I arrived at LAX on time, around 5:05 PM, on a flight of exquisite savoir faire. I had never traveled in a Boeing 747, and the ride was as smooth as rolling down a newly paved street in Uncle Eddie’s Cadillac D’Elegence.
I stepped into the airport gate area with my flaming red Ann Taylor dress, which blinded any man’s or beast’s eye that came my way, while blinging a matching platinum bracelet and earrings that Cutino purchased for me in Brazil. The pearl necklace reached around my neck like the oysters at the bottom of the sea that had created them with me in mind. My do was whipped so tight that I thought someone might mistake it for dark chocolate mousse and try to take a spoonful and attempt to eat it. Oh yeah, my stuff was tight.
I hunted for another pair of eyes canvassing the arrival area with meticulous care. I craned my neck to the left and saw a handsome black man standing alone against a pillar. He was tall and slender with Serengeti designer sunglasses hung on top of a perfectly wide African inherited nose. He wore a colorful Hawaiian style shirt painted with a floral design and light bone colored linen Armani pants. His hair was cut short and styled in waves. Damn, he was fine. Mmm…Koltrane, I’m comin’ at cha. I started easing toward him not knowing if he was my dream come true or just a dream. Every step on my stilettos made my knees tremble. I felt like the scarecrow in the Wizard of Oz, stumbling and tripping my way towards the unknown. I eased on down the yellow brick road and noticed him beam as he posed next to the row of newspaper stands. He seemed to grin at me and I smiled back. Damn, could this be him? He glided a smooth stride towards me, kind of like Denzel’s strut in the movie Training Day. You know how he’d slide through a scene, and you’d say “Ohh yeah, that brother’s bucking for some goodies.” One-step then another silky stride, teeth gleaming, a razor thin cut mustache, not a hair out of place. I staggered towards him feeling faint at the possibilities. What will I say? Hi…No, no…that’s not it.
“Koltrane? Is that you?” I had a temporary brown out, but when I returned, the fine man held in his arms a tall, brunette, blue-eyed white girl. Well I’ll be damned. My heart dropped, my adrenaline came to a halt. With a bit of luck, I didn’t act like an idiot flirting with somebody that wasn’t paying me any attention.
I swung around to the right, staring at anything similar to a man, white or black, stumpy or long, but none caught my eye as I stumbled into the walkway towards the baggage claim area. My eyes sought out what was in my mind the vision I had of Koltrane, again “-the changing faces of Koltrane” popped out from beneath my subconscious. This vision had his facial features changing with each second of thought. Damn it, I should have asked for his real name, but the surprise of the unknown brought about excitement and I was so sure that I’d recognize him. Fifteen minutes passed by, and then a half an hour. My eyes sought for this man while my luggage circled past me on the baggage claim conveyer belt at least fifty times if it was once.
Annoyed, I waited at the baggage claim until I was the lone one remaining from the Chicago flight. I hung around at the conveyer belt until luggage from Denver, then New York and Atlanta had come and gone. Another one bites the dust, I thought. My adventurous relationship had turned into the hamster running on the treadmill of love. It was going nowhere fast. I should have gotten his phone number, but I just refused because I wanted to keep it adventurous to the end.
Well, all was not lost. I fell into plan B. You know, everyone's got to have a back-up plan B because people aren’t to be counted on all the time. My Daddy got me on the plan B theory. “Baby girl,” he’d say, “No situation is perfect and almost every circumstance changes. Action and reaction, the scenarios from ebb and flow and back again are bound to rise up and bite cha. The result if you’re not ready for these fluctuations are frustration and failure. So, at the very least the best thing to do is have a back-up plan B. Because people can’t be counted on. That goes for business and,” he paused a moment. Then in his sneaky way he whispered as if somebody else was around, “for relationships, too. But if yo’ motha asks me did I tell you that, I’m mo’ deny it to the end.” That plan B piece of advice stayed with me for the rest of my life.
I purchased one of those airport pushcarts from the pushcart dispenser for a dollar-fifty and threw my luggage on the cart. Then, I found a Hertz Rent-a-Car desk and rented me a luxury Lincoln Continental-the big one, white on white in white, with a sunroof. To hell with it; I might as well enjoy Hollywood.
