Walter Mosley - Bad Boy Brawly Brown

He was breathing hard.

“Then why we out here in the street then?” He stopped fumbling.

I offered my hand and he took it. “I didn’t want nobody to listen to what we had to say,” I said while helping him to his feet.

“Why not?”

“Do you like Clarissa?”

“Hell yeah,” he said. He was slapping imaginary dust from his arms and chest. “That’s why I’m mad at you sneakin’ around, talkin’ ’bout one thing but then stalkin’ my girl.”

“Your girlfriend?” I asked.

“No. Clarissa’s my cousin. Everybody work for me is family, you know that.”

“Listen, Sam,” I said. “I don’t know what you been told, but I didn’t lie to you. I was lookin’ for Brawly and I found him — with her.”

“What you mean, ‘with her’?”

“He’s her boyfriend. Didn’t you know that?”

That shut Sam’s mouth for a good five seconds. It might have been the best comeback I’d ever had with him. Even though I was involved in a life-and-death situation, I took a moment to savor his confusion.

“That ain’t right,” he said at last. “She said that you followed her and tried to get over on her at her apartment. She said that she cain’t be comin’ in to work ’cause she scared you gonna be on her here.”

“I did go to her place but I was followin’ Brawly, not her.” The lie was not really so bad. I had seen her with Brawly at the Urban Party’s gathering. When I followed her, it was only to get to him.

“You lyin’ to me, Easy Rawlins?”

“Come on, Sam, you know better’n that.”

“Not when it come to pussy I don’t,” he said. “Niggah work a eight-hour day six days a week and pray to God on Sunday, but when pussy walk by he might just lose his mind.”

As I said, the maddening thing about Sam Houston was that he was almost always on target. He had a good mind, just no real direction to point it in.

“I am not after Clarissa,” I said. “Least not the way you say. I got me a woman and I don’t need to go skulkin’ around after some girl-child.”

There was the ring of truth in my words. Sam squinted so that his eyes were hardly larger than a horse’s orb.

“Then why she wanna lie?” he asked.

“You tell me, Sam. Would you have been upset to see her with Brawly? Would you have done something about that?”

“No. I mean, I might’a given her grief. I might’a said a thing or two.”

“But,” I said, “if you knew she was with him and I came to you and said that the boy was trouble, you might have been willin’ to help me get a line on her.”

“What you sayin’, Easy?”

“I’m sayin’ that since I last talked to you, two men have been murdered and Brawly’s in it somewhere. I don’t know where exactly, but I do know that it’s bad.”

“Murder?”

“Murder. Two men. Dead as doornails.”

“Who?”

“Henry Strong, the mentor of the First Men”— Sam spit at the mention of the radical organization —“and Aldridge Brown.” I continued: “Brawly’s father.”

“Who killed ’em?” Sam asked.

“Hard to say. The cops think it was the First Men. The First Men think it was the cops. Brawly’s cousin has nominated him for at least one of the killings. It’s all up in the air. I’m just lookin’ for some shelter before it come back down to earth.”

Sam pulled at the collar of his gray T-shirt and moved his chin around as if he couldn’t get enough air. He wasn’t used to being on the short end of the conversation.

“So what you want?” he asked. “Brawly Brown,” I said for the hundredth time, it seemed.

Sam put his left hand on top of his head and his right hand on his chin.

“She’s just a child,” he said. “Him, too.”

“They’re all children, Sam. All of ’em. But you know in the Stone Age most’a your people only lived long enough to see twenty. They were old men and women by twenty-five.”

I knew the scientific explanation for the problem facing us would hearten Sam.

He smiled and said, “Yeah, Easy. You right about that. You sure are.”

They were words I never expected to hear come out of Sam’s mouth.

“So what you doin’ here?” he asked me.

“I got to find Brawly again. Clarissa’s my best bet,” I said. “I went to her house, but she was gone. Do you know where she is?”

“She told me that she was scared’a you, Easy. She went into hiding.”

“I told you why I’m lookin’ for her.”

Sam’s face contorted so that it looked like a wizened brown fruit ready to drop from the tree. At first I thought he was having a heart attack but then I realized that that was the way he must have looked when he was thinking. His mouth twisted with distaste and his shoulders rose, making him look like a comical scavenger bird. Finally he shuddered like the great vulture he resembled, shaking dust from its feathery frame.

“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah. I can see it in my mind. Brawly comin’ in, sittin’ near the kitchen, comin’ on through to go to the bathroom out back. And Clarissa always hoverin’ somewhere nearby. Uh-huh. Uhhuh. She used to stay late every night, talkin’ to her first cousin Doris, helpin’ out with the cleanup even though she didn’t have to. But after Brawly started comin’ around, she always left right on time. Yeah. You right, Easy. Clarissa been seein’ that sour boy for three months at least.”

“You know where she is?” I asked.

“No. No, I don’t but I know who does. Doris. She’s been Clarissa’s partner in hidin’ this from me the whole time.”

I realized that Sam was angry because he had been fooled by his employee, that the whole time he was being superior with his knowledge, reading, and reasoning ability, they had a secret right out in plain sight.

“You wait here, Easy,” he said, and then he strode back into the restaurant.

I lit up a cigarette and remembered again how good a smoke could feel when you had been denied. Then I remembered running with my lungs aching and then Henry Strong getting a bullet in the head. The silhouette of the assassin had some heft to it. It could have been Brawly, but I wasn’t sure.

I thought about Mouse. He would have tagged along with me on this adventure, laughing the whole time.

“What you doin’ messin’ with this boy, Easy? He just sowin’ his wild oats.”

“But he’s in trouble, Raymond,” I’d say.

“We all in trouble, Ease” would have been his reply. “Shit. If it wasn’t for trouble, life wouldn’t be no fun at all.”

I stubbed out the ember of my cigarette and returned it to the pack. A few minutes later Sam came out.

“I know where she is,” he told me.

“Where?”

“Hold on now, Easy. I believe you and everything, but you cain’t go see Clarissa without me comin’ with you.”

“This ain’t restaurant work, Sam,” I said. “People gettin’ killed out here.”

“Clarissa’s my family,” Sam said. “Doris is, too. When I asked Doris how I could get to Clarissa, I told her not to worry, because it was me goin’ to her.”

“Okay,” I said. “It’s your funeral.”

“You know, Easy,” Sam Houston said. “I was surprised to see you when you walked in the other day.”

“Yeah?” I asked. “How come?”

We were on Highway 101, on our way to Riverside, already outside of L.A., traveling through the rolling green hills of the southern California countryside. Oak trees appeared here and there on the landscape. I like the oak because it’s a brooding, solitary tree. It grows within sight of its brethren, but rarely do you see one sidled up to a mate.

“’Cause I thought you’d be dead by now,” Sam said.