Walter Mosley - Bad Boy Brawly Brown

I filled out the application form that Melvin gave me. I put down a Social Security number, an address, a phone number, three references, and a job history going back seven years. It was all lies. I told him that I’d come in at eleven that evening, ready for work. I said that all I needed from him was a red cap size seven and three-quarters. I said all that and walked out the door.

The apartment building where Strong seduced Christina was on 112th Street, four blocks down from Central. It was a wood-frame building covered with plaster and painted to look like stone brick. Henry’s apartment was toward the back, its door facing a small concrete path half obscured by untamed bushes. There was nowhere to hide around his door. I was sure he took the place for just that reason.

The lock was too sophisticated for my card trick, but the door was so cheap that my forty-four-year-old shoulder was good enough to break it in.

The room seemed to be oval shaped. I think that was due to a failure of architectural design. There was a bed and a coffee table, a rocking chair and sink. None of the furniture matched, and there was a thin layer of dust over everything. He had three good suits in his closet and six pairs of shoes. There was a brown and black Stetson hat hung on a nail in the wall and a box of Havana cigars on the floor next to a glass that once held bourbon whiskey. There was a small metal box with a red cross on it under his bed. In there was the half-drunk pint of whiskey, a pack of three condoms (with one gone), and a straight razor.

There was nothing in any pocket, nor was there anything under the mattress. There were no books or newspapers or even a drawer where he could have hidden some kind of note. I had searched the whole place in less than ten minutes. And then for some reason I went back to the bed. It was neatly made, like a soldier’s bunk. The fitted sheet over the mattress, another sheet and blanket folded back under the pillow so that you could see all the layers of bedclothes.

I patted the tight fitted blanket from top to bottom.

Something was there between the sheets and mattress.

I pulled off the blanket, finding nothing but the covering sheet. I pulled off the second sheet, revealing nothing but the pristine whiteness of the fitted slip. But under that I found something that might have been the best sleeping aid a poor man could have: rows of twenty-dollar bills fanned out under the sheet. Under the twenties was a layer of fifties and hundreds. When I’d finished counting, it came to just under six thousand dollars.

Under the money I found an envelope and a slender notepad. The envelope contained two tickets for the Royal Northern cruise liner headed for Jamaica.

The tickets were issued to a Mr. and Mrs. J. Tourbut, the date of departure was Friday afternoon. The names meant nothing to me. The notepad was empty except for a memo scrawled on one of the center pages.

Saturday A.M. 6:15, 6:45.

The time meant nothing, but the day reminded me of something Conrad had said while he was being beaten. The money looked nice. It had its own special mathematics. It might have been money that Strong was holding for the Urban Revolutionary Party and other revolutionary organizations. But it might also have been a nest egg for Mr. and Mrs. Tourbut — provided by the man who had been paying his rent.

I wondered if Tina knew that the money was under her bottom when Henry was touching her neck.

I rolled the cash into two big wads and shoved them into my windbreaker pockets. I took the tickets and the note, too. Then I got into my emerald-colored car and headed for a place that most black people weren’t aware of in 1964.

On my way to Laurel Canyon I considered the money that was now under the carpet in my trunk. It was probably from the white men who also paid Strong’s rent in cash. It smelled like a police payoff to me. I mean, it might have been money that Strong intended to give Xavier to fund his brave new world — but I doubted it.

I had already refused money from the police, but this was different. They hadn’t given me this money. They’d lost it betting on a rat. I decided that I’d wait and see if any of Stone’s heirs could be found. If they couldn’t, then I’d have Feather’s college tuition in a foil-lined paint can at the back of my garage.

Mofass and Jewelle lived on an unpaved path that cut away from a tributary off the main canyon road. The little artery probably had a name, but I never knew it. Jewelle liked to keep a low profile because even though she was hardly out of childhood, she had made dangerous enemies. There were members of her own family who hated her for freeing her elder boyfriend, Mofass, from their control.

Jewelle had taken Mofass’s fairly meager real estate investments and turned them into something resembling an empire. Through Mofass’s real estate company she controlled and managed property all over Watts, including two small six-family dwellings that I owned. There was a group of white businessmen, the Fairlane Syndicate, who worked with Jewelle because she had a knack for finding just the right deal and knew how to exert leverage to make that deal come through.

She was no more than twenty but she had proved to me that the color line was a minor impediment in America if you knew how to deal with the credit line. I had played with the idea of trying to become a real estate mogul. But once I saw Jewelle in action, I knew that I was not equipped to compete.

Mofass answered the door.

“Mr. Rawlins,” he said in that deep gravelly voice. Then he coughed for half a minute, bent over almost in half with his perpetual housecoat hanging open, revealing a big brown belly and faded blue boxer shorts. When he regained his composure he ushered me into the living room, across the vast tiled floor to a small table they had against a window that ran the full length of the wall. Seated at that table, we had a bird’s-eye view of the Los Angeles basin.

“How’s it goin’, William?” I asked my onetime apartment manager.

“Every twelve weeks the doctor tell me that the emphysema’s gonna get me in three months,” Mofass replied. His voice sounded like the old baritone, only with a towel shoved down his throat. “Then, when the time’s up JJ brang me back down to him and he looks at me and says, ‘You got twelve weeks.’ JJ say, do I wanna go to a different doctor but I tell her, hell no. I could live another thirty years with a doctor like this one here.”

I laughed and Mofass choked. I hadn’t seen him outside of that house or in real clothes in over a year. He was like one of those tough old alligators that could dive to the bottom of a river and not surface for weeks. You think, He must have gone by now, but still you take the long way down to the bridge rather than set foot in the water.

“Mr. Rawlins,” a girl’s voice called.

Jewelle still dressed in one-piece, square-cut dresses. This one was light brown, about her color, and loose. She had pigtails with red ribbons at the end. But I also noticed that she had been wearing lipstick within the last few hours. Her lips seemed fuller and there was something in her eyes that denied her childlike appearance.

“Jewelle,” I said. I stood up and kissed her cheek.

“Watch it now,” Mofass growled. “That’s my baby there.”

“It was just on the cheek, Uncle Willy,” she said with a giggle. “Can I get you somethin’ to drink?”

I didn’t need anything. Neither did Mofass.

We all sat down around the small table and looked out over the smog-choked city.

“So what you need, Mr. Rawlins?” Mofass asked.

Jewelle did everything. She cooked and cleaned, made sure that the maintenance was kept up on the house and car. She ran the business and kept the bank accounts. All Mofass did was sleep and eat and bask in the warmth of that young girl’s blind love.