The Museum of Desire: An Alex Delaware Novel(57)

“You know how Father felt about those people, Hill. He’d never have worked for them.”

“He worked with someone evil.”

No answer to that.

We offered a bit more sympathy and left them to the process.



* * *



—

The Seville was parked half a block from the Impala. Milo walked me over, waited as I unlocked, settled in the passenger seat, and began clicking.

“J&M Caribbean Market, still in business, Western and Thirty-Fifth.”

I said, “Definitely gang territory.”

“Same as Inglewood.” He shut his eyes. “All I need, a whole new direction.”

He phoned Sean Binchy.

“Loot, what’s up?”

“Are you on Okash’s place or is Reed?”

“I am, cut out at eleven but Moe came over from the gallery and watched all last night, so he’s catching Z’s.”

“Nice of him to double up.”

Binchy chuckled. “I’m the one with kids, Loot. Unfortunately, no action. Okash was home by eight, never came out until this morning at nine when she went to a Whole Foods, bought two bags of whatever, took them back to her apartment—it’s a four-story multi-unit with a sub-lot, mailboxes inside the lobby so we don’t know her unit. At ten twenty-three, she drove to the gallery, turned into an alley on the south of the building. I followed on foot and saw there’s a cruddy-looking parking lot where she put her BMW. It also occurred to me that the building is pretty deep, so there’s probably more space behind that storage area you diagrammed. Not much to the lot, not even painted slots, but it is card-key entry. That early, no one else there except her.”

“Good work, Sean, stay on her.”

“What do we do about Dugong? So far he hasn’t showed up.”

“He does, Moe loses sleep. Or if it’s near the gallery, we pull Alicia in from skid row.”

“Roger Wilco, Loot.”

Milo suppressed a smile. “Over and out.”





CHAPTER


    27


Milo said, “Let’s check out that market. You mind driving? I need to think.”

I took Olympic east to San Vicente, continued past La Brea where the street turned to Venice Boulevard, hooked a right on Western, and drove a block south of Jefferson.

Tough neighborhood since the fifties, ravaged four decades later by the self-destruction sparked by the Rodney King riots. During the ensuing decades, no shortage of talk about renewal from politicians. But L.A.’s not a movie town for nothing; people get paid well to act.

Some of the storefronts had been rehabbed. More were boarded or empty and the overall feel was drab and sad.

J&M Caribbean Market was one of the bright spots, a single story of cement block painted lemon yellow and lime green, with hot-pink, bubbly-font signage asserting itself under a spotless red awning. A rolling iron accordion fence was pushed to the right side of the building.


Caribbean Food *** Natural Herbs *** Spiritual Oils.



A parking lot to the left was secured by a sliding metal-picket gate, now wide open. Two cars in the lot, a wine-colored Cadillac DeVille and a gold Buick Century. I parked between them. Three American sedans grouped like that evoked Detroit in its prime.

We walked around to the market’s entrance. Dead-bolted glass door. Milo rang the bell, someone moved behind the glass, and ten seconds later we were beeped in.

The market’s interior was immaculate, well lit, and fragrant—florals, citrus, a heavy layer of allspice. Fresh maple laminate covered the floor. High white walls were banded at the top by a belt of Z-Brick.

White display cases showcased bags of red beans and rice, precooked meat meals, packages of “fruta” and “gandules.” Conventional produce was stacked alongside plantains, okra labeled as “gumbo,” and tubers I couldn’t name. The beverage case cooled American beer along with Prestige from Port-au-Prince, Red Stripe and Gong 71st fruit beer from Jamaica. Cans of Coke and Pepsi and Mountain Dew shared space with golden Cola Couronne and Pineapple Ginger soda.

Behind the register, candles and the heralded herbs and oils.

One customer, a woman in her seventies, pushing a cart. A young Hispanic man swept the floor, careful to get into the corners. A dreadlocked woman in her thirties worked the register.

She smiled. Warmly, instinctually. Took a closer look and said, “Police?” but held on to a sunny face.

Milo said, “Want a job as a detective?”

The woman giggled, then turned serious. “Please don’t tell me something bad happened on the block. Usually I hear about it before you get here.”

“Nothing, ma’am, sorry if we alarmed you. We’re looking for a message board but I see you don’t have one.”

“Oh, we do,” she said. “Juan removed it to clear and clean a few days ago—we soap and water it regularly, all those hands? When it dries out, it goes back there.” Pointing to four feet of wall space at the right of the door.

“Did you by any chance hold on to any of the postings?”

“No, they’re tossed. Out with the old, in with the new, that way more people get to post. Why’re you interested in the board?”

“A man who we’re told shopped here was murdered last week and we’re trying to find a connection between anyone he did business with.”