Blonde Faith

38

When Perry and I came back into the living room, Jean-Paul was talking to Pretty. She was grinning and ducking her head coyly. I had the pillowcase in one hand and the .38 in the other. I’d taken the gun out again to dissuade the young bombshell from asking questions.

When Jackson saw us he got to his feet. Reluctantly, Villard followed suit.

Perry went with his woman to stand by the front door. They watched us file out. There were no words of good-bye or good luck.

“HOW’D YOU GET that girl to let you in the house?” I asked Jackson as we were driving away.

I had put Meredith’s nest egg in the trunk.

“Jean-Paul’s shoes what did it,” Jackson said with a grin.

“Shoes?”

“Martin Lane,” Jean-Paul added.

“Who?”

“These shoes cost twelve hundred dollars,” the insurance kingpin informed me.

“So?”

“Pretty asked me if I was wearing Martin Lanes,” he said. “It seems that she keeps up with the fashion.”

“That was the icebreaker, Easy,” Jackson bragged. “She was fallin’ all ovah herself to get us in there an’ figure out why my man here got them shoes. She and him goin’ out on his yacht for dinner tomorrow night.”

“Perry told me that they were flyin’ to New York on Monday,” I countered.

“She didn’t tell us nuthin’ about that. I guess she gonna be spendin’ Sunday night packin’ or sumpin’,” Jackson said. “You know Perry don’t know Martin Lane from John Henry.”

At least I broke into her house, I thought. At least she will feel some discomfort.

I WAS ANGRY AT PRETTY for being like me. She was showing her man the door because she couldn’t control her compulsions. She wanted to be near real wealth and was willing to give up whatever it was Perry had to offer for a ride on a yacht.

I was upset by her betrayal, but wasn’t Pericles the same? He’d run from a wife and a house full of children. He was just getting what he deserved. None of us were innocent. Why shouldn’t Pretty go for the brass ring?

Jean-Paul and Jackson were talking about how sexy Pretty was when I started considering Mouse.

I knew his address, but still I had to tread cautiously. He’d done the robbery already; that job was over. So why was he still so scarce? The only answer was that he’d gotten into some other business upon his return. And whatever that business was, it was probably dangerous. I was Raymond’s best friend, but he didn’t want me sticking my nose in his affairs.

“. . . right, Easy?” Jackson was asking.

“What?”

“Ain’t it true what I said to Jean-Paul? That most white men in America don’t know how beautiful a black woman is.”

I could almost see Mouse turning toward me in anger. I felt the thrill of fear right there in the car.

“That’s right,” I agreed.

“Why is that, Easy?” Villard asked.

I resented him using my name without knowing why. He was a nice enough guy. He was a philanderer and a murderer and maybe a trafficker in slaves, but none of that had anything to do with me.

“Because they know what would happen if they let themselves love our women,” I said from some unconscious, resentful, frightened place.

“What do you mean?”

“If they loved our women, then they would become our men,” I said. “And once that happened, they’d lose their advantage. Their children would be dark skinned. Their history would be our history, and their crimes would be shown for what they are.”

Jean-Paul frowned, truly contemplative for the first time since I’d met him. I gazed up in the rearview mirror and saw that Jackson was looking at my reflection in a rare show of intellectual respect.

I drifted back into thinking about my problems.

How was I going to give the money to Meredith Tarr? She didn’t look all that stable from where I sat. She might, given the right (or maybe wrong) circumstances, start blaming me for killing her husband. She wouldn’t have to look too deeply to find out that Ray and I were friends. Maybe I was part of a plot to pay her off.

I decided that I’d have to read the letter.

There’s never a scarcity of problems for people like me. As soon as I’d come to a conclusion about Meredith’s money, I started thinking about Bonnie’s wedding. It came up in my mind stealthily, as if I had already allowed it into my consciousness without any resistance.

I had spent the night with Faith. I was on my way to a relationship with Tourmaline. The kids had accepted Bonnie’s marriage.

“You ever been in love?” I asked the gabbling men.

“You know I love Jewelle more than my whole family,” Jackson said. “You know that.”

“What if you found out that she was seein’ another man on the side?”

“She wouldn’t do that,” Jackson averred.

“Course she would, man,” I said. “When she was livin’ with Mofass she got you that house on Ozone. She was out there with you two nights a week.”

“That was different.”

“I don’t see how,” I claimed. “She loved Mofass more than a baby love her mama. And he died for her.”

We were in my roomy Ford, but it felt as if I were alone, communicating with men in other worlds. Jackson was in my mirror like an image on a small TV. I could see him responding to my statements. I could tell by his distant gaze that Jackson had not considered the depth of Mofass’s love. It was possible, very possible that the old man had loved Jewelle more deeply than Jackson ever could.

Jean-Paul was sitting next to me, wondering about the gravity of the conversation. He was right there, but to me he was no more than a cartoon. He lived in a world that I could never fit into. I lived in a world where he didn’t belong no matter what kind of shoes he wore.

“But,” Villard said, “if a man can love more than one woman, why cannot women love more than one man?”

“You really believe that?” I asked the cartoon.

“I do not want to smell him,” Jean-Paul said. “I do not want him fathering my children. But love, it is like the weather. It is wonderful or it is terrible and then it changes. But you can never change it.”

I was in a vulnerable emotional state at that time. That’s the only reason Jean-Paul’s words seemed so deep. He was telling me something that I already knew but that I never really believed.

“You tryin’ to say sumpin’ ’bout Jewelle?” Jackson asked.

“Naw, man,” I said. “Bonnie’s marrying Joguye Cham.”

“The prince?” Jean-Paul asked.

“Yeah. You know him?”

“Oh, yes, very well. We have conducted business with him over the years. Investments and some insurance.”

“What’s he like?”

“He comes from a long line of headmen of his people. He was educated at Oxford and was active in revolutionary movements. He’s a . . . what you say . . . a good guy.”

A good guy. He was more than that. He saved my daughter’s life and then took my lover in payment.