Walter Mosley - Fear Itself

I once read a book that claimed mathematics is the universal language of mankind—but I never believed it. Money is the talk of the world. Charlotta ran down to her room and got back with a small powder blue suitcase that had red heart decals along the side.

I kissed her and hurried her off. Then I packed my bound booty under one of Miss Moore’s spare sheets.

MY EFFORTS WERE NOT WASTED. The landlady was waiting at the front door when I got there.

“Are you just getting out of bed, Mr. Hendricks?” She used a sweet voice to ask her question, but I could tell from the way she spaced her words that it was a test of my moral fiber.

“I spent the whole day writing wedding invitations on paper I borrowed from that nice Charlotta Netters,” I said, “one hundred and nineteen. She let me use her suitcase to take ’em down to the post office.”

“She already started her mess on you, huh?” Miss Moore asked and answered.

I knew that bringing up Charlotta would keep the landlady from questioning my suitcase. No older woman would ever like Charlotta. She was like an overripe peach on your favorite tablecloth—bound to leave a stain.

I CALLED AMBROSIA’S HOUSE from a phone booth a few blocks away and got Fearless after only a few curses. I told him where to pick me up. He was there in less than ten minutes.

“Open up the trunk, Fearless.”

“What for?”

“I need to keep this suitcase back there while we runnin’ the streets.”

“What you got in there?” Fearless asked.

“A book I picked up for my antiquarian collection.”

“Your what?”

“The collection I just started. This is the first book.”

IF CHARLOTTA’S INFORMATION WAS RIGHT, then Bartholomew was staying in a room above a drugstore on Jefferson. Fearless and I went to the address and sat out front in Ambrosia’s Chrysler. We didn’t have much to talk about on the ride over. Fearless had spent all his time in bed with Ambrosia and I had spent the night worried about somebody stealing the book I had stolen.

“What now, Paris?” Fearless asked.

“I guess we should go up there.”

“Okay.”

“You got a gun, Fearless?”

“Yeah. In the glove compartment.”

“Maybe you better pull it out, then.”

“You scared’a Bartholomew Perry?”

“Somebody’s been killin’ people, man,” I said. “The Wexlers got killed and Timmerman almost wasted us. It would just make me more comfortable to know that we had some firepower on our side.”

“Why don’t you take it then?”

That was Fearless’s way of teasing. He knew that I was useless with guns. I couldn’t shoot straight and just holding a gun made me nervous. I had been disarmed more than once by men I had drawn down on.

Fearless laughed and pocketed the pistol.

We crossed the street and went through a side entrance, climbed three flights of stairs, and came to a door with the number eight stenciled on it.

“Friendly?” Fearless asked.

“Neutral, I think,” was my response.

I knocked on the door. We could hear a heavy man’s footsteps. He approached the door and then remained silent for a full five seconds.

“Who is it?” Bartholomew called out.

“Plumber,” I said in a loud voice I rarely use.

“I ain’t called no plumber,” came the reply.

“There’s a leak in the walls,” I said reasonably. “Landlord wants me to check every floor until we find it.”

“I don’t see no water.”

“It’s in the walls,” I said again. “If it goes on, he’s gonna have to spend a whole lotta money tearing out the side of the building.”

The lock clicked and the door came open four inches, held fast by the security chain. That was my cue to stand back.

“Let me see you,” Bartholomew said.

Fearless rammed his shoulder against the door. BB shrieked and the chain broke. The door flew inward, throwing the bulbous occupant to the floor. Fearless rushed in and grabbed Bartholomew by the neck as I hurried the door shut.

“Don’t say a word,” Fearless warned BB, and then he let go of the young man’s throat.

“What you want with me, Fearless Jones? I ain’t done nuthin’ to you.”

“Where’s Kit Mitchell?” I asked.

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t wanna lie to us, son,” I said. “This is serious business and a man could die takin’ the wrong stand.”

“I don’t know where he is. I ain’t seen him in almost a week.”

“What about that girlfriend’a yours?” I asked.

“What girlfriend?”

“That white girl, that Minna Wexler.”

It was the only way it all made sense to me. BB had a few dollars and he liked white girls. A white girl and her brother had been killed and now BB was on the run.

“I don’t know anybody by that name,” BB said. Then he let out a loud belch.

“It’d be easy enough for us to find out if anybody saw you with her,” I said.

He belched again, frowning as if this one hurt him on the inside. He let himself down into a wooden chair that sat at a small maple table.

It was a room of single items. He had a couch that was folded out into a bed, the chair he sat in, and the table it sat at. There was also a chest of drawers upon which perched a butt-ugly pink ceramic lamp made into the shape of a melting rooster.

“Why you men messin’ wit’ me?” BB asked us. “I ain’t done nuthin’ to you.”

“Yes you have,” I said. “You just don’t know it. Because of you the cops ran down Fearless. Because of you a man shot at us for no reason. Because of you I can’t go to my own home because men are lookin’ for me to do me harm.”

“I didn’t do none’a that.”

“Where’s Kit?” I asked again. “And why does your auntie want me and Fearless to bring you to her house?”