After leaving the airport and driving down Century Boulevard, I wondered about my situation. I thought Koltrane was different than the rest. I thought of him as being fresh and consistent. Instead he was the weakest kind of man of all, one that hid and ran away from obligations and promises made. It hurt me.
If I were a different kind of woman, I’d screw the first man I met, just for spite. That’s right, I said it, the punk ass nigga! If that creep had of brought his black ass around me right then, I’d tear his head off and stick it in my purse.
I drove through the side streets of LA, sightseeing the various neighborhoods from Watts through Florence down Rodeo, viewing the mountains and palm trees until the Hertz Rent-A-Car’s GPS unit directed me to the front steps of the Biltmore Hotel. I just adored this hotel where my former employer, Bank of America first sent me on a training seminar. They’ve shot plenty of movies there, even celebrities and would-be celebrities would sneak through on occasion.
The rest of the evening, I chilled by the pool, relaxed in the Jacuzzi, dined on lobster and sipped apple martinis while trying to keep my mind off of the cold feelings I held in my heart. How could Koltrane do it? Why play with me like that? We didn’t have anything going so serious as to make him run and hide from me. If he was busy, all he had to do was tell me and I would have grudgingly understood. Maybe we could have hooked up later.
Men…
I dozed off in the king-sized bed that seemed to stretch from the Pacific Ocean to the John Hancock building in Chicago and next thing I knew it was morning. I didn’t move an inch as my eyes opened one eye lash at a time. At my leisure I rose up, dragged myself over to the curtains and peered out of the hotel window at the smoggy haze of light waking the city of dreams. It’s truly a peculiar looking city with the adobe styled buildings painted bright pastel pinks and blues, burnt oranges and lavenders. The foliage of palm trees and cacti made for an awkward scene when compared to my Midwestern point of view.
Thoughts careened through my mind about yesterday’s travels. Was I being selfish? Did I consider all of the possibilities? The thing I really felt was hurt, then anger. Then tons of self-pity and doubts about myself and who I was reigned supreme in my mind throughout the evening and into the night. But what about Koltrane? Was he safe? Was he all right? Did something happen to him on the way to the airport? Why hadn’t I considered that?
With much consternation, I decided to at least check him out to satisfy my unfulfilled questions. It would have haunted me to no end if I didn’t at least attempt to see him. Luckily and with great restraint, I didn’t completely lose my cool and discard his address. I was so stubborn and wounded, all of the chat over email talking about how he was going to entertain me, take me to Hollywood and Santa Monica Pier had raised my expectations to something out of a romance novel and all common sense was lost. You know what they say, common sense isn’t that common.
The Los Angeles morning smog cleared by eleven o’clock and turned into a gorgeous sunny day. I proceeded down the Santa Monica Freeway, to LaBrea then down Rodeo and a right turn down Cochran Avenue.
It was a cute little neighborhood with small adobe style bungalow homes and manicured lawns. The architecture of the homes could have passed for the same street where the movies Boyz in the Hood and Friday were filmed. The street was neatly maintained and lined with palm trees, and small driveways ran down the side of each home into a one car garage. Even the garbage cans sitting on the front lawns were in place and in conscientious condition.
At about walking speed, my white, on white, in white Lincoln Continent
al crept up to 3533 Cochran Avenue where I parked at the front curb. On my left sat a nice little bungalow painted a Miami Vice blue over stucco with a desert landscape of cacti, palms and other desert plant life. The small stones and large boulders placed just in the proper space set the small desert-themed landscape off just right. On the side of the driveway was a lemon tree bearing enormous lemons, a few lemons lay under the tree, too heavy to hang on. Peering up at the full-grown lemons still on the tree, I thought that no matter what happened between Koltrane and me, I had to snatch a couple of those fresh lemons for the road.
I crept up the short walkway and approached the front door. It was one of those heavy steel fortified screen doors made so popular in L.A. during the 80’s and 90’s as protection against gangs who ran the streets, devouring human beings like wild hyenas attacking antelopes in the open plains of sub-Sahara Africa.
The inside door was open, only the metal screened door blocked anyone from entering into the house. I rang the doorbell. It sounded like a buzzing fly whizzing past my ear. Still, nobody came to answer. I pushed the weather beaten doorbell again, the same buzzing sound rang. I heard shuffling around from the back of the house, and then the sound of footsteps pounded towards me on what sounded like hardwood floors. My heart fluttered, I straightened my Ann Klein silk blouse and licked my lips to moisten them.
