Fear Itself

27

THE ROUGH-HEWN DOOR opened inward. The man standing there surprised me. He was a timid-looking guy in a shabby green suit. He looked like a bookkeeper or a door-to-door salesman—certainly not the monster that I felt must lay beyond that great door. The timid man stood aside and we entered a room that any king in Europe would have been at home in. There were rows of red velvet-covered chairs along the walls and an incredibly long and wide table, cut from a single great tree, down the center of the chamber. Above each chair hung an antique tapestry, each one depicting a different hunting tableau. At the far end of the table sat a throne. That’s the only thing I can call it. You had to ascend three steps to get to it, and it was plush with golden velvet and ornately carved wood.

The man who sat there had a lean, leonine face and long, thick brown hair that flowed backward. He wore a red shirt and white trousers, no shoes or socks, rings or glasses. He was over forty and under sixty.

His eyes were mad.

“Who is this?” the king asked his vassals.

“The driver’s license in his wallet says Paris Minton,” Louis said.

“Where did you find him?”

“Checking out the mailbox at the Faison girl’s house. I figured since it’s niggers in this that you’d wanna see him.”

The king looked at his lackey with something like disdain in his nutso gaze.

I wanted to scream.

“What’s your name?” the king asked me.

“Paris, like the man said. What’s yours?”

Louis’s hand, which still gripped my biceps, tightened. The man on his throne sat up straighter. He frowned for a moment and then he laughed.

“They call me Maestro,” he said, and my heart sank. “What were you doing at my daughter’s sublet, Paris?”

“I don’t know anything about your daughter, sir. All I knew was that it’s an address that a man I’m looking for had left behind in his hideout.”

“What man is that?”

“Young Negro name of Bartholomew Perry,” I said as bravely as I could.

“And where was he?”

I gave the address, certain that the bookkeeper or Eric would write it down.

“But,” I added, “he was already gone from those premises. We got there maybe three hours too late.”

“We?”

“Me and Fearless. Fearless Jones.” Just saying the name gave me hope and maybe even a tiny bit of nerve.

“And why were you and this Fearless looking for Mr. Perry?”

“A man named Milo Sweet was looking for him. He’s a bail bondsman but sometimes he agrees to look for missing persons. Me and Fearless work for him now and then.”

“What did he want with Perry?”

“He said that it was a missing person case. We figured that it was family lookin’ for him.”

I was walking a tightrope with the make-believe king and his subjects. I didn’t know what they knew, so I decided to lie by leaving out any direct involvement we might have had with the Wexler clan. Fearless knew how to take care of himself and Milo was tucked away with Fearless’s mother. The only person I had to worry about was Loretta Kuroko. But all I had to do was call her. That would be easy, if I lived to dial the number.

“How did you find Perry’s hiding place?”

“Milo called me at my house and told me. He said that one of his informants had given him the tip.”

“Who?”

“He didn’t say.”

“Didn’t you wonder why he’d call you if he knew where his quarry was?”

“I was just happy to stay on the payroll, Maestro.”

Louis’s hand tightened again.

“Do you know who I am, Paris?”

“No sir. I mean, I figure you’re rich and all, but I never heard’a you that I know.”

“My last name is Wexler.”

I squinted and then shrugged.

“No sir. I don’t remember that name in any of this.”

“My daughter and son have been murdered. I believe that this man you’re chasing has something to do with the people who killed them. So you can see why I’m suspicious about anyone coming to her sublet home or anyone looking for Bartholomew Perry.”

“Oh yeah.”

“Do you have anything else to tell me?”

“No sir. All I know is that Milo Sweet hired me, then he told me where to find Bartholomew, I found what you tell me is your daughter’s address and came to see if I could get a lead.”

Silence filled the room. My ears got terribly hot, burning hot. I had spun my lie and now all I could do was hope the line would lead me out of there.

“How much is this Milo Sweet paying you?”

“Hundred and fifty if we find BB. Ten dollars a day for our trouble if we don’t.”

“I’ll give you ten thousand dollars if you find him. Will you work for me?”

I looked over at Louis, then at his fist wrapped around my arm.

“Let him go, Louis,” the king commanded.

The brute did as he was told.

“Sure,” I said. “Yeah. Hell yeah.”

“You would betray your employer?”

“The way I look at it, Milo gave up my trust when he didn’t tell me how serious this problem was. He knows, I’ve told him before, that I never wanna get messed up with any problem got a killer in it somewhere.”

“But you would do it for me?”

“The most money Milo ever offered me was for this job here. I’m already in it so why not go for the big payday?”

Maestro Wexler studied me then. He was a man who demanded allegiance from his employees and I was obviously not the faithful sort. But he needed me. Why harm me when I could still be of some use?

“Louis, give Mr. Minton your number and drive him back to his car.”

“No,” I said.

“What is it, Mr. Minton? Do you require a retainer?”

“A retainer sounds nice but that’s not what I was talkin’ about. I already been on a ride with this mothahfuckah right here. I don’t need that again.”

Maestro laughed.

“I’ve told you about your manner, Louis. Bradford.”

“Yes sir,” the bookkeeper intoned. He walked into my line of vision.

“This is Bradford,” Maestro said. “He’s my private secretary.”

I nodded and so did the secretary. I liked him then. Maybe it was because he was the only man in the room who didn’t seem to pose some kind of threat. But I also thought that he resembled me. Quiet and withdrawn from the brutish world. I was glad to have him in the room.

“Take Mr. Minton where he wants to go and give him a thousand dollars from petty cash.”

“Yes sir,” Bradford said. And then to me, “This way, Mr. Minton.”

Eric piped up then.

