Уолтер Мосли - And Sometimes I Wonder About You

“Donald said that without Paulie he would have never made it in prison. He said that if you respect him Paulie will do anything for you.”

“When’s the last time you ate?” I said.

“Yesterday.”

“What can I get you?”

“I’m not really hungry,” she said.

“You have to keep up your strength to be able to outrun the people Dame Gray’s gonna put on you.”

“I don’t want to run anymore. I’m willing to tell her where the book is without any money,” Celia said. “All I need is for you to tell her that.”

“You could have called at any time and said that,” I countered. “But you haven’t because you know that it’s not the letter but what the letter says. It’s what’s in your head that puts you in a sling.”

Celia actually started to cry.

“You still need to eat,” I said.

I called Bug while Celia ate a concoction called granola-oatmeal along with a chocolate croissant and a glass of factory-squeezed orange juice.

“Hello, LT,” he said. “You talk to Zephyra yet?”

“I’m calling you, Tiny,” I replied, using his lesser-known nickname. “You make any headway on that satellite connection?”

“Yeah.”

“I’d like you to meet me at Hush’s house in an hour so we can talk about it.”

“No.”

“No?”

Celia was eating lustily. Sometimes hope gives you an appetite.

“I’m not going to that man’s house,” Bug said. “Not ever.”

“Why?”

“I don’t want to know where he lives or what he looks like.”

Bug was a genius. Of course he didn’t want to be familiar with a hit man that the president of the United States was willing to give license to.

“Okay,” I said. “Where then?”

“You know that place on Christopher called Smokers?”

“Two hours from now,” I said and disconnected the call.

“This is good,” she said, and I found myself hoping that she’d live to eat ten thousand breakfasts more.

“Hey, Pops,” Twill said.

He wore coal-gray slacks, a teal T-shirt, and a light jacket that was such a dark red that it almost ran purple.

I could see in Celia’s face what everyone saw when first encountering my son. He was beautiful, willing, and there was something about him that reminded you of Bible stories about great and sometimes evil men that stole hearts that never wanted to be returned.

“Son,” I said. “Pull up a seat.”

Twill kindly asked our nearest neighbors if he could take their extra chair and then pulled it close to Celia.

“Hi,” he said to her, holding out a hand. “I’m Twill, this old guy’s son.”

“Celia,” she said, shaking with one hand and wiping her mouth on a paper napkin with the other.

“Some people would like to talk to Celia here,” I said, “and I’d like to make sure that doesn’t happen until the time is right.”

“Uncle Gordo’s?”

“He still owes me a favor or two.”

“Okay,” Twill said, hunching shoulders. “The more the merrier.”

“Don’t you even want to know why?” Celia asked Twill.

“If he’s hiding you then it must be some kinda mayhem,” Twill said easily. “That’s how LT rolls.”

“My son is a detective in training, Ms. Landis,” I said.

Then I went into the story of her difficulties without revealing the secrets of the letter. I kept this secret for Celia’s sake, not my son’s.

“So should we go there now?” Twill asked.

“First I’d like to ask our friend here a question,” I said.

She looked at me. Her light brown eyes all attention.

“Why would you ever try to steal from and extort anybody, especially a woman as rich and powerful as Evangeline Sidney-Gray?”

I could see the question furrow in her brow. She had asked herself the same thing many, many times.

“My parents died when I was eleven. Donald took care of me and he helped me with my schoolwork. He kept me fed and safe. I’m not very good with money so I’ve never really been able to help him. And so when I saw that letter I just thought that that rich kid could pay for what he’d done by helping Donald.”

“Sounds like just the right move to me,” my son chimed brightly.

Celia smiled and I knew, and so did she, that I had left her in the right hands.

The sign read LANNY’S EATS but everyone who went there called it Smokers. It was the last place in Manhattan, that I knew of, that encouraged its customers to smoke while warning away those who somehow felt that there was a loophole in the Death Clause that came with each and every human body. The front door, on far west Christopher Street, opened onto a long corridor that was usually filled with tobacco smoke; this because the vent fans from the dining room blew through there. At the end of the hall was a sign that actually read GIVE UP ALL HOPE YE THAT ENTER HERE.

I had not asked Bug why he liked to go to Smokers. He had never smoked and, before he turned Mr. Universe, he never even went out. I figured it was a reaction to how much his life had changed since he’d met Zephyra. He didn’t want to believe that he’d given up a life of pessimism for love.

Given my druthers I wouldn’t have ever gone there. I don’t smoke but I love smoking. Sucking on a cigarette and letting the smoke waft up from my mouth into my nostrils made me feel invincible. But boxers in training could not put that kind of strain on their breath. I had been on the treadmill my whole life and so smoking would have to wait until I died.

After spending half an hour at Smokers I had fevered dreams filled with coffins and Lucky Strikes for days.

The floors and ceiling were painted white and the walls tar-black. Lanny Marks was the server and his brother (also named Lanny) worked the kitchen; that way no employee could sue them for health issues later on.

“Can you imagine somebody suing you over gettin’ sick?” Lanny the cook asked me one off-night when Bug and I were the only customers. “Everybody dies is sick first. You could kill somebody by kissin’ ’em or steppin’ on a toe and givin’ ’em a blood clot. I swear one day they gonna have a fine for BO.”

Bug was at a white table in a black corner eating pastrami and drinking a milk shake. He was hunkered down over the meal, looking like the runt of the litter that had grown into a timber wolf.

“Bug.”

He gazed up at me, unconsciously raising a hand to protect the meal.

“LT,” he said. “You didn’t say if you heard from Z.”

Young men and their virgin hearts. Bug had only fraternized with escort service girls before Zephyra, so now all he could think about was her and how he was bound to lose.

“She left a voice mail,” I lied, “saying she was on vacation.”

“Bitch.”

“What you got for me, B?” I said.

I pulled out a whitewashed chair and sat.

“What can I get you?” Lanny the waiter asked.

He was a ruddy-white and my height, so I liked him.

“You got that chicken rice soup today?”

“Every day.”

I nodded and he went off.

In the meanwhile Bug pushed away his sandwich, pulled a square and flat panel from a large leather bag at his side, and placed it at the center of the table. The white glass tile was maybe three times the size of an iPad. Bug touched a corner that didn’t look any different than anyplace else on the glassy rectangle. A bright light rose up from the surface, constructing what I can only call a pyramid of light above it. Rather than blocks of stone, this form was made from multicolored letters, words, images, and lines connecting them in horizontal, slanted, and vertical paths.

The topmost word was “Jones.”

There were eight other tables in the smoke-filled restaurant; three of these had two or more nicotine-addicted customers.