A Red Death

29

I was still laughing about Dupree and Zaree when I got off the phone. A good story or joke seems funnier when you’re surrounded by death. I never laughed harder than when I rode along with Patton’s army into the Battle of the Bulge.

I don’t know how long he’d been knocking at the front door. Whoever it was he was a patient man. Knock knock knock, then a pause, then three more raps.

I can’t say I was surprised to see Melvin Pride standing there. He wore black cotton pants, a white T-shirt, and a black sweater vest. It had been years since I had seen Melvin informally dressed.

“Melvin.”

“Could I come in, Easy?”

There was an occasional twitch in his right cheek-a large nerve that connected his bloodshot eye with his ear.

I offered him coffee instead of liquor. After I’d served it we sat opposite each other in the living room, white porcelain cups cradled in our laps.

Then, instead of talking, we lit cigarettes.

After a long while Melvin asked, “How long you been living here?”

“Eight years.”

Melvin and I were both serious men. We stared each other in the eye.

“Do you want something from me, Melvin?” I asked.

“I don’t know, Brother Rawlins. I don’t know.”

“Must be somethin’. I’m surprised that you even knew my address.”

Melvin took a deep draw on his cigarette and held it for a good five seconds. When he finally spoke, wisps of smoke escaped his nostrils, making his craggy face resemble a dragon.

“We do a lot of good work at First African,” he said. “But there’s lotsa pressure behind that good work. And you know all men don’t act the same under pressure.”

I nodded while gauging Melvin’s size and strength.

“Who you been talkin’ to, Melvin?” I asked. A spasm ran through the right side of his face.

“I don’t need to be talkin’ t’nobody, Easy Rawlins. I know you. Fo’ years you been stickin’ yo’ nose in people’s business. They say you got Junior Fornay sent up to prison. They say you’n Raymond Alexander done left a trail’a death from Pariah, Texas, right up here to Watts.”

Even though what he said was true I acted like it wasn’t. I said, “You don’t know what you talkin’ ’bout, man. All I do is take care’a some sweepin’ here and there.”

“You smart.” Melvin smiled and winced at the same time. “I give ya that. I seen you cock your ear when me an’ Jackie was talkin’ on the church stair. Then I see you gettin’ tight wit’ Chaim Wenzler. You don’t be givin’ stuff away, Easy. Ev’rybody knows you a horse trader, man. So whatever you doin’ up there I know it ain’t gotta do wit’ no Christian love. An’ this time somebody talked. This time I know it’s you.”

“Who said?”

“Ain’t no need fo’me t’tell you nothin’, man. I know, and that’s all gotta be said.”

“There’s a name fo’the shit you talkin’, Melvin,” I said. “I learned it at LACC. They call it paranoid. You see, a man wit’ paranoia be scared’a things ain’t even there.”

Melvin’s cheek jumped and he smiled again.

“Yeah,” he said. “I be scared all right. An’ you know it’s the scared animal you gotta watch out for. Scared animals do things you don’t expect. One minute he be runnin’ scared an’ the nex’ he scratchin’ at yo’ windpipe.”

“That’s what you gonna do?”

Melvin stood up quickly, setting his cup on the arm of his chair. I matched him, move for move.

“Let it be, Easy. Let it be.”

“What?”

“We both know what I’m talkin’ ’bout. Maybe we made some mistakes but you know we did some good too.”

“Well,” I said, trying to sound reasonable. “Let’s just lay it out so we both know what’s happening.”

“You heard all I got to say.”

Melvin was finished talking. He didn’t have a hat so he just turned around and walked away.

I went after him to the door and watched as he went between the potato and strawberry patches. His gait was grim and deliberate. After he’d gone I went to the closet, got my gun, and put it in my pocket. An hour later I was pulling up to a house on Seventy-sixth Street. The house belonged to Gator Wade, a plumber from east Texas. Gator always parked his car in the driveway, next to his house, so he had no use for the little garage in the backyard. He floored the little shack, wired and plumbed it, and let it out for twenty-five dollars a month.

Jackie Orr, the head deacon at First African, had been living there for over three years.

Gator was at work. I parked out front and made my way back to Jackie’s house. Nobody answered my knock, so I pried open the lock and let myself in. Jackie worked during the daytime as a street sweeper for the city. I was fairly sure that he wouldn’t interrupt me. And even if he did I doubted if he’d be armed.

The place was a mess but I couldn’t be sure if someone had searched it or if Jackie was just a poor housekeeper, like most bachelors.

Next to his bed was a thick sheaf of purple-printed mimeographed papers. The title line read, “Reasons for the African Migration.” It was a long rambling essay about Marcus Garvey and slavery and our ancestors back home in Africa. It wasn’t the kind of literature I expected Jackie to read.

His clothes surprised me too. He had at least thirty suits hanging in the closet, and a different-color pair of shoes to match each one. I noticed a nice ring on his nightstand and a good watch too. I knew his salary wouldn’t have covered the payments, and a woman would have to hear wedding bells to lay that kind of cash on a man’s back.

Underneath the bottom drawer of his bureau was a thick envelope that contained more than a thousand dollars in denominations of twenty or less. There was also another list of names. This one included amounts of cash:

L. Towne, — 0-M. Pride, 1,300

W. Fitzpatrick, 1,300

J. Orr, 1,300

S.A., 3,600

There was money changing hands. And in Jackie’s case the money turned into clothes. I didn’t know who S.A. was but I had it in mind to find out.

I left the money but I took the list with me. Sometimes words are worth more than money, especially if your ass is on the line.