“Who is it?” A rather light toned male voice rang out. I didn’t answer right away because I didn’t exactly know how to answer. Should I answer Queenb or Carla King?
Again, the soft sounding male voice rang out. “Yess?”
Still, I didn’t answer. Out of all of the introductions that I imagined, a response to “Who is it?” wasn’t one of them.
The man wore sandals for sure as I heard the sliding and clopping sound against the hardwood floor from each foot. When he arrived at the door, my mouth dropped wide open. I couldn’t believe it. Could this be Koltrane? No, no, no!
He was tall, about six foot two. But after that, the story changed. His hair was banana yellow and long like a 70’s Bohemian rock stars. His deep blue eyes peered at me like a Husky dog’s wandering gaze and his skin was four shades lighter than a General Electric white refrigerator.
“Hello?” he said with curiosity. It was more like asking me hello than greeting me.
“Hi.” I replied shyly.
The pale rider was motionless and without a smile. “May I help you?” he said, still standing behind the black prison-type gate.
“I...I...I was looking for …well…”
“Spit it out, girl,” he said, cutting me off.
Did this white boy call me girl? He was agitated and nervous, so I didn’t want to prolong my visit. Let’s get this whole thing over with…“Queenb,” I blurted out.
“Who!?” He squinted his eyes, and tried to focus on me through the steel mesh of the black iron door.
“Queenb,” I said this time more softly looking up at the man’s insipid face.
“Who’s Queenb?” He sounded supercilious and haughty.
Ah great! That was a good response, so he must not be Koltrane. “How about Koltrane? Do you know who that is?”
He tilted his head to the side and appeared to give it more thought. “Who are you here to see?”
“Koltrane,” I answered. “I was supposed to meet him at the airport yesterday but he didn’t show up.”
He paused for a moment which made me even more uneasy. My nerves were already jumpy, so I squeezed my purse for the can of keychain pepper spray mace that I always carry then started to turn around without a thank you.
“Are you the lady out of Chicago?”
I stopped in my tracks. “Why yes, yes that’s me.” He smiled, unlocked the screen and opened it. “Come in,” he offered and held the door open.
Caution was my first response. Staring at the man’s new smile didn’t give me a sense of threat, but still watchfulness remained in my uppermost thoughts. Okay, Carla, what are you going to do?
“Koltrane told me about your conversations many times,” he said with a smile. “Come on in.”
Again, I felt for my mace and placed my handbag in a position so that I could grab it in an instant. I crept through the security gate into a tidy living room. A spotless small fireplace to the left and home entertainment center consisting of Onkyo surround sound system and a Pioneer CD and DVD player along with an IPod control station sat to the right of the fireplace. A beautiful painting hung over the fireplace, exhibiting a number of nude women and men made of various hues curled together; I was unable to determine which body part belonged to which man or women. There was an African sculpture of a giraffe carved out of ebony sitting on a small round granite and stainless steel end table. A bowl of apples, bananas, grapes and pears sat on an exquisitely polished oak coffee table.
“Have a seat.” He pointed me to a dark brown couch made of a combination soft suede and tanned leather. “Would you like anything to drink?” offered the blond haired host. He was now soft spoken, genteel and surprisingly, had an air of serenity. He gave me a slight smile, but I could sense that something else was on his mind. My internal warning light began blinking. It hadn’t been working for a while, but since Cutino, I’ve had to be more aware of situations, so again I felt for the mace and glanced at the screen door just in case a fast escape was needed. This was a screen door with no doorknob but only a dead bolt lock in which the key still hung from the cylinder.
“My name is Allen, Allen Knight,” he said in a placid west coast hippie modulation somewhat easing my insecurities.
“Hi.” I squeaked out almost hyperventilating. “My name is Carla, umm, Carla King,” I eased back into the pillowy couch and tried to relax my nerves.
Allen’s eyes were a piercing metallic blue. He stared into me like he was reading the actual letters of words flashing through my mind even before I could speak them. “So, you’re Queenb?” he said with a detectives grin.
“Yep, that’s what I’m called in the internet world. But Carla’s my real name.”
