Уолтер Мосли - Down the River unto the Sea

“Mr. Teegs?”

Due to his slender build and finicky attire, I expected the professional middleman to be shorter than I. But as he unfolded himself from the chair he rose and rose until I was looking up into his void-colored eyes.

He took inventory of me: my Crayola-blue suit and black canvas shoes (worn in case I had to run). I had to concentrate to keep my hands from writhing nervously. This strange man unnerved me.

His smile revealed very bright but tiny teeth.

“Mr. Oliver,” he greeted, holding out a hand. “So glad you decided to come.”

I shook the hand and took the chair across the small circular table from him.

The wine bar — it had no name I knew of — wasn’t very crowded. We sat next to the outer wall, looking down the atrium to the entrance hall three floors below. I chose that particular place because no matter the economic state of the nation, or the world, that mall was always crowded because it catered to the upper classes, who, it seemed, were never at a loss for disposable income.

We were sitting in an isolated corner, so my host spoke clearly and at a decent volume.

“There was a regrettable decision to end your life,” he said as if talking about a small dog that had taken a shit on my rosebushes. “We apologize for that lapse in judgment.”

This answered my first question: Teegs worked for whoever it was who used Gladstone to frame me back in the days when I was cop.

“Whatever happened with that?”

“The agent, who took the unconsidered decision upon himself, has been dealt with. You don’t have to worry about him anymore.”

“What about his accomplices?”

“One has moved on and the other has simply gone away.”

I liked the way Teegs talked. His references could be either vague or rock solid.

“Why would you apologize if it was Convert who took it upon himself to do what was done?” I wasn’t as accomplished a conversationalist as Reggie Teegs.

“If a man represents another man, then the man in charge has to take responsibility. That rule is what Western civilization is based upon.”

“And are you the man in charge?”

Showing his small-toothed grin again, he said, “Heavens no. I am merely a fulcrum, the man who attempts to achieve parity among the parties involved.”

“I could have used somebody like you a long time ago.”

“As I have said, there have been mistakes made.”

“You talk about this shit like you stepped on my toe or brought me a black coffee instead of one with cream.”

“Come on now, Joe,” the Fulcrum said reasonably. “Men have died in this arena. I’m here to offer you recompense.”

“What kind of recompense?”

Teegs reached under the table, pulling out a dull buff-colored leather satchel.

He said, “Four hundred and fifty thousand dollars in untraceable bills.”

If I was still a cop I would have walked away right then. Even if I had just considered myself loyal to the clan that abandoned me I would have said no. As merely a responsible citizen the negation was on the tip of my tongue.

Teegs saw this and said, “Before you make a rash decision, Mr. Oliver, let me say that the people on the other side would feel quite nervous if you were to refuse their offer.”

I could send Aja-Denise to college with money like that. And there were the costs that the next day’s jobs would incur. The most I could hope for was some kind of payoff, be it from a judgment or from the conniving of some lawyer like Stuart Braun.

“Your pain is undeniable,” Teegs said, trying to drive the point home, “but, despite our lapses, you are still alive.”

“If I take that satchel the people you represent will back off?”

“Like the darkness at the break of day.”

“And if I don’t take it?”

“I have no words for that consequence.”

I returned, that evening, to my office, with the pigskin satchel and more money than I’d ever had. I put on a duet by Charlie Parker and Dizzy Gillespie. They played those horns like maniacs finally released from the asylum of humanity.

I listened to the piece over and over, thinking about the victims whom I’d uncovered and to some degree whom I had avenged. I thought about the truth that undergirded the lies circulated by the institutions of governments, large and small. That was, I knew, my excuse for taking the payoff.

Aja called me in the morning. They were back from Florida and she wanted to ditch school to meet me for lunch. I was her father and should have said no, but instead I agreed and called the school, telling them that I was keeping her out for the day.

We met at noon at our favorite pizza place across the avenue from Lincoln Center. There they made simple pizzas on the thinnest crust imaginable.

“What happened to your hair?” was the first thing she said.

“I thought I’d take up track,” I joked. “Cutting off my hair makes me aerodynamic.”

She wasn’t amused.

“Are you okay now, Daddy?”

Instead of answering, I hugged and kissed her; then we sat at a window table.

“Almost.”

“Why only almost?”

“The best thing I can ever teach you, honey, is that the truth will kick you in the ass.”

She giggled; then the waitress came to take our order.

“Are you getting kicked at by the truth?” Aja asked me when the server departed.

“Yeah.”

“Can I help?”

“You know how I was gettin’ on you about how you were dressed?”

“Yeah?”

“Whenever I do something like that you should listen to what I say but do what you want.”

“I usually do,” she said.

“Don’t I know it?”

“But you’re almost always right, Daddy.”

The concern on her face made her look older and, in my opinion, even more beautiful.

“I was real worried about you when we went away,” she added. “I hardly slept at all. One night I woke up and found Mom sitting on the couch in our suite.”

“You had a suite?”

“Coleman said that we should have it so that we were together. He was pretty scared.”

“What about your mother?”

“I told her how worried I was about you and she said that she was too.”

“Really?”

“Uh-huh. You know what she said?”

“I couldn’t even imagine.”

“She said that she shouldn’t have abandoned you all those years ago when that policewoman showed her the tapes of you with another woman.”

“She told you about that?”

“Just about that she saw you with somebody. But she said that you were a good man and she knew it, but she was just so mad that it was like somebody else was there making her turn her back on you. She said that she was still mad, but now she knows that that shouldn’t have mattered and she should have had your back. She said that you guys should have worked it out and maybe you wouldn’t be in so much trouble today. I told her she should tell you all that when we got back, but she said that she never could, that it would be wrong for a married woman to say something like that to another man.”

“Whoa. Then why are you telling me?”

“Because usually when Mom doesn’t want you to know something she says not to tell. That’s how I knew she wanted you to know how she felt.”

The waitress brought our pizzas and salads, giving me a respite in which to think.

“So?” Aja asked when our server, whose chipped blue name tag read MARYANNE, had gone again.

“So what?”

“Are you gonna ask Mom to get back together?”

That was the perfect moment for me to do what I had come there for. I reached into my inside jacket pocket and came out with a small brown envelope made from tough plastic. The letter was sealed, and I handed it over to the person I loved the most in the world.