Bartholomew’s eyes widened and his left arm began to quiver. “Aunt Winnie?” he said in a trembling voice. Then he stood straight up and took a swing at Fearless!

I was amazed. BB knew that throwing down on Fearless Jones was tantamount to suicide. Why would he do such a thing?

Fearless moved his head, easily avoiding the blow. But BB swung again, catching him in the ribs.

“Slow down, Barty,” Fearless said. “You know I don’t wanna hurt you.”

Instead of listening the crazed fat man threw a wild uppercut. Fearless sidestepped the haymaker and caught his attacker with a straight right hand. Bartholomew Perry was unconscious before he hit the floor.

25

FEARLESS LIFTED BB onto the sofa bed and I searched the room. He was on the run but managed to bring five shirts, six pairs of socks, three pairs of trousers, two suits, and twelve changes of underwear. He even had an extra pair of shoes. He was like a young prince in flight. All that was missing was his retinue of guardian Beefeaters.

He had no weapons, one hundred and nineteen dollars in a wallet on the bureau, and a tiny phone book—mostly containing the phone numbers of women. No books or papers in Bartholomew’s room. No TV or radio. He didn’t even have a newspaper. There certainly wasn’t any information about Kit Mitchell.

Going through his pockets was my last hope. In the secretary wallet of his dark green suit I found a wrinkled slip of paper that had an address on Olympic Boulevard. The single word Tonight was written below the address.

“Let’s wake him up,” I said.

Fearless went into the bathroom and came back with a glass of water, which he poured on the young prince’s face.

BB didn’t sputter or jump up like they do in the movies. He put his hand to his head and moaned. When he opened his eyes I could see the string of thoughts run across his buff-colored face. At first he didn’t recognize us, then he remembered who we were from running into us around town, then he remembered our breaking in, and finally the fear of his auntie came into his eyes.

“Throw down again and we gonna tie you up like a Christmas goose and leave you on your auntie’s doorstep,” I said.

“No, man. Don’t call Aunt Winnie. Don’t. I’ll pay you.”

“Where’s Kit?” I asked.

“I ain’t seen him,” BB said. “I got money, man. Money enough for all three of us.”

“How much?”

“A thousand dollars.”

Fearless grunted. “That’s a whole lotta change,” he said.

“If you guys could find Kit we could make it fifty.”

“Thousand?”

“Yeah, brother. Fifty thousand dollars American.” BB was shivering, burping, and trying to smile. It was a sickening display.

“How?” I asked.

“She didn’t tell you?” A wily look came into the playboy’s eyes.

“Tell me what?”

“Why she lookin’ for me and Kit?”

“You can tell me that.”

“If I did, then you could cut me out right here.”

“I could cut you out anytime I wanted to, son,” Fearless said in an impartial tone.

“I’ll give you guys a thousand dollars,” BB said. “A thousand, and five each if you get me to Kit and Kit give me what I want.”

“Let’s see the cash,” I said.

“I got your word you’ll help me find Kit?” BB asked. Then he looked at Fearless. “And that you’ll take my deal and leave the rest of the money to me?”

I looked to Fearless for direction, knowing that any deal I made without him was subject to revision anyway.

“Why not?” he said, answering my wordless question. “Maybe you could hold on to the cash for me and I wouldn’t have to sleep on the street no more.”

“You said it now, Mr. Jones,” I said. “I’ma keep you to it.”

“Okay, Paris.”

“Then it’s a deal?” BB asked me.

“You got to come up with a thousand dollars first,” I said. “Do that and we’ll work wit’ you. That is unless you killed one’a the Wexlers.”

“I ain’t killed nobody, man.”

“But you did know her, right?”

“Yeah.”

“And she and her brother got somethin’ to do with all this mess?”

“They, they did, yeah. But I cain’t tell you about how until you find Kit.”

“We gave you our word, BB,” I said.

“I know,” he said. “But I just wanna keep my secret until we got Kit here with us.”

“Who killed Minna and Lance Wexler?”

“I don’t know, brother. That’s why I’m hidin’ here. Somebody’s out to kill us.”

“Kill who?”

“Me and Kit and anybody else messed up in this.”

The chill returned to my gut then. I was messed up in BB’s business. I didn’t even know what was going on and I was still on a hit list somewhere.

“Where’s the thousand?” Fearless asked BB.

The young man went to the ugly pink lamp and unscrewed the bottom. A thick roll of twenty-dollar bills fell out. He handed the wad to me. The moment the money changed hands a fearful shudder went through BB. He’d given us the money, now we could kill him or turn him over to his auntie. Why should he have trusted us?

“Why you so scared’a your auntie?” I asked BB.

“Who said I’m scared?” he asked, trying to achieve some approximation of bravery.

“You goin’ up against me to keep away from her tell us you scared,” Fearless said.

“I cain’t tell ya what we lookin’ for,” BB said. “But believe this: my auntie would see me dead before she’d let me get away wit’ what Kit done did.”

I could see that BB wasn’t going to let up on his secret, but that didn’t matter right then. At least I knew that Winifred Fine’s problem went deep enough to make her own blood afraid of her.

“You better find a new place to hide out, Bart,” I said. “’Cause you know if we could find you then somebody else can too.”