“Carla. You don’t look like a Carla.” He pushed back strands of his long blond hair from his face. I figured it to be a nervous habit or maybe his wild flowing hair just felt like flies flashing over his nose.
I was offended, “Yeah? And you don’t look much like an Allen either.”
“Ha, ha, I know. They should have named me Sven or Luther. Don’t you think?” he asked, showing me his profile. “I hate Allen,” he continued. “It’s such a boring American name. It reminds me of Wally or Jeff,” he said smiling.
“So, where’s Koltrane?” I abruptly changed the subject.
“What do you mean?”
“Huh? What do you mean, what do I mean?”
“What do you mean? Where’s Koltrane?” Allen’s blond eyebrow curled. “Do you mean Jamal?”
My heart fluttered. Is that his name, Jamal? The inside of my thighs sang. I observed a photograph sitting on top of the fireplace just to the right of where I was sitting. From what I could tell, the man was tall and slim. Not skinny but well proportioned, a ‘slim goody.’ The photograph displayed a dark skin man, in the shade of the football player Jim Brown. A wide African nose stood proudly on a well-rounded face that was clean shaven, except for his thick eyebrows covering light brown eyes. He wore blue jeans, black cowboy boots with one of those red Roy Rogers scarf’s around his neck that slung to the side. But out here on the west coast, it could have been construed as a Blood gang color. Standing next to him was this little girl that couldn’t have been more than six or seven years old. She too, wore a bright red and white cowboy style dress and red cowboy boots adorned with a white cowboy hat over her full head of braids that extended down past her shoulder. The little girl’s eyes gazed with true love towards the black Rough Rider.
What should I do when he arrives? Should I be a slut or demure? An innocent lady or should I be mad as hell at him for standing me up? Hell, was that even Jamal in the photograph?
“Jama
l, is that Koltrane's real name?” I inquired.
Allen’s pasty white face dropped as he slid back into a large burgundy leather chair. He started shaking his head like a waterlogged dog that had just gotten out of the sea, then cocked it and leaned it to the side facing towards the front picture window. I couldn’t believe what I thought I saw next. It looked as if Allen’s eyes started to water which made our time quiet and uneasy.
“Is there anything wrong?” I asked.
But he didn’t answer.
I posted my hand against the couch’s arm and began to rise. “Maybe I should come back at another time?”
Allen’s head hung, his eyes shut. When he raised his head he gazed out of the front picture window with watery eyes. Here was a man that I had just met and he’s crying and I couldn’t understand why.
I stood up and gathered my purse. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Allen. When you get a chance, tell Koltrane…umm Jamal that I was here. Okay?”
“He’s dead.” Allen blurted out like a crying six year old.
“What?”
“He’s dead,” he repeated.
“Who’s dead?”
“Jamal is dead!” Allen repeated as his high pitched voice got louder with each repeat of Jamal’s name. “Jamal is dead,” he continued. “The funeral was yesterday. I don’t know what to do. Nothing’s ever happened like this to me,” he sobbed even more.
“Oh no.” Koltrane dead? My heart slowed than sped up again then slowed as his words sunk deep within my consciousness. Although I had never heard Jamal speak and never saw the man in person, my feelings for him as an internet friend were more than I once thought after Allen’s frightening words were spoken.
I had, after all, traveled two thousand miles to see this Koltrane person. In part just to get away, but the other reason was to cure this curiosity regarding my Koltrane fantasy. Was he gay?
It didn’t matter, I considered him a friend. Maybe I wanted a little more than just a friendly association, I wasn’t sure. Was I horny? Oh, heck yes. There was just so much to know. I felt suspended in motion with no solid ground beneath me, a thousand questions to be answered, but no reasons why they should be told to a stranger like me. Maybe I’m in the wrong house and this really isn’t Koltrane’s home after all. Allen might be describing the wrong person. My mind raced wildly with questions and more questions with no answers. OK, girl, gather yourself and let’s find out what’s going on. Still standing near the door I said, “This is really shocking, Allen. Tell me again, will you please?”
Allen lifted his head up from the chair and said in dry tones, “Jamal’s dead. Last weekend, Saturday night. He was beaten and strangled in his bedroom.” Allen twisted his head and stared down a small hallway towards the back of the house.
I could feel my adrenalin increase and blood pressure rise.
“You mean in this house?”
“Yes.”
