Walter Mosley - Bad Boy Brawly Brown

“But you an’ Mouse was friends,” he said in way of argument.

“What the hell does Mouse have to do with anything?” It made me angry just to hear his name.

“Mouse did some robbin’ in his time,” Jackson said. “One time they say he took off on a Sunday, drove all the way to Kansas City, Missouri, robbed a bank, and was back down Watts by Friday night.”

“Ain’t you scared to be talkin’ about Raymond’s business like that?” I asked.

“Why should I be scared? He’s dead.”

“You know anybody went to the funeral?” I asked.

Jackson’s smooth brow crinkled. “No.”

“So why do you think he’s dead?”

“You said you saw him laid out.” Jackson began stuttering, “And... and... and Martha Rimes said that he was dead in the hospital bed before... before...”

“She said that he didn’t have a pulse. You know she was feeling with her fingers. Sometimes a pulse is so weak that a finger cain’t feel it.”

It was a pleasure to see Jackson’s eyes widen in fear. He knew better than to air a man’s business the way he was talking about Mouse.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “Don’t tell nobody, okay, Ease?”

“You the one need to learn to keep his mouth shut,” I said.

We had a moment of silence. Jackson was staring at our reflection in the glass door, looking for vengeful ghosts beyond the pane.

“You hear anything useful about Brawly?” I asked then.

“He got a girlfriend live on Grand.”

“Byron, you mean.”

“No,” Jackson said. “I know what I mean, and I mean Grand Avenue up near Sunset.”

“You got a number?”

“You sure you not after some fortune, Easy?”

“What got that bug up your butt?”

“Aldridge A. Brown,” Jackson said. “That’s what.”

“What about him?”

“They say that thirteen years ago Aldridge and a partner robbed a bank downtown. The partner got killed but Aldridge got away.”

My mind froze up but I kept talking to keep Jackson from getting too inquisitive.

“Aldridge is dead, man. And if he was a bank robber, he wouldn’t have anything to do with some political group. People like that rob banks for profit, not democracy.”

“People change.”

“Not you,” I said. “Now, you got a number on this girlfriend?”

He gave me the address. But he didn’t have a name or an apartment number.

“I was lucky to get that,” he said when I complained.

Instead of going directly to my car, I walked the short block down to the beach. Santa Monica still had the feel of a small town in ’64. Wooden buildings painted in primary colors, small storefronts that specialized in trinkets made from seashells.

The moon was hidden from sight by a large cloud, but its light still fell on waters many miles from the shore. That far-off light was like a marooned sailor’s hopes — faraway and nearly impossible.

I didn’t get to sleep until five. I dreamt of a dead man who took turns being Mouse and Aldridge, Brawly Brown and his inhuman strength, and a revolution in the streets of Los Angeles.

I woke up at seven-thirty and called in sick to work.

“Tell Newgate that I got that bug,” I said to Priscilla Howe, his sixth secretary in two and a half years.

“You bet, Mr. Rawlins,” she said. “I hope you feel better.”

After that I got the kids out of bed. Jesus helped Feather dress for school and I made breakfast. It was lonely without Bonnie, but the children and I had a rhythm of life that worked perfectly.

“Where’d you go last night, Daddy?” Feather asked me.

“To see Jackson Blue,” I said.

“Did he give you my money?” Jesus asked.

“He said that he’d have it in a few days.”

“Jackson Blue is funny,” Feather exclaimed, and then she started giggling.

Before she was finished we were all laughing and spilling our juice.

Jesus walked Feather to school and I went back to bed.

In the dream I was sitting in a bar when Raymond walked in.

“What’s wrong, Easy?” he asked me.

“It’s John,” I said. “He wants me to save his girlfriend’s boy, but the kid’s in too deep.”

“Kill him,” Mouse said.

“Kill who?”

“The boy. Shoot him. Tell John you don’t know what happened. Get it over quick, so him and his woman can start to heal.”

Raymond turned to walk away.

“Ray.”

“Yeah?”

“I’m sorry, man. Sorry I let you down.”

“You let me die,” he said, correcting me. “You let me die.”

The anguish I felt was like a grease burn; it started out painful enough but then it dug deep.

The doorbell was a relief, a lifeline thrown out to me from some unknowing stranger. I climbed out of bed and stumbled to the door in only my boxer shorts.

The white man standing there wore a suit that could have been handed out at the Salvation Army. He was on the short side with light green eyes and curly hair that defied my color sense. It could have been red or gold or brown, depending on how you looked at it.

“Mr. Rawlins?”

“Yeah?”

He produced a ratty, worn-out wallet displaying an identity card and a badge.

“Detective Knorr,” he said. “Can I come in?”

There were many things wrong with Knorr showing up on my doorstep. Not only was he shabby beyond anything I’d ever seen on Chief Parker’s police force, but he was also alone. The L.A. police didn’t travel solo. Or if they did, it was because they were on some clandestine assignment. And even if that made sense, what could he possibly have wanted with me? I was a senior custodian at a public junior high school. I was a homeowner, a taxpayer. I had just been sleeping in my bed, innocent of any crime.

Any of these reasons would have been enough for me to have sent Officer Knorr away. But he saved me from the total despair of my dream and I was grateful for that.

“Do I have to get dressed?” I asked him.

“Not for me.”

I swung the door wide and stepped back for the policeman to enter.

“Excuse me,” I said. “I just got up. I got to hit the head.”

I came back wearing a bathrobe and house slippers. Knorr was sitting in my reclining chair.

“Feel better?” he asked.

“What can I do for you, Officer?”

Knorr sat at the edge of the comfortable chair. He had a medium build with small hands and thick eyebrows. The eyebrows were the same color as the hair on his head, only darker.

“The police department and the city of Los Angeles need your help, Mr. Rawlins.”

“You want some coffee?” I replied.

Knorr was not easily disturbed. “Sure,” he said. “Two teaspoons of milk and one sugar.”

I went to the kitchen and he followed me.

“Why aren’t you at work today if you don’t mind me asking?” he asked.

“Hard weekend,” I said while filling the kettle from the faucet.

“Parties?” His smile had no warmth or humor to it.

“It’s just instant,” I said. “That and Cremora.”

“Perfect.”

“So what do want from me?” I asked.

Knorr’s green eyes settled on the lawn outside my back window. He was beaming that cold smile.

“There’s blood boiling under the surface of Watts,” he said.

The subtle hiss of the gas jets accented his words with a sinister edge.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“The Negroes are getting anxious for some changes,” he said. “They want to end de facto segregation. They want better jobs. They want to be treated like war heroes after coming home from World War Two and Korea. Some even question going into the army and fighting for their country.”

I couldn’t tell if there was sarcasm or concern in his voice. Like his smile, his tone was enigmatic.