That’s not proof but it means something.”

  Emotions passed across the man’s face like colors in a kaleidoscope.

  He was struggling to get something out. I let this go on a moment and then I said, “We need to sit down if we want to have a conversation. You got a room with two chairs?”

  “My office,” Musa said, literally choking on the words.

  “Does Trevor know where that is?”

  “Yes, but…”

  “Where do you live, Mr. Tanous?”

  “Pacific Palisades.”

  For some reason that made me smile.

  “Hey,” I said. “Why don’t we go there?”

  “We could go to my apartment,” Theodore suggested. “I live closer—on Grand.”

  THEODORE GAVE US the address and we each made our own way. That was L.A. Every man had the right of life, liberty, and the freedom to drive alone.

  The building Theodore Steinman lived in was ugly, eight stories high, and constructed from brown brick. His apartment was on the top floor. We got there in an elevator made for three.

  The front door opened into a sitting room that was quite spacious. All the windows were open. There were four extrawide chairs surrounding a glass-top coffee table and a potted fern in the corner.

  “Sit,” Theodore said, and then he called, “Sylvie.”

  On cue a woman entered through a small doorway. She was taller than the cobbler but by no means tall. She had white skin, white hair, blue eyes, and wore a dress that was four shades of gray. She was thin, happy to see us, and wordless.

  “Mr. Rawlins,” Theodore said, introducing me.

  Her mouth moved and she smiled but no words were spoken or necessary. She touched my hand and nodded.

  “Pleased to meet you,” I whispered in return.

  “You know Musa,” Theodore continued.

  Sylvie smiled for the landlord but it was a bit chillier than my greeting.

  “Can I get you anything?” Theodore asked us. “Tea, schnapps?”

  “Just let us talk for a few minutes,” I said. “Then we can get outta your hair.”

  When Sylvie turned to leave I felt that she was dancing to some music I couldn’t hear.

  “I’ll be right through that door if you need me,” Theodore said. “Just call.”

  He went with his wife: the hard-working dwarf following his elfin dream.

  “THANK YOU FOR HELPING ME back at the office, Mr. Rawlins,” Musa said. “I don’t think he would have really hurt me but you didn’t know that.”

  “Imagine how many people come up to the Pearly Gates,” I replied, “shaking there heads and sayin’, ‘I never thought he’d really do it.’”

  Musa smiled and we moved to the coffee table.

  I sat first and the maybe–Middle Eastern man sat directly across from me. He leaned back in his chair and concentrated on his left hand.

  This tactic amused me. Usually when a man’s in trouble his defenses break down. He sits next to you and then leans forward, he looks you in the eye. But Musa Tanous leaned back, downplaying the deadly game he was involved in.

  “Why did you drive over here, Mr. Tanous?” I asked at last.

  “Because Theodore seems to think that you could do something for me.”

  “You don’t?”

  “You aren’t a licensed detective. You don’t know the people involved. How can you help me?”

  “I can’t if you don’t want me to,” I said.

  “And if I said I wanted you to help then something would be different?”

  “No.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I’m here because of Theodore too,” I said. “He asked me to see what I could do and I intend to try. But if you don’t open up and admit you got trouble, I have no way in.”

  Musa Tanous sat up and then leaned toward me, maybe an inch.

  “What do you charge?”

  “Did you kill Jackie Jay?”

  The elegant man stood up. He didn’t step away or even turn his head. It was a threat of dismissal but nothing more.

  “Sit down, Mr. Tanous.”

  “I don’t intend to stay here and take insults from you.”

  �
�I’m not insulting you. People out there seem to think you did kill her, and I have to hear from your own lips that you didn’t before I can tell you what it will cost to get you off the hook.”

  He hung his head and sat down again.

  “No,” he said.

  “No what?”

  “I did not kill her.”

  “Do you know who did?”

  “No.”

  “How did the cops convince the prosecutor to charge you?”

  For the first time sadness showed in his eyes. He looked at the Steinmans’ sheer curtains undulating on the breezes.

  “Jackie and I went to the Dinah Motel the night before the morning she was found. We stayed there together and in the morning I went off to work,” he said. “She stayed in bed. Jackie liked to sleep late. The last time I saw her she was, she was sleeping.”

  “What time was that?”

  “Close to five.”

  “Early.”

  “I like to have the whole building checked over before people come in. That way I know what needs to be done.”

  I liked that answer. It was how I worked.

  “How’d you meet Jackie?”

  “Trevor worked for me. He did cleaning and some fixing but then he stole from one of my tenants. He took a turntable and a pair of speakers from room C-fifteen and tried to sell it to Mr. Dodson, who owns the hardware store across the street. I went over to his house, to speak to his mother. I told her that I would call the police if I did not get the things he stole or the money they were worth.”

  “And did she pay you?”

  “A week later Jackie came to my office with the money.” Musa’s lips began to quaver, his hands were unsteady. “When I opened the door she came right in and looked me in the eyes. She said that she had my money. She was so beautiful. I asked her to come in. I have a little couch in my office, Mr. Rawlins. A chaise lounge. Instead of going to a chair she went right to the chaise lounge and patted a place next to her.” Musa patted the arm of his chair to show me. “We were kissing before three more words. I loved her.”