“In his bedroom? In this house!?” I questioned again with a quiver of cowardice in my voice as my eyes penetrated down the small corridor. Its hardwood floors bright and polished displayed a virgin appearance of cleanliness and sanity.
“Yes,” he said without looking at me.
“Allen, I am so sorry.”
Then he turned to me and said, “What do you have to be sorry about?”
“I...I... I don’t know…” I paused in mid-sentence, unsure of what to say or do. “I’m really confused.”
“Confused about what?”
I tossed my hands in the air and then they dropped to my thighs with a flop. It was out of my control. The whole thing was a mess, nothing was as it seemed, including me. “About everything.
I just talked to him last week.”
In a concerned tone, Allen asked, “On the phone?”
“No, through e-mail. I had never spoken with him other than online. But when I arrived here last night, he wasn’t at the airport to pick me up.”
“Yeah,” Allen continued to swipe strands of hair from his watery eyes. “Jamal was really a chat room junkie. He would spend hour upon hour in front of that fuckin’ monitor. Sometimes I’d wake up thirsty or to take care of nature’s call in the middle of the night and he’d be typing away, answering some stupid ass question from God knows who.”
I plopped back down on the couch and slumped into its soft suede pillow. “Is that Jamal?” I pointed over toward the photo hanging on the wall. “The man standing there with the little girl in that photo?”
Allen raised his head from his pale palms and smiled, “Yep…that’s Jamal with his daughter, Coretta.” “She’s very pretty,” I said.
“It was taken about ten years ago in Savannah.”
“Savannah?”
“Savannah, Georgia is his hometown. That’s where they buried him. Jamal was married almost fifteen years. Then after the divorce, he moved to LA where he lived for about nine years.
Coretta would visit all the time, she’s about nineteen now and attending Clark Atlanta University. She cried the entire time I was down there. I couldn’t take it anymore, so I left and wandered around town. Savannah’s a beautiful city, the old homes and lush southern landscape and architecture was historically delightful. I wish my visit had been for another reason, but I had to get out of there in a hurry. It just felt uncomfortable. Coretta and Jamal, they were so close and loved to ride horses. Both Jamal and Coretta took lessons for years. She could ride Western or English saddle and was as comfortable on horseback as me and you are behind the wheel of the car. Jamal’s death has really torn her apart.” He pulled a dingy handkerchief from his back pocket and wiped his eyes.
Then Allen reached over into the tiny drawer of a naked pine wood end table that sat next to his chair. He wiggled the delicate drawer out and dug deep into the back and pulled out a thinly rolled joint. God damn joint, I haven’t been around that for years.
“You mind?” he asked.
I hesitated, “Uh, not really,” I eked out. He reached back into the drawer and brought out one of those micro Bic lighters. He flicked the Bic and sucked on the skinny spliff, making a sucking noise that I could have mistaken for a struggling Kirby vacuum cleaner. The fire enlarged with each inhale as the pungent smelling smoke pervaded the room. His main concentration had shifted from Jamal to tripping with his weed. I guess it’d soothe whatever anguish and anxiety was within him.
“Yeah, Jamal,” he choked out between inhales, exhales and snorts.
“Did Jamal get high?” I questioned waving the second hand smoke from my face.
“Who? Jamal? Heck, naw. You could barely get him to have a beer.”
“Oh?”
Allen continued, “Jamal was drunk on life. Live and let live was his favorite citation. If something wrong happened to him or if somebody did him bad, Jamal would move on to the next thing, never missin’ a beat. That’s what I liked about him. He never held a grudge or held back from loving.”
Allen’s speech started to drag as the mood-altering weed danced in his mind. “Want some chips and dip?”
I waved my head side to side, “No, thanks.”
Allen stuck the crudely rolled joint between his skinny lips, lifted up from the chair and started to the back of the house towards the killing field, the hardwood floor creaked under his feet with every stumbling step. Why was I still there? I didn’t know Allen or Koltrane. He seemed harmless enough and if that hemp was as potent as it smelled, it certainly should chill-lax him. The thing that really bothered me was Jamal’s murder. So as I added it all up, first it was Slamdunk23 killed by a car accident in Africa. Then it was Shaft67, strangled just a month or so later. Then Twisletoe and now Jamal, both choked to death. After all, I don’t care what people say, but things do tie in. All that stuff about it’s just a coincidence and the Lord gives and takes away... The way they were killed by strangulation, I mean, there’s really something to go on. And then they all belonged to the chat room. And if they weren’t in the chat room, they were missed. Then you’d
ask yourself, where were they? They were regulars, for God’s sake. Like your best employees going to work, or some Wayans family member producing a terrible TV sitcom. Some things just go together.
