Fear of the Dark

Chapter 20

We only had one flight of stairs to make a plan. After that we’d be in enemy territory. Fearless was used to that kind of pressure. He’d been a hair-trigger killer all through Europe for the U.S. army. They’d whisper a sentence or two into his ear, and he’d go out among Aryans, shooting and slaying and burning down.

“What’s the thing, man?” he asked me on the first step.

“Useless been hangin’ around Twist’s for some time now,” I said. “He told Ha that he been takin’ money from white men, that he had ’em by the dick.”

“The dick?” Fearless echoed. “Damn.”

We were halfway to the second floor.

“You know what we need,” I said. “Where is Useless and, failing that, what does Twist know about Useless that we don’t know?”

“Beats a knife in the ribs,” Fearless said.

For some reason, that caused me to grin.

The door to Jerry Twist’s was red. Dark red in a dark stairway. The faint light imbued the portal with a throbbing quality.

I let Fearless do the knocking.

He only rapped one time before the blood-colored door swung inward. Framed in the darkness of that doorway and lit by the weak light from the stairs stood K. C. Littell, one of the many mysteries of Watts.

K.C., from almost any perspective, was a white man. He had pale skin, wavy brown hair, and eyes that hadn’t seemed to decide on which shade of brown they actually were. His features, however — lips and nose — were small but not quite Caucasian. A white man might have been fooled by K.C.’s appearance. Many Negroes like him had disappeared into the white world. They lived there, married to white spouses, raising white children, belonging to white PTAs. But not K.C. He was a virulent Negro. Something in his upbringing, something about his appearance made him want to bathe himself in the color he’d been denied.

“Happenin’, Fearless, Paris,” he sang.

“Nuthin’ to it, brother,” I said.

“We wanna come in a minute, K.C.,” Fearless said. “That okay?”

The pale guardian pretended to think for a moment. But he knew that he didn’t have the authority to bar Mr. Jones’s way. No. There wasn’t a president or king worth his salt who couldn’t see the royalty in my friend.

K.C. nodded and stepped aside. We entered the vast room, assailed by darkness and light.

There was enough room for fifteen tables in Twist’s enormous poolroom — but he only kept six. They were spaced out like islands of light on a sea of black. Each table, handmade and imported from Copenhagen, was under three hanging lamps delivering rich and buttery radiance. Every table was occupied by professional pool men from all over the country. If you were a black man and you played pool, gaining entrée to Twist’s was the highest accolade you would ever receive.

The only sound coming from the room was the clacking of billiard balls. There were at least a dozen men in there playing, but I never even heard a murmur.

Somewhere in the darkness was our quarry. Jerry’s desk was against one of the walls. He never had his lamp turned on and kept a penlight for the few times he had to read or sign something.

Each player paid a hundred dollars a night for the privilege of playing at Twist’s. The winners left a 10 percent tip for the host if they ever wanted to play there again.

If someone needed water or whiskey or both, K.C. called down to Ha Tsu and he had one of his waitresses bring up the order.

It wasn’t known what the relationship between Ha and Jerry was. No one even knew who owned the building they occupied. Were they partners or did such brilliant and unusual men just happen to come together in that place at that time?

“Mr. Jones,” came Jerry’s moderate alto. “Paris.”

Over to our left Jerry materialized out of night.

Mr. Twist looked nothing like his name. He was short and stout with googly, watery eyes that most often seemed to be gazing somewhere above your head. His lips were like those I’d imagine on Edward G. Robinson’s grandfather. All in all he looked like an uncomfortable cross between a man and a frog. He was good with a stick, better at business, and had the air of danger about him. He was one of those men — like Cleave and Fearless — who lived outside the rule of law.

Jerry was from Louisiana too. He’d grown up not seven miles from the hovel I called home. He was my senior by a decade, but I remembered him — ugly and gawking, different from the rest. I used to think that we had something in common. But years later I realized that the only experience we shared was our separateness from the people around us.

“Hey, Jerry,” Fearless replied.

I nodded, noticing that I didn’t deserve a mister.

“What you all doin’ here?” he asked, peering at a spot both above and between us.

“As you know,” I began. “Useless Grant’s my cousin...”

I told an edited version of the story. There was no reason to mention Tiny or Jessa, stolen money, or the particulars of my meeting with Mad Anthony. I didn’t even tell Jerry that Useless’s mother was the one who had initiated our search.

When I’d finished talking, Jerry was quiet for quite some time. Finally he sighed and glanced at Fearless.

“You in this, Mr. Jones?” he asked.