“You want I should go with ’em?” the scrawny henchman asked.

“No, Eric. Mr. Minton works for me now.”

I followed Bradford from the room, happy to leave the company of madmen.

IN THE LIGHT OF THE KITCHEN I could see that Bradford’s pants and coat were darned here and there. His dress shoes had a high shine but they were shapeless from many years of use. His face was what I can only call a faded white. He had a long nose and an accent that wasn’t quite English.

He entered a walk-in pantry and came out with a cardboard cigar box that held three stacks of cash. Half of one of these heaps was the thousand dollars the king had earmarked for me.

After paying me and returning the cash box to its unlocked closet, Bradford led me through a back door and down a series of stairs toward the vast garage. We got into an old Bentley and drove down a driveway that was a quarter mile or more.

We were on a mountain. I could see the lights of Los Angeles as we descended streets that had no sidewalks or curbs. That was how the rich lived in L.A. They didn’t want people to be able to get to them easily, and once they got there they had to do their business and leave because there was no place to dawdle.

“Australia?” I asked after the view was gone.

“Yes. That’s right,” he replied. “You have a good ear.”

“Bradford, isn’t it?”

“Yes sir.”

“You got anything to tell me, Bradford?”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. Maybe somethin’ about what’s goin’ on. Why I was battered and kidnapped and dragged up here.”

He drove a few more blocks and we entered upon Sunset Boulevard. There he turned left.

“I’m sorry you fell into this problem, Mr. Minton,” Bradford said.

“I don’t even understand it,” I said, emphasizing my innocence with the tone of my voice. “What does a rich girl like Miss Wexler have to do with a buffoon like BB Perry?”

“She was the kind of girl who liked . . . what should I say? A certain type of man.”

Like Fearless’s rich girlfriend, I thought.

“What about that man shanghaied me? That Louis. What could your boss be thinkin’ with a thug like that workin’ for him?”

“Those men working for Mr. Wexler are criminals. I don’t like having them in the house, and I certainly don’t trust them,” Bradford said. “He’s a good man—Mr. Wexler is. But the deaths of his children have brought him to grief. He’s used to being in charge and so the heartache makes him want to find the ones responsible for the murders.”

“That makes sense,” I said. “I know people who would have the same reaction.”

“It would be better for all concerned if the police handled the matter, or if, if the culprits were never found. I mean to say that whoever gets involved with this fiasco will be the one most likely to pay a price.”

I could see that Bradford was also a deep thinker. His take on the murder and revenge deserved a closer look.

“You mind if I smoke?” I asked.

“Not if you open your window.”

I rolled down the window and set fire to a cigarette. I let the smoke drift up from my lips to be inhaled through my nostrils; that was my way of thinking and smoking at the same time.

“So you’re tellin’ me that I shouldn’t be thinking about the ten thousand dollars,” I said.

“Not unless you want to trust Louis and his friend,” Bradford said. “They’ll slaughter anyone to get their bonus from Mr. Wexler. And if you were the last man seen with the man killed, then you will be the one the police come after.”

We were passing some pretty big houses going down Sunset but they were nothing compared to Maestro’s palace.

“I guess me tellin’ the cops about my visit to Maestro’s house wouldn’t get me very far,” I added.

“Mr. Wexler is a strong supporter of the mayor and the chief of police. I doubt if you could find a single soul that would take your word above his.”

“But wouldn’t he get mad if I don’t turn up something on BB?”

“All he has to think is that you’re trying. You could keep the thousand you already have,” he said, “keep it and stay out of the way.”

“Excuse me, Bradford, but why would you care about me in all’a this? I mean, shouldn’t you be more concerned with your boss?”

“It is in his interest that I speak to you. I have been with this family for many years, Mr. Minton. I’ve known all of Mr. Wexler’s wives and children. Minna and Lance were bad from the start. Their mother was a dancer in San Francisco.” He said the word dancer like it was a disease. “There was never any love in that union.”

“Were the kids running some kind of scam?”

“I believe so. It had to do with a woman, a Miss Fine.”

“What about her?”

“She has something that Mr. Wexler wants. I’m not sure exactly what it is, but it’s property of some sort. Lance and Minna knew someone who was well acquainted with the woman. They were going to use him to get leverage on her.”

“Bartholomew,” I said.

“I believe so. Lance told his father that he could obtain some control over Miss Fine and now he, Mr. Wexler, feels responsible if indeed Lance’s attempt got him and his sister killed.”

“I guess he would be,” I said. “Responsible, I mean.”

“He didn’t go to Lance,” Bradford said. “The children were angry because their father had reduced them to a very low allowance. He wanted them to work hard to understand money. But all they wanted was to get rich quick. Mr. Wexler should cut his losses and move on. He has seven other children, all of whom are fine and upstanding.”

We had worked our way down to Olympic by that part of our conversation. Bradford pulled up in front of the Faison house.

“So you think it would be better for all involved if I just dropped out?” I asked the Australian.

“You’ve seen his eyes,” Bradford said.

“Yeah. I’ve also seen ten thousand acres of rice stooped over by just as many poor black Louisiana sharecroppers. You know ten thousand dollars sure enough might make that pain heal.”

“Death is the only real cure to pain, Mr. Minton.”

It might not have been a good argument but it was the truth still and all.

“I’m afraid,” the male secretary continued, “that if you open a door for Mr. Wexler’s revenge he will go so far that even his wealth will not protect him.”

“I’ll tell you what, Brad,” I said. “You got a private line in that big house?”

“Yes,” he said and gave me a card with only a number on it. “You can call me at that number any evening after nine.”

“If I have any questions I’ll call you first. How’s that?”

“Better than nothing.”