Fear Itself

11

“WHO IS THIS?”

“It’s Paris, Ambrosia. Fearless there?”

“He’s sleep.”

It was two in the afternoon.

“Wake him up for me, will ya? We got to be movin’ soon.”

“Who do you think you are, tellin’ me what to do, Paris Minton?”

“Listen, honey. I know you thought that you’d have him longer than this but playtime is over for a while. Fearless needs me to help out with a problem he’s got. It’s a big problem, and you would not want him thinkin’ that you kept him from me at an important point like the one we at right now.”

Love might be light in someone’s eyes, but hatred is silent and dark. Ambrosia didn’t say a word for a full thirty seconds, and then she put the phone down—hard. She yelled a few well-chosen curses, and then Fearless picked up an extension somewhere in the house.

“Paris?”

“. . . and tell that skinny-ass mothahfuckah that he bettah not show up at my door to get ya, neither!” Ambrosia yelled on her line. Then she slammed down the receiver in both our ears.

“Yeah, Fearless. It’s me.”

“You find Kit?”

“Meet me at the Emerald Lounge.”

“Why’ont you pick me up?”

“Because Ambrosia said she don’t want me there.”

“You scared of a woman, Paris?”

“No,” I said. “It’s just that I’m respecting her wishes.”

“I won’t let her hurt you.”

“Just get over to the bar soon as you can. All right?”

Fearless laughed and hung up the phone.

I leaned forward over my butcher-block table and recounted the five-dollar bills that had been stuffed in the envelope Winifred L. Fine gave me. There were 186 notes. Nine hundred and thirty dollars. Not the millions Milo was talking about, but a pretty big payday for a man who had never earned over two dollars an hour on a regular job.

The name Wexler was still nagging at me. It was as if I had heard it before calling the Bernard Arms. The newspaper was in the trash, the column heading WOMAN FOUND DEAD in plain sight. I remembered that when I thought about the name Wexler it was as though I had read it before. . . . And there it was—Minna Wexler. The corpse of the young woman in Griffith Park. Wexler. Could it be a coincidence?

She had been found by a hobo, Ty Shoreman, who had been living in the park for a few weeks. She was stripped to the waist at the time of her death. Strangled. There were signs that she had been tortured before her demise. I thought about the burns up and down Lance’s arm. The hobo was held for questioning and then released.

Wexler.

There were three sharp raps on my front door. I shivered in response.

BOTH WHITE MEN WORE DARK SUITS and frowns. One was going bald and the other had hair nearly down to his eyebrows.

“Paris Minton?”

“Yes, officer?”

“Why you think we’re cops?” the hairy one asked.

“Guilty conscience?” his partner chimed.

“How can I help you?” I replied.

“We’re looking for a friend of yours,” baldy said. “A man named Fearless Jones.”

“He ain’t here.”

“Do you know where we might find him?”

“No sir.”

My face went blank. The life drained out of my voice. My arms hung down at my side and I was willing to do anything those policemen wanted—except tell the truth.

“When’s the last time you saw him?” the ape-man asked.

I stared out at the sky between their faces, pretending to concentrate. “Maybe four weeks. He’s been up north working for a man grows watermelons.”

The cop with the advancing hairline took out a small leather notebook and the nub of a yellow pencil. He jotted down something and smiled at me. I remember being surprised that the one with all the hair was also the man in charge. That seemed unfair somehow.

“May we come in, Mr. Minton?” he asked.

“Sure.” I stepped backward, pulling the door with me. “Have a seat.”

They entered my front room but neither one took me up on the offer to sit. They scanned the room like dog-pack brothers, looking everywhere. The balding cop stepped into the bookstore, checking for surprises or infractions.

“Sorry for the intrusion,” the other cop said. “I’m Sergeant Rawlway and this is Officer Morrain.”

“Pleased to meet ya.”

“Nice place you got here,” bald Morrain said from the left aisle. “You sell a lotta books?”

“Yes sir.”

“That all?”

“I don’t understand you, Officer Morrain.”

He walked back into the room and looked down into my eyes.

“Lots of times we find that people down around here set up places that are supposed to sell one thing but really they have some other business.”

“Like what?” I asked, simple as a stone.

Morrain smiled and sucked in air through his nostrils.

“Where is this watermelon farm?” Sergeant Rawlway asked.

“Up near Oxnard,” I said. “Fearless harvests them for these street salesmen that work all over Watts. Is Fearless in trouble?”

“Why don’t you worry about yourself?” Morrain suggested.

“Well, yeah,” I said. “Sure.”

“When did you say you saw Fearless last?” Rawlway asked.

“About a month . . . almost that.”

“Are you good friends?”

“Yeah. Uh-huh. I met Fearless when he was discharged from the service, after the war.”

“Has he always been a farmer?”

“No sir. Fearless works at whatever. Day labor, farming, you name it.”

“If you’re such good friends,” Morrain asked, “then why haven’t you seen him in so long?”

At that moment I thought about the five-dollar bills on the counter in my kitchen. If the police came across that cache they’d arrest me on suspicion. I could feel the moisture breaking through my pores.

“He, he’s been on that watermelon farm, like I told you. I run this store and don’t have time to drive up there. And even if I did, Fearless is workin’.”

“Where is Fearless?” Rawlway asked again.

“I told you,” I said. “I don’t know. He was up on that farm. He haven’t called me. I guess he’s still there.”

I was wily but numb. That was my defense against the law. I didn’t have the slightest antagonism toward those peace officers. That might come as a surprise to anyone who hasn’t had the experience of being a black man in America. I wasn’t angry, because we were just actors playing parts written down before any one of us was born. Later on, at the barbershop, I’d laugh about my answers with other black men who had grown up playing dumb under the scrutiny of some other man’s law.

“He was seen in the past few days by various witnesses not a mile from your door,” hairy Rawlway reported.

“Witnesses?”

“Where is he, Mr. Minton?”

“I’m tellin’ you the truth, man. I ain’t seen Fearless. I don’t know anything about what he’s been doin’ or about any witnesses either.”

“What about Bartholomew Perry?” Rawlway asked.

“I know him to say hi to,” I said. “I mean, we ain’t friends or nuthin’ and I don’t even remember the last time I saw him.”

“Are he and Fearless friends?”

“Not that I know of.”

“I could take you down to the station, Paris,” Rawlway said.

“You could, sergeant, but that wouldn’t change what I said. I don’t know where Fearless is. I don’t know Bartholomew Perry more than to tell you his name. I’m in this buildin’ here all day sellin’ books. That’s all.”

“And you expect us to believe that you sell books for a living?”

“Why not?”

Morrain stepped back into one of the aisles.

“Who wrote . . . um . . . ,” he said, holding a book at arm’s length so that he could make out the spine. “Let’s see here, oh yeah. Who wrote Madame Bovary?”

“Gustave Flaubert.”

He picked out another book.

“How about the, The Mysterious Stranger?”

“Mark Twain.”

“You think you’re smart, nigger?”

“I’m just trying to make a living, officer. Fearless is my friend but I haven’t seen him. That’s all I know.”

It was always a tough part to play. They saw themselves as the foremen of the neighborhood. I was a lazy worker, a liar looking to cheat them out of what was their superior’s proper due. My job was to make them believe in their picture of me while at the same time showing that today I wasn’t shirking or lying or lining my pockets with their boss man’s money.

“You remember our names?” Rawlway asked.

“Sergeant Rawlway and Officer Morrain,” I said.

“If you hear from this Fearless, call us. Because if we find out you didn’t, there’s nothing in any of these books that will save your ass from me. You understand?”

“Yes sir.”