“All the way up to my elbows.”

“Come on, then,” he said, turning toward the depths of his establishment.

He guided us along an invisible path, between tables, to the wall opposite the entrance. There he opened a door and admitted us to his office.

I had expected dazzling light, crystal chandeliers, mirrors on every wall. But instead Jerry’s office was almost as dim as the poolroom. There was a red lamp on the desk and weak blue radiance coming from the wall on my left, enough light for us to see the chairs we were meant to sit in.

Jerry placed himself in the manager’s seat and lit up a cigarette without offering us one. I took out my own pack and shook it at my friend. Fearless waved away my wordless offer.

“Okay,” Jerry said. “Now, what does all this falderal got to do with me?”

“I’m just worried about my cousin,” I said. “And I hear you been seein’ him on a regular basis.”

“That’s business, Paris,” he said. “You know most people come in here don’t speak ten words the whole night.”

“But you got eyes like a eagle and a owl,” I said. “You see ten times what normal men see and twice that at night.”

“I ain’t seen nuttin’ on Ulysses Grant,” he said, and I knew by his use of my cousin’s proper name that he was lying.

Fearless knew it too.

“Look, Jerry,” my friend said, “we not tryin’ to get nobody in trouble. We not tryin’ to mess up nobody’s game. Paris here just need to talk to Ulysses, that’s all.”

Jerry took a moment. He wasn’t considering the request, it was just that he was trying to show respect, that he was at least thinking about what Fearless was saying.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Jones,” Jerry said. “But you know I got a reputation to maintain. I don’t tell nobody’s business to nobody. If I was to talk to you it might get out. Ulysses might figure out how Paris fount him. An’ if he did, my whole game is out the windah.”

“When he came to my house he was worried for his life,” I said.

“The last time I seen ’im he was just fine,” Jerry said.

“When was that?”

“Five days ago.”

Jerry stared at me and Fearless, resolute in his conviction. Whether it was because he was committed to his reputation or some more intricate involvement with my cousin, I was not sure. But I did know that I had to break Mr. Twist’s resolve.

“Okay,” I said. “You know I don’t wanna make you do somethin’ go against your moral code. But I got to bring Three Hearts over here for you to tell her that.”

“Three Hearts? What’s Three Hearts got to do with this?” Jerry was looking me directly in the eye.

“That’s Useless’s mama, man. She got everything to do wit’ it.”

“She, she down Louisiana,” he said.

“Not no mo’,” Fearless said, nodding sagely.

“She in L.A.?”

“Right outside’a Watts,” I said. “I can have her here in twenty-two minutes — tops.”

“I cain’t tell her nuthin’ more than I told you,” he whined. “Why she got to come here?”

“That’s her boy,” I said reasonably. “He’s missin’ an’ you the last one seen ’im. You know Three Hearts gotta talk about that.”

“Paris,” he begged, “you know that woman. You know what they say about her.”

“An’ it’s all true,” I pronounced. “That’s why I’m’a bring her to you. I don’t want that evil eye on me.”

Jerry gulped loud enough for us both to hear. He bit his lips and clasped his hands.

Then he said, “This shit cain’t git out, man.”

“You got our word,” Fearless said.

I do believe a tear escaped Jerry’s eye.

“Last time I seen Ulysses,” Jerry said, “he was worried that a man named Hector was after him. He told me that his girl, Angel, had turned against him and he was gonna have to run.”

“Why he tell you?” I asked.

“He needed money.”

“And you a bank?”

A sour taste passed Jerry’s big lips and he looked to the left. Then he looked back at me and said, “Ulysses been fleecin’ rich white people. Blackmailin’ ’em, I think.”

“How?”

“I don’t know. All I do know is that he been bringin’ me money, lots of it, an’ I been helpin’ him put it into accounts that the IRS won’t see. You know, foreign shit.”

“How you do that?”

“That ain’t got nuthin’ to do with what’s goin’ on with Ulysses,” Jerry said.

“Okay,” I said. “All right. What’s this guy Hector got to do with all this?”

“Hector LaTiara,” Jerry said. “French-assed nigger. Think his shit don’t stink. I met him one time. He got somethin’ to do with Ulysses’ business, but don’t ask me what ’cause I don’t know.”

“You know where he live at?” Fearless asked.

Jerry just shook his head. His lips were hanging loosely, as if he had just run a desperate race and was exhausted.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “And I appreciate the information. Three Hearts will too.”

“You keep that witch away from me,” Jerry said.

“Don’t worry,” I promised. “I’ll keep her curses all to myself.”