The sound of crunching corn chips preempted him back into the living room. Allen returned with a bag of Spicy Doritos. His mouth was stuffed with corn chips and spots of salsa dripped from his lips. His red glossy eyes had a sorrowful appearance.
I couldn’t help it but I giggled. “Allen?” “Ah huh,” he was slow to mumble.
“Is Jamal’s computer still here?” I continued to chuckle at his disheveled appearance.
“Ah huh,” he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and laid the bag of chips and salsa dip on the modest coffee table.
“Could I use it for a few minutes? I’d like to check my email.”
“OK, come on,” Allen sputtered. He about faced and tripped towards the rear of the small bungalow, munching corn chips, then smearing his oily hands on his blue denim pants. Caution was the optimum thought with every step, as I tagged along behind him. As we travelled through the tight hallway, I gazed at whatever time would permit. We passed one room which appeared cluttered and un-kempt. I peered through the door and viewed pictures hanging from the wall and sitting on the chest of drawers of Allen with an array of people. There was a photo of Allen standing on some mountain range with his arms around two older white people, one man and one woman. Their facial expressions appeared loving and caring. There was another picture with a younger kid that appeared to be Allen with four young male and female kids at the beach, all with childish grins and carefree laughter. Those were happier days for sure. There’s an acoustic guitar lying lonely against the chest of drawers, a flat screen TV hanging on the wall in front of an un-made queen size bed. A photo of a beautiful lady sat on an end table next to his bed. She’s blond with brown eyes, red lipstick and a thin nose. Her pose is comfortably seductive and alluring, like she had taken pictures similar to this one many times before. You could travel their modest home in ten seconds, with a living room that led into a 4 chair dining room, which funneled to a kitchen not large enough for a table, no matter what size. Then there were three bedrooms set next to each other in a triangle.
We stopped at the front door of the room next to Allen’s. Allen hesitated at the door and pointed for me to go in. He was apprehensive, like he didn’t want to enter past the doorstop, which made me hesitate, too. I peeked in the room just short of stepping into the space. The walls were painted light beige. A vibrant print of Trumpet by the artist Jean-Michel Basquiat hung on one wall just so, with another print by the late Elmer Connor dangling next to it. Then there were photographs of friends and family displayed in a sort of montage on another wall. His daughter, Coretta was pictured in various stages of her life everywhere. A Dell desktop computer sat in the corner near an open window. Another lemon tree full of fruit stood just outside his window within an arm distance away. I wondered if he ever reached through the window and grabbed a lemon or two, peeled it and sucked the bitter juice right there on his bed. I ventured further into Jamal’s room, determined to dig deeper into his life.
I pointed to the bed. “Did it happen here?” Allen nodded his head yes.
The bed stared right back at me with dead loudness. I expected it to jump up and levitate, then spin around in midair. “It’s so clean,” I finally said.
“I just cleaned it yesterday. Me and Cheryl.”
“Cheryl?” I wondered who this lady was that would take the time to clean a dead man’s room.
“Cheryl was a special friend of his.” Allen said between crunching the corn chips.
“His woman?” I asked.
“I don’t know. Maybe, Jamal was a very private person.
Even from me and I was his best friend.”
I scanned Jamal’s room. “It’s so clean.”
“You should have seen it before. It was horrifying.”
“Who found him?” Allen cut his eyes upward. “Me, I didn’t know what to do. It was a nightmare. His eyes were wide open but closed at the same time. I called out his name, Jamal, Jamal, first softly, because I couldn’t get my breath, then louder and louder, Jamal, Jamal, hey man, Jamal!” Allen was reliving the ordeal all over. He continued as his bloodshot eyes widened with every moment, “My heart was palpitating and his room was torn apart. The demon that did this must have been strong, real strong. The computer screen was lying on the floor. I was shocked that it was still working. The chair and nightstand were kicked over. The lamp that sat on the nightstand was shattered, pieces scattered about the floor. Black shoe marks on the walls were everywhere. Jamal really fought for his life.” Allen leaned against the hallway wall, his back towards Jamal’s bedroom. "I wish that I was around to help him, that’s all.”
