Kissing the Beehive

He don't look dead to me. But maybe that's 'cause we're in L.A.; out here they tan your body before showing it."

"Fra

"That's right – he and his dad are playing Ping-Pong together in hell."

We moved past the open coffin of David Cadmus and sat down on some folding chairs nearby. There were only two other people in the room – a smoky-looking brunet and a guy whose beeper kept going off. Welcome to L.A.

A day before, McCabe had called to tell me David Cadmus had been murdered in a drive-by shooting. "Boy, that completes the Cadmus circle, huh? Like father, like son."

He said he had friends with the Los Angeles police who would fix it so we could have a look around Cadmus's house before anything was removed. We were on a plane six hours later.

What was strange was that the last time I had seen Cadmus, he had been white as a sheet. In death, he had the deep tan of a beach volleyball player.

Los Angeles is a town where you take your chances, but other than my editor Aurelio Parma having been held up at gunpoint at the American Booksellers Association convention, I'd never known anyone there directly touched by crime.

After a minute or two of silence, Fra

Outside he pulled a pair of snappy-looking sunglasses out of a pocket and slid them on.

"Nice glasses."

"Armani. What else? You want something, you get the best."

"Then how come you rented a Neon, Giorgio?"

He kissed the air between us and walked over to the beige rental car that looked like a large lump of bread dough on the rise. "Hey, this car's okay, Sam. It gets about a thousand miles to the gallon and that's what matters out here."

Inside it was like a microwave oven. Thank God the seats were made of cloth or else our asses would have melted onto them like grilled-cheese sandwiches. Fra

We drove out of the funeral home parking lot onto Pico Boulevard. "Cadmus's house is not far from here. About ten minutes. There's a fabulous place for ribs on the way – you ever been to Chickalicious? They also make these hot wings . . . well, you'll taste them."

"Don't you think we'd better go to his house and look around before we eat a ten-ton meal?"

"Fuck no! Crime makes me hungry."

Pico Boulevard was still showing the haunting effects of the last L.A. riot. The farther away we got from Beverly Hills, the more burned-out shells of buildings we saw. It reminded me of the aftereffects of a tornado – why had the fu

Fra

The stores along the road were a weird and entertaining combination of Jewish this, black that, and a bunch of other nationalities thrown into the mix. Roscoe's Chicken and Waffles restaurant was next door to a Swedish bakery. An Ethiopian record store boomed reggae music while a family of Orthodox Jews waited on the sidewalk in front for the bus.

"How do you know this area?"

"I had a girlfriend who lived around here. Lucy. Lucy Atherton. Big beautiful thing; head like a lion. Lied more to me than any other woman I've ever known. The things I found out about her after it was over . . ."

"What were you doing in California?"

"I told you, my wife was a TV producer. I used to come out here all the time."

"To see Lucy?"

"Sometimes. Here's the place and hey, look! That's where we want anyway – Hi Point Street. Sounds like a 1950s pen. Let's eat."

We pulled into one of those omnipresent pocket shopping plazas you see all over California. A video rental store, fish-and-chips restaurant, hairdresser, and gourmutt McCabe's choice for the day – Chick-alicious. He parked in front so we had a good view into the place. "Fra

He waved it off and got out of the car. "They may hate you, but I'm a brother. Watch." He walked to the door and threw it open. Those brothers didn't seem thrilled to see him. In fact, first they gaped at him like he was nuts, then the real hard looks started. I followed as warily as I could, ready to make a Road Ru

"Fra

"Where the hell you been, Fra

"She wouldn't care. Albert, this is my friend Sam Bayer. He's a famous writer."

"Nice to meet you. You here for lunch? Sit down. What do you want to eat?"

I wanted to see the menu, but Fra

"You go

After taking the order, Albert sat down with us. He and Fra

I looked at Fra

"Well he did and that's all that's important."

McCabe said nothing more about it. A medic in Vietnam, a life-saver, but from my childhood memories of him, ferocious as a badger when he didn't like someone. I honestly didn't know how to feel about my old friend and it was getting more confusing as time went on.

The food came and was sensational. We went through it as if our tape was on fast-forward. Dessert was "Sock It to Me" cake, but I was already down for the count. Fra

As we were leaving, Albert gave us each a green-and-diamonds cap like his own. Fra

Hi Point Street was directly across from the restaurant. It was a black middle-class neighborhood where people showed their pride by keeping their houses and lawns in perfect condition. The front yards were mostly small while above them loomed huge palm trees. Expensive cars were parked in many of the short driveways next to the houses.

The Cadmus place was near the corner where Hi Point and Pickford Streets intersected. Probably the largest house on the street, it was a twenties Spanish-style beauty with a front porch flanked by two palms. A metallic blue Toyota Corolla was parked in the driveway. Fra

"Owned."

"Yeah, right, past tense. Interesting that a white guy with some money would choose to live in an all-black neighborhood."

"I'd live here too if I could have this house. What a great place."

We walked up the path to the front door. Fra

Off the entrance hall was a large, nicely furnished living room with two Mission-style chairs, a black leather couch and festively colored rug. Windows on three sides filled the room with dappled light. A large fireplace was against one wall. On the shelf above it were several knickknacks. I walked over to look at them. There was a polished wooden ball perched on a metal stand, a primitively carved dark wooden pig, and a photograph of David Cadmus and his father.