Walter Mosley - A Little Yellow Dog

“That don’t matter,” she said, cutting me off. “We don’t mind helpin’ you, Mr. Rawlins.”

“Thank you,” Jackson said. The spark in Jackson’s eye was starting to worry me when I heard Mofass coming toward the door.

His normal breathing sounded like a severe asthma attack. He struggled up the three stairs to the entrance and then stopped, leaning against the wall like a man who had just raced five miles.

“Mr. Rawlins,” the gravel-toned real estate agent said. “Mr. Alexander.”

He had on the ratty Scotch-plaid housecoat that he almost always wore. Mofass rarely went out. Jewelle took care of the apartments and the real estate business that they’d taken from her aunt. She took care of him too.

“Uncle Willy, you shouldn’t be up here in this breeze,” she said. “Come on, let’s get back down to the couch.”

With that the slender girl tugged and supported the two-hundred and-fifty-pound man. She didn’t ask for any help and didn’t seem to want any. Her labor was a labor of love.

We followed them down the stairs to a large room that was carpeted with thick, real animal-skin rugs. There was a large fireplace roaring and a picture window that had the same view that was behind Lips McGee at the casino.

“This is nice,” Jackson said, falling down into a plush settee. “Real nice. Like a little country house for a Roman senator.”

“The Romans had emperors,” Jewelle corrected.

“Yeah,” Jackson said. “But they had senators too. You know, the Greeks started democracy but the Romans made law. They had elected officials too. Ain’t that right, Easy?”

“Yeah, just like America was. They had senators and they had slaves.”

“Where’d you learn that?” she asked.

“Mr. Rawlins,” Mofass complained, “why you bringin’ these people into my house?”

“It’s just a couple’a days. Jackson and I got some business to handle, and while we do he got to lay low. You know what that’s like, William.”

“Yeah, I guess,” he wheezed.

Mouse and i didn’t stay long. I sat with Mofass for ten minutes pretending that he ran the business. He barked out some orders to Jewelle and she answered, “Yes, Uncle Willy,” every time. She ran the business better than he ever could, but she loved him and respected him. She would have thrown away all that money and all that land just to be there. Her love was a jagged scar, it hurt me to see it.

Where we goin’ now?” Mouse wanted to know.

“A place called the Hangar. It’s an after-hours place where all kinds of night-shift workers go after the whistle.”

“Oh, yeah,” Mouse said sadly. “I know that place. I used to go there a while back.”

“Yeah? What’s it like?” I was just making conversation.

Mouse concentrated on my question for quite a while. The way his eyes squinted and how he nodded his head now and then it seemed as if there were a whole dialogue going on in his head.

“I’ont think it’s wrong to kill somebody, Easy,” he said at last. “I mean, that’s what life is all about — killin’, killin’ to survive. You see it in bugs and animals — hell, even plants kill to survive. It couldn’t be a sin because I been hearin’ stories out the Bible my whole life; ev’rybody in there’s killin’ an’ gettin’ killed. An’ you know it ain’t really against the law, ’cause we both know a cop’ll snuff yo’ ass as easy as he could sneeze. Shit. Government kill more people than a murderin’ man could count an’ ain’t nobody takin’ no general to court. Uh-uh. No. It ain’t wrong.”

“So what you sayin’, Ray?” Most times I would have simply listened to Mouse and nodded where it seemed right; it doesn’t pay to get yourself too far into the logic of a killer. But seeing that we were going into a tough situation I wanted to know what I could expect out of my friend.

“I don’t know, man. I don’t have a gun on me but that’s just because I don’t wanna kill nobody right now. I mean, if I had to do it I could get me a firearm. But right now I just wanna see what it’s like to live wit’ your family an’ work at a job. But I ain’t scared. I’m lookin’ for a new way — that’s all.”

I didn’t know what he was talking about. The only facts that registered with me were that he didn’t have a gun on him and that he preferred not to kill — right then.

It looked like an empty lot from the street. If it wasn’t for the cars parked along the curb and in the lot you might have thought that you were on a country lane.

Behind the sycamores at the back of the lot was a small abandoned airplane hangar. It was a big room with a concrete floor and a wire-laced glass ceiling thirty feet above. It was dark and cool in the late evening.

But at the far end of the hangar was a door that led to what must have been the mechanics’ offices. That was where the new Hangar was.

That was a smaller room, about the size of a diner. Behind the counter there was a whiskey bar and a fry stove. It was early yet, only about one in the morning, and so there were only a few people around.

“Hey, Raymond,” a woman said. She got up off the seat at the counter and swayed over to us.

“Hey, Mattine,” Raymond answered. “How you been?”

“Fine,” she said, looking me up and down. “Where you been?”

“Got me a job,” he answered.

“You?” Mattine guffawed.

“What you-all drinkin’?” she asked me.

“Just some soda,” I said.

“And I’ll take a beer, honey,” Mouse added.

Mattine sucked her tooth, smiled, and then went to fill our orders. Mouse ushered me over to a small round table with two chrome-and-vinyl chairs. A pair of men sitting a few tables away waved at us. The man behind the bar saluted.

“They know you here, huh?” I asked my friend.

“Used to come here wit’ Sweet William,” he said.

I didn’t ask him any more about it.

Every now and then someone would drop by and say a few words but Mouse wasn’t very friendly and not many knew me.

“That was drugs you was talkin’ ’bout in the car, right, Easy?” Mouse asked after his second beer.

“Yeah.”

He waited for a while and then said, “One time half’a that woulda been mines.”

“What you mean?”

“You know what I mean,” he told me. “I woulda said half’a what happens from now on is mines. And I woulda backed that up with my forty-four. No lie.”

I knew the chance I was taking bringing Mouse back into the street. That was his element.

“But you ain’t sayin’ that now, huh?”

“I’m th’ough wit’ it,” he said, disgusted. “Sick of it. All that street shit. I won’t touch it.”

“But you don’t wanna stop me?” I was curious.

“Stop you what?”

“Stop me from givin’ dope to a gangster.”

“Why I care about that?” he asked.

“Because it’s wrong.”

“But it ain’t my wrong, man. It ain’t mine. That’s yo’ wrong an’ yo’ problem.”

“But you still sittin’ here with me,” I said.

“But I ain’t you, Easy. I sit here and you sit over there. That’s all there is to it.”

He might have changed but Mouse would always be different.

“Hey, man,” a crackling voice commanded. He could have been talking to me, so I looked up.

“Yeah?”

“What the fuck you doin’ here, dude?” the lanky, long-armed man said. There was a large man standing behind him; a sweaty fat man who looked to be formed from a pile of wet mud.

“I’m looking for a woman named—”

The man grabbed my collar but just as fast Mouse’s hand was on the man’s wrist.

“We don’t want no problem now, brother,” Mouse said.