“I’m sorry.”
Allen pulled out the joint from God knows where, put it in his mouth and lit it. “Yeah, me, too. The police have been interrogating me almost every day. I thought it was them when you stood at the door.”
The memory of my most recent jailhouse ordeal angered me. “Yeah, I know about being interrogated.”
“I used to like the police, but they’re askin’ me questions like I killed him. Why don’t they go find the mothafuckers that did this shit and stop fuckin’ wit me,” Allen’s hipster dufus white boy demeanor changed in the time of a heartbeat. He pounded the back of his fist against the hallway wall. It was right, at that point, that I decided to try and get information out of that computer and get out of there. He was scared and I didn’t blame him. As I’ve experienced, being caught up in the judicial system is no joke.
I slid the swiveling wheels of the gray office style chair around towards me, sat down and twirled back to face the computer screen. Allen stood outside the room and was still mumbling something, but I kept my single mindedness on getting into Jamal’s computer address. Jamal had a Compaq PC, nothing fancy, a standard computer for a computer literate person, but definitely not a geek's computer with all the thousands of dollars spent on bells and whistles.
I reached over and depressed the “On” button on the tower of the hard drive lying on the floor. I then clicked on the Hewlett Packard flat screen monitor. Soon thereafter, I snapped into his list of documents and programs “Ahh, there it is,” I whispered to myself. I double clicked the Internet Explorer icon and it worked my way through the program.
“Hey Allen, would you happen to know Jamal’s password?”
He answered, still standing in the hallway. “I...I don’t think so. Why you want his password?”
“I got a hunch I want to play.”
“What kind of hunch?” His tone slurred through the hemp induced haze. He turned into my sight and held tightly the acoustic guitar that was in his bedroom.
I spun the chair around and faced Allen standing in the doorway, inches from entering into Jamal’s room. “It’s weird, you know. I had my dreams of how he’d look and what his voice would sound like, his personality, laugh and smile and even fantasies of love. Well, in our chat room, three other people have been recently murdered. I didn’t know the real identity of any of the first three. But after the third person was killed, I had this epiphany that it was somebody in the chat room doing all the killing. With Jamal making it four, I thought that maybe if I could get into Jamal’s email that it might give a clue. Nobody believes me. Not my friends or relatives. They just think that I should stay out of the chat room. That’s why I didn’t chat with Jamal before I came here.”
Allen twisted and twiddled his blond hair in thought and then said in a dry tone, “I…I don’t know, Carla. It just doesn’t seem right.”
“What doesn’t seem right?” I questioned.
“You going into his email. There might be some personal stuff in there.”
“Maybe, but we might find a clue. And if so, the police won’t be knocking on your door every day.”
Allen’s eyes widened; even through the hemp, you could see his fear of the cop
s, “Okay, let’s do it,” he said. He pulled up a chair. “Try Savannah,” he continued and joined me in the hunt.
I typed it in, but it read, Invalid Password, Please re-enter.
“Uh, no, that’s not it.” I said.
“Try Cheryl.”
I keyed Cheryl in. “Nope.”
“Try Coretta.” He spelled it out for me.
Again I typed Coretta. “Uh.”
“Try Susan, try lemons,” he continued.
We attempted a plethora of names and things that Allen thought might relate to Jamal. Favorite athletes, hobbies, investments, dreams, women, family, everything that came to mind we typed, on and on hour after hour, but still no results.
“Let’s try your name,” I said.
Allen’s eyes were closed and he was slouched in Jamal’s lazy boy chair. “Cool.”
“Bingo…I’m in,” I shouted.
“What, what is it?”
“A-L-L-E-N,” I spelled out while waiting on the computer to place all the pieces together.
“A-L-L-E-N”, he said slowly. “That’s Allen, that’s my name.”
I moved to click the mailbox icon to enter into Koltrane’s e-mail. The screen switched to the email folder.
“He’s got a lot of new mail here,” I said.
“Yeah,” a more interested Allen parked on the bed next to me, intent on searching through Jamal’s information.
In his mailbox, the nonsensical names read like a list of who’s not;
Indheavylbs, Orglove44, Belltell99, Annmeet, Abrieparn2, recentlspot, Portriit6. The list ran on and on.
