Walter Mosley - Debbie Doesn't Do It Anymore

“You wouldn’t know it by the way my foot’s in my mouth right now.”

“That’s my fault. I’m a little tricky when it comes to talking to men. I like to keep ’em a little off balance. Otherwise most guys want to walk all over you.”

I stared directly into the café au lait — colored young man’s eyes. It was all he could do not to avert his gaze.

“I hardly know what to say when somebody experiences a loss like yours,” he said with barely a stutter. “Nobody close to me has ever died.”

“You’re lucky. It hurts when they’re gone. And it doesn’t matter if it’s slow or fast, whether it’s a long drawn-out disease or an unexpected accident. When they’re gone the world turns upside down and you’re left holding on, trying not to fall off.”

Rash gave me a little half smile, as if he were experiencing pain. I reached over and laid my hand on his.

“You wanna come over to my house for a while?” I asked him. “We could just sit and talk. I’d really like that.”

We took separate cars.

Rash followed my taillights east and then over the mountain into Pasadena. When we got to my house on South Elm I parked on the street and he pulled up behind.

I waited by the passenger’s side for him.

“Nice car,” he said. “Nice house.”

“Are you a gigolo?” I asked.

“Why would you ask something like that?”

“You’re talking about the worth of my possessions,” I said, feeling as if I were, once again, following a bad script. “So are you?”

“Not hardly.”

“What do you do for a living?”

He was thrown off, I thought, not so much by the question but the fact of my asking it on the street — before we went into the house.

“Um... I’m an architect.”

“You design skyscrapers and stuff like that?”

“Not so much. Mostly houses, usually interiors. You know, rooms and maybe a patio or two. When people are designing or redesigning their homes I sit with them and work out the possibilities. After that I draw up plans and maybe help them find contractors.”

“How’s that doing?”

“On and off. I pay my rent most months. I owe money here and there, but I got this job for the interiors of this new office building going up on Wilshire. That’ll see me through to the end of next year.”

There were stars in the sky behind the modest architect. For a moment I was distracted by them.

“You wanna go in?” Rash asked.

“That’s why we’re here, right?”

“Maybe you changed your mind now that you know I’m a poor architect.”

“Your job is the last thing I’m worried about, honey; believe me.”

Rash smiled and I took him by the arm.

We were halfway up the stone pathway when someone said, “Excuse me, Ms. Dare.”

A white man in an upscale white trench coat was approaching from across the street. He was of normal height and build but something about the way he walked gave a sense of confidence, even finality. He was familiar-looking — but I’d met so many people that he was to me more a type than an actual person with a name to be remembered.

“Yes?” I said.

He strode right up to us and for an instant I believed that we, Rash and I, were both dead.

“It is you, isn’t it?” the white man asked. “I mean, the last time I saw you your hair was longer and a different color.”

“Do I know you?”

“Obviously not. But it is you, isn’t it?”

“It’s me, Mr...?”

“Manetti. Coco Manetti. I called you.”

The evening was suddenly something different than I imagined. Now, before I could practice normal conversation with a regular guy, I’d have to survive the machinations of a self-made gangster.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Manetti. I’ve been getting hundreds of calls, literally. I’ve been upset.”

“I can see that,” he said, glancing at Rash.

“This is my friend Tom Vance,” I lied. “He’s helping me plan the funeral.”

“I knew your husband,” Coco said.

“He’s mentioned you. Something about having to work off a debt.”

Manetti’s cold eyes watched Rash’s face for a moment and then he turned back to me.

“Can I come in for a few minutes before you start... planning?” he asked.

I led both men into the white-on-white-in-white living room. Rash looked confused but he didn’t say anything to contradict the lie I’d created for him. Coco went to the long sofa and sat down in the exact center.

I considered offering my guests drinks but decided against it, because I didn’t want to leave them alone together.

In the electric light Coco had eyes that were dark brown. His skin was the color — and had the pallor — of death. Under the trench coat he had on gray wool trousers and a lime golf shirt. His shoes were real snakeskin and he wore no socks.

“I’ll make this quick,” Coco said as he leaned forward, placing his elbows on his knees. “You know Richard Ness?”

“Sure, I know Dick.”

Coco smiled.

“Dick,” he said, “yes. Dick sold me Theon’s marker. It is now to me that you owe his debt.”

In spite of his ominous meaning I was impressed with his sentence structure.

“Oh. I see.”

“For some reason Dick was worried that he wouldn’t get satisfaction in the deal with you and so I paid him eighty cents on the dollar, knowing that I’d have better luck.”

“You can’t squeeze blood from a stone, Mr. Manetti.”

“You’d be surprised the blood I’ve seen.”

“Theon never told me about this debt,” I explained. “I haven’t signed a thing. And he left me with nothing. The bank owns this house and his car, all our accounts are empty, and the credit cards are as kissing close to being maxed out as you can get.”

“None of that’s a problem,” Coco said, sitting back and waving his hand carelessly. “The last time Theon was in hock to me he just worked off the debt — like you said.”

I could feel the hardness come into my face.

“You could come work for a friend of mine,” Manetti continued. “Two or three months of hard work and we’d be clear. Six months and you’ll be able to climb out of debt.”

“I don’t do that anymore,” I said. The words felt good in my mouth. My nostrils flared.

“That might be a mistake.”

“Listen, man,” I said. “My husband just died. My accountants tell me that I’ll be thrown out in the street soon. I have to bury Theon and catch my breath.”

“When’s the funeral?”

“Saturday at two forty-five.”

“Where?”

“Day’s Rest.” I could have lied but that wouldn’t have put Manetti off the scent.

Coco got to his feet slowly and yet lithely. “I’ll be there. If Theon told you about our little deal you know that I mean serious business. I’m not like Dick at all.”

With that Coco Manetti walked toward the front door and let himself out. I followed him and switched on the alarm system.

“What was that all about?” Rash asked. He had trailed behind me.

“You can leave if you want,” I said, pushing my way past him, headed for the kitchen.

Rash came after me, which I both liked and dreaded. I was still in the lead when we arrived at the kitchen.

I turned on the lights.

“So who was he?” Rash asked while I peered into the double-doored refrigerator.

“You want some banana-orange-strawberry juice?”

“I think I could use a real drink,” he said.

“In the low cabinet behind you.”

Rash squatted down while I poured my juice. Then I went to the little alcove next to the dark windows.

“Can I have some of this brandy?” he asked.

“Sure. The glasses are over your head. You need ice?”

“No, thanks.”