Уолтер Мосли - And Sometimes I Wonder About You

“But he didn’t kill you,” Twill observed. “Why not?”

This question raised Hush’s attention.

Tamara returned with a silver tray holding our tea and cookies.

“I don’t know,” the orphan named Fortune said. “I mean that’s what the four usually do.”

“What do you mean — the four?” Hush asked.

Fortune’s first response was a worried expression. He avoided Hush’s stare and did not speak.

“It’s okay, Fortune,” Twill said. “He already sent ’em after you. As far as Jones is concerned you’re already dead.”

“I’m not supposed to say,” Fortune said to Hush. “Jones got these rough dudes, four of ’em, and their job is to handle problems. If they don’t get the job done then he sends Marcia and Deck, and sometimes this dude named Thune. They got guns.”

“And they kill children?” Hush asked.

“If they do sumpin’ bad enough.”

“You’re bleeding,” Liza said.

There was a trickle of blood coming from Fortune’s mouth. He must have bit the cut worrying about telling strangers Jones’s secrets.

“Come on,” Tamara said, “let’s go clean you up.”

She and Liza helped Fortune up from his yellow chair and guided him out. I looked at the fabric but didn’t see any specks of blood.

“He’s got a concussion all right,” Hush said. “I’ll get a doctor I know to come look at him.”

“Thanks,” Twill said.

“You sure know how to get in trouble, young man,” Hush told my son.

“I get it from my pops.”

“You mind if we leave the lovebirds here a few days?” I asked.

“T loves Liza,” Hush allowed. “So I’m sure she’ll be happy. The kid looks street but he’ll be okay too. This Jones sounds like a motherfucker.”

Twill nodded and I said, “Yeah.”

“Where to now?” Twill asked when we were on the street again.

“Let’s walk a ways,” I suggested.

We headed north on Fifth Avenue, each of us a little stiff from the construction site rumble.

“Thanks a lot, Pops,” Twill said as we were crossing Sixteenth Street. “You know I should’a been more careful before jumpin’ into this shit.”

“The one thing you learn in the ring,” I said. “If you climb through them ropes trouble will find you.”

“Yeah. Ole Jones will have two hundred people on the street lookin’ for me.”

“And you will be at Uncle Gordo’s helping him and Sophie get ready for their wedding.”

“Who’s Sophie? I thought he was marrying Elsa?”

“Another of his ring lessons,” I said. “Sometimes you got to change it up.”

“What about Mardi and her sister?” my son asked, accepting change faster than I was ever able to.

“I gave her a few days off. You think Fortune told anybody where Liza found you?”

“Never think,” Twill said, repeating my words to him. A detective never thinks, he knows.

“Give her a call,” I said. “Gordo got eight bedrooms in that rabbit warren on the top floor.”

An hour later my son and I were sitting at the cramped dinette table off of Gordo’s kitchen, on the fifteenth floor of the building he owned. With us was Sophie — a short and slight woman with big eyes, a patient demeanor, and skin the color of some dark pears. Iran Shelfly was there. He’d lost his shot at contention in Philly and had the black eye to prove it. Gordo was leaning back in his chair. He was a veteran of the Human Wars, having survived everything from Jim Crow to Willie Pep to cancer.

“Damn, LT,” he was saying, “you look worse than Eye-ran here and he went up against a top-twenty middleweight.”

There was a bump on top of my head and a swelling where I got sucker punched on the cheek. My eyes were probably bloodshot from too much liquor, too much sex, and very little rest.

“It’s been a good week,” I said.

Gordo chuckled.

“It’s good to see you again, Sophie,” I said. “Must be thirty years.”

“I’m surprised you’re still alive, Leonid.”

Remembering that Sophie was an incurable truth teller, I said to Gordo, “If you guys take Twill, Mardi, and her sister for the next few days it will be good for all concerned.”

“And how do you see that?” Gordo argued. He liked sparring in and out of the ring.

“Mardi is the most organized woman I’ve ever met,” Twill said. “If you need a sharp eye planning this wedding then you should probably pay her to come.”

“Twill has spoken,” Gordo intoned.

“Iran, I need you to keep watch on them,” I interjected. “They shouldn’t be down in the gym at all until after it’s closed, and the doors need to stay locked.”

“You got it, LT.”

Iran loved me because I’m the one that got him straight after he got out of prison — of course he didn’t know that I had framed him to get the conviction in the first place.

“As long as we’re all here,” Sophie said to Gordo, “you should tell them.”

“What?” I asked.

“I had a will drawn up leaving everything to Sophie. But she said she didn’t like that, that she wasn’t marryin’ me to become my heir. So we compromised that everything can be hers but that you are the executor. You dole out the cash and cover the bills for the first seven years.”

“And what if somebody shoots me in the back?” I thought this was a valid question.

Gordo did too because he said, “If you aren’t able then the job goes to Twill.”

“Me?” Twill said.

“Yeah, man,” Gordo said. “You the best of all of us.”

Twill stared at the unsung master trainer a moment and then nodded.

“Okay, man,” he said. “We all know you gonna live to two hundred anyways.”

I hung around for an hour or so until a limo from Hush’s fleet delivered Mardi and her sister Marlene to Gordo’s. After that, Gordo walked me down the fourteen flights to the first floor.

“Must be some serious trouble you got everybody hidin’,” the man I considered my true father said.

“Yeah, yeah. But now everybody’s in place and I can take care of other business.”

“What other business?”

“I got to see a woman in Boston about a killing or two in New York.”

I got home in the early evening. I was looking forward to the solitude of an empty apartment for the first time in many weeks. It had been a rough few days even if I had made some progress. I still had the business of my dead client, Hiram Stent, to settle up. And there was Hector Laritas to avenge.

“Leonid?” she said as I was making my way toward the dining room.

The voice came from behind, from the door of the little front TV room that we rarely used.

“Katrina.”

She was wearing an off-white silk blouse and a black woolen skirt that came down to her knees — no shoes.

“We’re in here,” she said.

We.

“Come join us,” she said, sober and happy.

My father was sitting in the blue stuffed chair and Katrina returned to her perch on the maroon sofa. It was a tiny room that the kids used to watch TV when they were small. The last time Katrina and I were in there we had passionate sex for the first time in years. That was a few days before she tried to take her life.

“Trot,” my father said.

“Clarence.”

“Your father has been telling me all about the Revolution,” Katrina murmured. She looked much younger than she had in the sanatorium, ten years younger than her actual age. She wore no makeup. Rather the youthfulness came from an inner light.

On the small, child-scarred maple coffee table was a hardback book with no jacket and a bottle of our good port with only one glass.

“What you readin’?” I asked no one in particular.