Walter Mosley - Bad Boy Brawly Brown

“I know where she lives,” I said.

It was closing in on four in the morning.

The front door of the building was locked late at night. We rang the bell, figuring that Conrad or BobbiAnne would open up for the secretary of the Party. But there was no answer.

I did my card trick on the door and once again winded myself on the stairs. I tried to hide my weakness from Xavier, but I didn’t need to worry about him. He was concentrating so much on the acrobatics of his mind that I doubt he would have noticed if I stopped and put my hands on my knees.

There was no answer to our knock on BobbiAnne’s door.

the guns were gone and the closets were empty, but she didn’t take the photograph of her and Brawly when they were teenagers.

“Is this the girl?” I asked the revolutionaries.

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s her,” Xavier said. “But this is an old picture.”

“You think it’s a coincidence that this woman is Conrad’s girl now and that I saw a box of weapons under her bed?”

“No guns there now,” Tina said.

“So if you can’t see ’em, then they don’t matter?” I asked.

From the corner of my eye I thought I saw the doorknob jiggle.

Then the door flew open.

When I saw the doorknob turn, a dozen thoughts went through my mind. The first was that it was Anton/Conrad with BobbiAnne and Brawly, all of them armed to the teeth and prepared to end our lives. That’s when I thought of going for my pistol, but there wasn’t enough time. By then the first uniformed cop was in the room and I was glad I hadn’t tried to shoot him through the door. I was even glad that I wasn’t with Mouse, who would certainly have killed the man and, probably, his partners. Then I remembered that Mouse was dead and that I was carrying a concealed weapon. These last thoughts drained all of my will to resist.

“Police!” the second cop shouted.

“Hands in the air,” the fourth one said.

We were shoved against the wall, disarmed, handcuffed, and dragged down the stairs.

“What is the meaning of this?” Xavier asked, trying to stand still. “You have no right—” he commanded before he was struck in the head with a truncheon.

Christina Montes cursed those officers with language I couldn’t imagine coming from her mouth. I was forced to my knees. I stayed there, knowing when to pick my battles.

After Xavier was propped up between two cops, we continued our downward journey.

Tina was dragged from the building and put in the back of a cruiser. Xavier and I were also put in a backseat. He, knocked senseless for the second time in one evening, and I trying to understand the forces at work.

The policemen didn’t talk to us much. Xavier was completely malleable, and I did as I was instructed.

We were separated at the downtown station. I was taken to an office and manacled to a heavy metal chair.

Through the slatted blinds I could see various uniformed policemen and plainclothes detectives sitting at desks, drinking coffee, talking on the phone. No one looked at me. No one cared that I had to go to the bathroom. I could see a clock through the slats — two hours had gone by. Somewhere there must have been a window because I could tell that the sun was coming in.

I would have paid a five-hundred-dollar fine just for a cigarette.

A squat man came in at last. He wore a cranberry-colored suit with a nametag that said lt. j. pitale. I didn’t know how to pronounce the name and I didn’t try. I didn’t ask for a toilet, a cigarette, or a reason that I was chained without being charged.

“Rawlins,” the squat man in the ugly suit said.

“Lieutenant,” I replied.

“Possession of a concealed weapon,” he said as if I had asked for the charges. “Breaking and entering. Resisting arrest. Assault on an officer...”

I must have frowned at the last charge because Pitale said, “Officer Janus sprained his thumb subduing your pal with his club.”

I let out a chuckle.

“You think this is funny, Rawlins?”

“No, sir,” I said simply.

“Then why do you laugh?”

“To charge a man for assault when you break your fist beatin’ him,” I said. “I will use that story to teach my kids how to survive.”

“You got kids?”

I didn’t answer.

“Because I don’t think your children will be seeing their father for a long time.”

I sighed for a cigarette.

“Officer Janus can still swing that stick,” Pitale warned.

“What do you want from me, Lieutenant?”

“Why’d you break into that apartment?”

“The door was left open,” I said.

“What were you going to do with that gun?”

“I found the forty-five on the living-room table. It bothered me that it was right out in the open like that, so I picked it up. When I heard people outside the door I shoved it in my pants, not knowing what to expect. What we intended to do was call the cops and get them to come down and investigate where BobbiAnne was and why that gun was just out lyin’ around.” Two hours chained to a chair gives you lots of time to think.

It was Pitale’s turn to smile. He was accustomed to the stories concocted by felons.

I saw a flames from the windah, Officer. And I was climbin’ up on the fire escape to see if anyone needed savin’. And... and you know when I saw that fine new TV, I thought that the owner would have wanted me to save it...

The story I gave was solid. I didn’t think that a judge would ever have to hear it, but a little insurance is always good to have.

“What were you doing with members of a communist organization?” he asked.

“Communist?”

“You heard me.”

“Yeah,” I said. “You said communist. That’s the first I heard of any communist. Xavier and Christina are friends of my friend’s adopted son. I never knew that they were Russian.”

“You could die in this room, Rawlins,” he told me.

The threat didn’t bother me so much, but when he took out a Pall Mall I almost came to tears.

“May I make my phone call, Lieutenant?”

Pitale agreed to dial any number I gave him and hold the phone to my ear.

I had two things going for me: one was that I have a good memory, and two is that I was pretty sure that D Squad was a twenty-four-hour operation. I called Vincent Knorr’s number and when a man answered I said, “This is Easy Rawlins callin’ for Knorr. Tell him that me, Xavier Bodan, and Christina Montes have all been arrested and are being held at the main downtown station. And tell him that Lakeland wouldn’t want me languishing here. Languishing.” I repeated the word because the early-morning cop seemed to have a problem with it.

“Knorr your lawyer?” Pitale asked me when he took the receiver from my ear.

“In a way,” I said.

“Funny that such an innocent man would have a lawyer ready to jump to his defense any hour of the day or night.”

“You been a white your whole life, Lieutenant?” I asked.

“What the hell do you mean by that?”

“I mean that Father Knows Best don’t need no lawyer. But you know Amos ’n’ Andy got to have one. You’d know what I was talkin’ about if you were ever chained to this here chair.”

I believe that I saw a glimmer of comprehension in Pitale’s face. I think that he understood me, which wasn’t necessarily a good thing. The one edge black people have always had over whites was that they never truly understood our motivations. And just because a man understands you, that doesn’t make that man your friend.

“It doesn’t matter how I feel or what I know,” Pitale said. “What matters is what you were doing in that apartment and where that gun came from.”

“I already answered that question,” I said. “And I don’t want to say any more until my lawyer comes.”