These Toxic Things by Howzell Hall Rachel

Author:Howzell Hall, Rachel
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Thomas & Mercer
Published: 2021-08-31T16:00:00+00:00

23.

My hand hurts.

This computer sucks.

The rain has stopped.

Can we talk?

A text from Christopher.

I hold my breath, not sure that I want to talk to him—which means that I don’t.

Can’t. Working

Later then?

I don’t respond. Later, then. If at all.

Time for a new adventure.

I grab my keys, my bag, and the envelope that Mr. Kim left for me.

The answers you need start here: 1831 W. Washington Blvd., No. 372017

Up in the store, Riley is selling an old Black couple a Last Supper wall clock. Outside, there’s no sun, only layers of clouds and flocks of seagulls and crows. The air smells like rainwater and hamburgers. Anna’s diner is filled with the lunch crowd. My stomach growls as I stroll over to the locksmith’s shop. I knock anyway, then peer through the dingy windows.

Empty. No answer. Maybe he’s on a house call.

I hurry to my car. Before I leave the parking lot, I text Chris.

Going out on a field trip for client

1831 W. Washington Blvd. No. 372017 fyi

Will let u know when I’m back at the store

I’ll call you later

I throw my eyes around the parking lot. No Buick, no Teardrop Tats, no shadows. Relief.

Cars, trucks, and buses crowd the streets. A day without a million vehicles on La Cienega Boulevard in LA is the day the Big One shakes California into the Pacific Ocean or a pandemic sweeps across the globe and forces Angelenos to shelter at home. I’ll shapeshift into an old white lady before that happens.

I know these passing neighborhoods. Mom’s favorite Korean barbecue place is right there and will be a wonderfully savory stop on her memory bank ROAD TRIP! My play-uncle, Kip, got shot by his wife in that grocery store parking lot over there. My elementary school took field trips to the public library right over there. After story hour, the librarians handed out sugar cookies and warm Hawaiian Punch in small wax cups.

1831 W. Washington Boulevard.

I slowly drive past the destination, then look again at the address on my telephone to compare it against my real-time place on the block. Across the street is 1828—a sign and banner shop. A mechanic at 1830 and a storefront church at 1832.

I drift back to 1831.

This is it. This is my destination.

Angelus Rosedale Cemetery.

The answers you need start here.

Located across the street from the all-boys Loyola High School, Rosedale is one of the oldest, creepiest cemeteries in Los Angeles, with large tombstones shaped like pyramids and giant Celtic crosses. Famous people are buried beneath those stones—“Hurricane Hank” Armstrong, Hattie McDaniel, Rasputin’s daughter Maria, and Anna May Wong, just to name a few. Old Los Angeles is also buried here. Southern California streets, high schools, and cities have been named after the Slausons, Burbanks, and Fremonts now interred at Rosedale.

“Looks like a memorial identification number.” That’s what the old man in the cemetery office tells me about the numerical sequence in my note. “Lemme get you the . . .” He taps into his computer, then scribbles on a memo pad.

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