“I don’t recognize any of these names,” I said.
“Let’s go through the letters,” urged Allen, leaning closer in towards the screen.
“Alright, but let’s check first to see if he kept any old mail.”
I clicked over to the Old Mail folder. “Banone, Queenb, that’s me, Allen,” I said.
“Queenb? Yeah, right,” he cracked jokingly. “Yep,” I continued to read, “Evansoncom, Authorite, forealtoo, Masonite, Masonite4…Masonite4, I recognize that name!” I shrieked.
Allen smiled and gave a sly grin my way. “Good thing you played Concentration back in the day.”
I swirled the mouse and directed the pointer to Masonite4 in the file and clicked it. It read…
What’s up, man?
Just checking’ on you for this week’s hookup. Get back to me.
Masonite4
I leaned back into the chair, silent and pensive. Could this be the link? Masonite? Does he live in LA? When was this dated? I thought out loud.
We checked the date of the email. January eighteenth it read.
“That’s last week, right before Jamal was killed!” Allen said.
“What day did it happen?”
For an instant, his eyes brightened. “Thursday before last.”
“What was the date?”
“Ah, ah…January twenty-seventh,” I could see him reading the dates backwards in his head.
We stared at each other in disbelief.
“It’s thin, real thin,” he said.
“Maybe, maybe not. But it’s a start.” I turned back around to the computer, “Let’s read the other emails. Maybe we can find something else.”
The rest of the afternoon raced by as we read each unopened and previously opened email. There was one from a friend that must have heard about his death. The person decided to write a letter to Jamal through his email even though he was dead.
The writing sounded regretful because they hadn’t spoken in months. The writer apologized that they hadn’t repaired the damage in the relationship and now there was no way to make up that last time they were together and there was so much to talk about. The person wrote that some of the best times of their life were walking along the coast of the Gulf of Guinea with Jamal during the Christmas of 97’ in Cote D’ Ivoire West Africa. And it was signed Francine. Another email thanked him for his volunteering at a Senior Citizen Home someplace in Compton.
Allen cried while drinking shots of Senor Frog’s Blue Agave Tequila and strumming on an acoustic guitar various songs written by Bob Dylan like “Blowin’ In the Wind” and “Only a Pawn In Their Game” and “Oh Freedom” made popular by Joan Baez. As it turned out, Allen was an accomplished musician and played guitar as a livelihood, gigging with various bands and studio sessions. We ordered pizza from a nearby restaurant and reminisced about Jamal and life’s trials, confessing our sins and shortcomings like we were old friends.
It was about ten o’clock when Allen drifted off. I felt fatigued as well and powered down the computer and gathered my belongings. It had been silently staring at us for the past couple of hours anyway.
“Well.”
Allen stammered an almost unintelligible answer, “Well what…?”
I studied the piece of scrap paper where the name was crudely scratched. “It appears that the only piece of evidence was this Masonite person.”
“Yeah, whatever,” he no more cared about this small clue than Hitler did the Jews.
I eased out of the comfortable leather chair and said, “You stay right there Allen, I’ll let myself out.”
Allen didn’t move, he was sprawled across the bed, the tequila bottle held tight to his chest like a long lost love. I didn’t bother him anymore, under the circumstance; he had been a great host.
The drive back to the hotel filled my mind with many thoughts. I found Koltrane’s/Jamal’s life to have meaning and fullness. He had loved and lost love. He had friends and family that loved him and will miss him and he served the community while expanding his horizons by travelling abroad.
Who would do this to him? Could it have been Allen? Would he have murdered Jamal in his own home? Were they lovers? No, that doesn’t appear to be Allen’s M.O. Everything displayed to me during the hours we were together, showed Allen as a man with character and virtue and I didn’t catch the homosexual aura with my gay-dar, and it’s never wrong. I got the impression that both Allen and Jamal were just trying to make it in this world while enjoying a slice of that celebrity-driven Los Angeles lifestyle.
CHAPTER 14
Gazing at the beautiful ocean blue
Tan and tight from site to site
Lovers lying on sand from dawn to night
Slip and slide, water glide
Surf and turf throughout the day
Cell phone, social media out of the way
Only fun in the sun until the day is done
CK
‘10