Уолтер Мосли - Down the River unto the Sea

He poured me some more wine and I considered the odd comparison.

“But tell me something, King.”

“What’s that?”

“Does Braun have anything to do with Natches?”

It was then I told him about both of the cases I was on. He listened quite closely, nodding now and again.

“Now, let me get this right,” he said when I had finished. “You’re trying to prove a conspiracy against this Free Man?”

“Yeah. Him and me too.”

“They have any connection?”

“Other than cops are mixed in with both... I don’t think so.”

“So you’re trying to prove Man is innocent?”

“Yeah. But I can’t expect you to go all the way with me on this. I mean, I appreciate what you’ve done, but I’m a fugitive now.”

“Maybe not,” Mel opined. “There’s nothing on the radio about any shooting in Queens. And I don’t care anyway. I’d love nothing better than to grab a man off the gallows. Shit, that’s a life-defining moment right there. That’s Errol Flynn in Robin Hood. ”

From there he asked me about the details of my inquiries. I told him about most of the names and their involvement; about the Blood Brothers of Broadway and Johanna Mudd, Little Exeter and the heroin trade at the old Brooklyn docks. I didn’t give him Willa Portman’s name.

At the bottom of the second pitcher of wine, he said, “Okay, okay, I get it, what you want about Man. Prove he was being stalked and that his friends were killed and framed by the cops that were on him. Okay. But what about the thing with your job?”

“I want the union to take my case and have me reinstated.”

“But do you want the job back?”

“I want to be exonerated.” Saying these words reminded me of another obligation. “You got a phone I could use for a few days?”

The burner he gave me was still in its plastic packaging.

I set up the phone and sent a text to my daughter based on a simple code she’d devised years before. Our cypher was the transposition of numbers, where 1 = 4, 2 = 9, 3 = 1, 4 = 7, 5 = 2, 6 = 0, 7 = 3, 8 = 5, 9 = 8, and 0 = 9. I sent the number of my new phone to her stepfather, and then she would get another disposable phone and we could talk.

“So what do you want to do next, King?” Mel asked when I stopped working with the phone.

“I need to get Natches to admit that he was working with Convert to scuttle my career.”

“You just gonna walk into his office and say that? I mean, you came outta that ex-cop’s building and they tried to murder you.”

“I think I might be able to get a little leverage on the inspector. I might even get him to come and meet me.”

“You need some help?”

“Hell! I need the whole goddamn French Foreign Legion.”

The devil laughed and my phone rang at the same time.

“A.D.?” I said, answering.

“No. It’s Monica.”

“Oh.” I could tell by her tone that I was in for grief. “Hey.”

“What the hell do you mean telling us that we had to leave town because of something you’d done?”

Despite my profession, I don’t like lying to people. I don’t like making them feel bad either. A good cop is a professional who knows how to lie and inflict pain but does not enjoy these things. I was a good cop, but I needed Aja in my life and Monica was at least part of the reason I was in so much trouble. So I had worked out a tale that would protect them while keeping me from blame.

“Not something I did,” I said. “Something you did.”

“Me?”

“When you called Congressman Acres you set a game into play that got me on the radar of some extremely bad men. Government men. Acres figured out who hired me when I didn’t even know myself. He reported this to some very dangerous characters who need their business kept secret. Now they’re after me and I’m neck-deep in shit, just like when you let them cops keep me in that hole.”

After a brief pause she said, “You’re lying.”

“Did you call Acres?”

“So what?”

“You did and I got men with guns on my ass. I don’t give a fuck about you and your boy-toy, but with this trouble I need to know that Aja’s safe. You did leave, didn’t you?”

“Yes. But I’m not telling you where.”

“As long as you’re outta state, I don’t care. Now, let me speak to A.D.”

“Her name is Denise!”

“Hi, Dad,” Aja said a few moments later.

“Don’t tell your mother about anything I’m doing at work, okay?”

“Did I cause this problem?”

“No. But don’t tell your mom that either.”

“Okay. Are you all right?”

“Yeah. I’m fine. You didn’t use your phone to call, right?”

“Of course not. I bought this pay-as-you-go phone at a drugstore.”

“You’re a smart cookie.”

“I love you, Daddy.”

“Me too,” I said. “Talk to you soon.”

There was an upper floor to the onetime house of worship. Little cells for the devout priests or parsons — whatever the denomination was. My feet hung over the edge of the cot, but I didn’t mind. The door wasn’t locked and through the small window a half-moon shone brightly.

I didn’t sleep. Just lay back with one knee up and moonlight on my face. My newly shaved head itched a little and my little girl was safe. I had survived a slaughter and murdered a man. All that and life was still the best it could be.

I got out of bed at around 4:30 and went down to the kitchen, where Mel was drinking coffee at the table.

“Got a car I can use?” I asked him.

“Copper Lexus in the stable.”

“Stable?”

“Behind the church. You know this is an old institution.”

“You going in to work?” I asked.

“If you don’t need me later I will.”

“You got a typewriter around here?” I asked.

“Word processor and a printer.”

“I guess that’ll have to do.”

I drove via Brooklyn to Manhattan’s Upper West Side before the traffic was a bear. There, on Eighty-Third, I found a coffee shop that made western omelets but had run out of real bacon. So along with the eggs I had strips of turkey pressed, salted, and dyed to look like and taste something like bacon.

There was a storefront across the street that had been rented out on a temporary basis. I dithered over the bad food and weak coffee until a man I recognized walked into the pop-up campaign office.

“May I help you?” a young woman asked. She was quite dark-skinned. Upon her blueberry blouse was a big square button that proclaimed, ACRES IS OUR MAN!

I liked meeting young black Republicans. It meant that some part of the younger generation was thinking. Who cared if they were wrong?

“Mr. Acres, please.”

“The congressman is not in yet.”

The campaign receptionist had a fortieth birthday party a year or two before. Hers was the kind of plain face that promised something deeper than transient beauty. The blue chemise was silk, and from the thread-like gold chain around her neck depended a yellow diamond that was at least two and a half carats.

“I didn’t think Republicans needed to lie,” I said.

“Excuse me?” she said in a tone that could have easily turned to anger.

“I was coming here from down the block when I saw Bobby walking through the front door. That would bring him right here to you. Now, I guess you could have been somewhere else, but I find it hard to believe that the first face you meet at a campaign headquarters doesn’t know when the candidate is in the house.”

“What is your business with the congressman?” she asked coldly.

“Tell him that the man he almost ran into in Jersey the other night would like a few words.”

“I’ll need a name.”

“Believe me when I tell you, sister, that’s the last thing the congressman would want.”