“That’s what I thought too. Didn’t Conrad clue you in?” I told him about the Hulk jumping me, and his hideous death under the Stevenson. At the end of the recital, after Mr. Contreras had gone over events enough to allay the worst of his worries, I said I thought our troubles were over.
“The only thing to worry about now is subpoenas, and they’ll be hitting us thick and fast. But you can relax your watchdogging. And give me back my keys, please.”
“So you can give them to Conrad?” His tone was jeering, but there was real pain in his face.
“You’re the only guy who’s ever had the keys to my place. I don’t go handing them around randomly.”
He refused to let me lighten the conversation. “Yeah, but… seemed like he was holding you awful close last night. This morning. And he didn’t leave here until noon.”
“I know you don’t like it when I date anyone.” I kept my voice gentle. “I’m sorry about that—sorry because I love you, you know, and I hate to hurt you.”
He knotted his hands together. “It’s just… Face it, doll: he’s black. African, if you like that better. They’d burn both of you in your bed back in my old neighborhood.”
I smiled sadly. “I’m glad we’re not on the South Side, then.”
“Don’t make a joke of it, Victoria. It’s not funny. Maybe I’ve got some prejudice. Heck, probably I do, I’m seventy-seven, you don’t change how you was raised, and I grew up in a different time. But I don’t like seeing you with him, it makes me uncomfortable. And if I don’t… Well, you just can’t picture how ugly people can be in this town. I don’t want you buying yourself a lot of grief, doll.”
“I just got through seeing with my own eyes how ugly people in this town can be.” I leaned forward and patted his leg. “Look, I know it’s hard—to be black and white together. But we’re not that far down the road yet. We’re two people who’ve always liked and respected each other, and now we’re trying to see whether, well, our attraction is just bad old jungle fever, or has something more substantial to it. Anyway, Conrad isn’t black. He’s kind of copper.”
Mr. Contreras clutched his ears. “I can tell just by you saying that that you like the guy.”
“Sure, I like him. But don’t crowd me into making any other declarations. I’m not ready for them yet.”
He wordlessly handed me my keys and got to his feet.
He tried to shake off the arm I put around him, but I kept a grip on his shoulder. “Please don’t cut me out of your life, or take yourself out of mine. I’m not going to say something stupid, like I know you’ll come around in the end. Maybe you will, maybe you won’t. But you and I have been friends a lot longer than I’ve known Conrad. It would bring me great pain to lose you.”
He mustered a smile from some depth. “Right, doll. I can’t talk about it anymore right now. Anyway, I been away from the princess too long. She needs to get out more often while she’s nursing.”
I felt melancholy after my neighbor left. I’d started an affair with Rawlings because an erotic spark had always jumped between us, and the time had somehow been right last week. But I didn’t need Jesse Helms or Louis Farrakhan to tell me the road ahead would be rocky if Rawlings and I got serious about each other.
As I was listlessly poking through the refrigerator Murray called, practically slobbering into the phone in his eagerness for my story. This morning’s Herald-Star had had a fine photo of the wreckage of Simon’s truck and the Impala, but the text was short and ambiguous. The paper didn’t want to accuse the Felitti boys of any malfeasance, not with their political connections. They didn’t want to take me on, though, since I’d been an important source for them over the years. I gave Murray my version of events: I had nothing to gain and everything to lose by being snappy with him while the Felittis gathered ammunition. When we finished, I sent him to Ben Loring in the hopes that Paragon Steel could provide some hard documentation to shore up my own case.
By then it was almost six. I braced myself and called Luke Edwards to tell him about the Impala. He was furious. The fact that his baby was at the police labs and would be featured as an exhibit in a murder trial only enraged him further. He threatened to take a jackhammer to the Trans Am just so I’d know how he felt. I was on the phone with him for almost an hour. We weren’t exactly friends again by the time I hung up, but at least he finally agreed to let me pick up the Trans Am.
“Although a less generous man would keep it as a hostage, Warshawski,” came his parting shot.