Walter Mosley: Cinnamon Kiss

In the past few days I had called John and Jackson and Jewelle and the bank. No one but Mouse had come through with an idea. I wondered if at my trial they would take into account all of my good deeds at Truth.

At about a quarter to seven I went out to finish my rounds. My morning man, Ace, would have been there by then, unlocking the gates and doors for the students, teachers, and staff.

Halfway up the stairs to the upper campus I passed the midway lunch court. I thought I saw a motion in there and took the detour out of habit. A boy and girl were kissing on one of the benches. Their faces were plastered together, his hand was on her knee and her hand was on his. I couldn’t tell if she was urging him on or pushing him off. Maybe she didn’t know either.

“Good morning,” I said cheerily.

Those two kids jumped back from each other as if a powerful spring had been released between them. She was wearing a short plaid skirt and a white blouse under a green sweater. He had the jeans and T-shirt that almost every boy wore. They both looked at me speechlessly — exactly the same way Jesus and Benita had looked.

My shock was almost as great as those kids’. Eighteen-year-old Jesus and Benita in her mid-twenties... But my surprise subsided quickly.

“Go on up to your lockers or somethin’,” I said to the children.

As they scuttled off I thought about the Mexican boy I had adopted. He’d been a man since the age of ten, taking care of me and Feather like a fierce and silent mama bear. Benita was a lost child and here my boy had a good job at a supermarket and a sailboat he’d made with his own hands.

Thinking of Feather dying in her bed, I couldn’t get angry with them for hurrying after love.

The rest of the campus was still empty. I recognized myself in the barren yards and halls and classrooms. Every step I took or door I closed was an exit and a farewell.

“Good morning, Mr. Rawlins,” Ada Masters said when I appeared at her door. “Come in. Come in.”

She was sitting on top of her desk, shoes off, rubbing her left foot.

“These damn new shoes hurt just on the walk from my car to the office.”

We never stood on ceremony or false manners. Though white and very wealthy, she was like many down-to-earth black women I’d known.

“I’m taking a leave of absence,” I said and the crease twisted my heart again.

“For how long?”

“It might be a week or a month,” I said. But I was thinking that it might be ten years with good behavior.

“When?”

“Effective right now.”

I knew that Ada was hurt by my pronouncement. But she and I respected each other and we came from a generation that did not pry.

“I’ll get the paperwork,” she said. “And I’ll have Kathy send you whatever you have to sign.”

“Thanks.” I turned to leave.

“Can I be of any help, Mr. Rawlins?” she asked my profile.

She was a rich woman. A very rich woman if I knew my clothes and jewelry. Maybe if I was a different man I could have stayed there by borrowing from her. But at that time in my life I was unable to ask for help. I convinced myself that Ada wouldn’t be able to float me that kind of loan. And one more refusal would have sunk me.

“Thanks anyway,” I said. “This is somethin’ I got to take care of for myself.”

Life is such a knotty tangle that I don’t know even today whether I made the right decision turning away from her offer.

I had changed the sign on my office door from EASY RAWLINS — RESEARCH AND DELIVERY to simply INVESTIGATIONS. I made the switch after the Los Angeles Police Department had granted me a private detective’s license for my part in keeping the Watts riots from flaring up again by squelching the ugly rumor that a white man had murdered a black woman in the dark heart of our boiler-pot city.

I went to my fourth-floor office on Central and Eighty-sixth to check the answering machine that Jackson Blue had given me. But I found little hope there. Bonnie had left a message saying that she’d called the clinic in Montreux and they would allow Feather’s admission with the understanding that the rest of the money would be forthcoming.

Forthcoming. The people in that neighborhood had heart disease and high blood pressure, cancer of every type, and deep self-loathing for being forced to their knees on a daily basis. There was a war waging overseas, being fought in great part by young black men who had no quarrel with the Vietnamese people. All of that was happening but I didn’t have the time to worry about it. I was thinking about a lucky streak in Vegas or that maybe I should go out and rob a bank all on my own.

Forthcoming. The money would be forthcoming all right. Rayford would have a gun at the back of his neck and I’d be sure to have a fully loaded.44 in my sweating hand.

There was one hang-up on the tape. Back then, in 1966, most folks weren’t used to answering machines. Few people knew that Jackson Blue had invented that device to compete with the downtown mob’s control of the numbers business. The underworld still had a bounty on his head.

The row of buildings across the street were all boarded up — every one of them. The riots had shut down SouthCentral L.A. like a coffin. White businesses had fled and black-owned stores flickered in and out of existence on a weekly basis. All we had left were liquor stores for solace and check-cashing storefronts in place of banks. The few stores that had survived were gated with steel bars that protected armed clerks.

At least here the view matched my inner desolation. The economy of Watts was like Feather’s blood infection. Both futures seemed devoid of hope.

I couldn’t seem to pull myself from the window. That’s because I knew that the next thing I had to do was call Raymond and tell him that I was ready to take a drive down south.

The knock on the door startled me. I suppose that in my grief I felt alone and invisible. But when I looked at the frosted glass I knew who belonged to that silhouette. The big shapeless nose and the slight frame were a dead giveaway.

“Come on in, Saul,” I called.

He hesitated. Saul Lynx was a cautious man. But that made sense. He was a Jewish private detective married to a black woman. They had three brown children and the enmity of at least one out of every two people they met.

But we were friends and so he opened the door.

Saul’s greatest professional asset was his face — it was almost totally nondescript even with his large nose. He squinted a lot but if he ever opened his eyes wide in surprise or appreciation you got a shot of emerald that can only be described as beautiful.

But Saul was rarely surprised.

“Hey, Easy,” he said, giving a quick grin and looking around for anything out of place.

“Saul.”

“How’s Feather?”

“Pretty bad. But there’s this clinic in Switzerland that’s had very good results with cases like hers.”

Saul made his way to my client’s chair. I went behind the desk, realizing as I sat that I could feel my heart beating.

Saul scratched the side of his mouth and moved his shoulder like a stretching cat.

“What is it, Saul?”

“You said that you needed work, right?”

“Yeah. I need it if it pays.”

Saul was wearing a dark brown jacket and light brown pants. Brown was his color. He reached into the breast pocket and came out with a tan envelope. This he dropped on the desk.

“Fifteen hundred dollars.”

“For what?” I asked, not reaching for the money.

“I put out the word after you called me. Talked to anybody who might need somebody like you on a job.”

Like you meant a black man. At one time it might have angered me to be referred to like that but I knew Saul, he was just trying to help.