Walter Mosley - Bad Boy Brawly Brown

“Mr. Rawlins.”

“Miss Moore.”

Her kissing lips turned into an inviting smile and I found myself in a chair on her little island of luxury amid the shambles of the room. The smell of lilac was in the air, and a frosty glass of iced tea was soon to find its way into my hand.

“Have you found Brawly?” she asked.

“I just don’t understand it,” I said.

“What?”

“Why a woman like you — so beautiful and able to create beauty even in a hole like this — why would you need to seduce a fourteen-year-old boy?”

Isolda Moore was no pushover. Her smile diminished slightly. Her head tilted a bit to the side.

“You’re right,” she said. “You don’t understand.” Five words that she meant to be a confession, an explanation, and absolution.

But I wasn’t having it her way.

“No, I don’t,” I said. “I don’t get that at all. I got me a teenager up in the house right now and I could tell you this — I wouldn’t stand for no woman north of thirty with her hands in his under-pants.”

“It wasn’t like that,” Isolda said. “It wasn’t like you said.”

“How else could it be?” I asked angrily. I wasn’t really mad, at least not at what had happened to Brawly all those years before.

“He called me from a phone booth on Slauson. Called me collect. I was all the way up in Riverside and he was cryin’ his eyes out and mumbling because of his swollen mouth. I broke every speed limit comin’ down to get him. I found him sittin’ on a park bench with the tears still in his eyes. The first night up at my house he didn’t even want to sleep alone in his own bed. He begged me to sleep with him and when I said no he crawled in next to me when he thought I was asleep.”

“Why didn’t you send him away?” I asked.

“Send him where? His mother was in the madhouse and his father nearly broke his jaw. If it wasn’t for me, they would’a put him out as a foster child or in the orphanage.” Isolda’s voice was full of passion that she had not shown before. “And after a couple of nights in the bed together I felt his want. I knew it was wrong, but he needed me.”

“His girlfriend said that you walked around naked, that you seduced him into your bed.”

“That’s the way he has to remember it,” Isolda said with a nod. “Because after it went on for a while I told him that it had to end. I told him that he needed to have a girl his own age. That’s when he took up with BobbiAnne. But, you know, even when he had been with her he’d come back home and wanna climb in the bed with me.” There was pride in her voice. “And when I refused him he got mad and blamed me for the way he felt.”

It was a solid argument, good enough to have been in a play. Sometimes you did things bad because of love and hurt the people you cared for most. Maybe if Isolda was some bucktoothed third-grade teacher, I might have believed her. But every part of her life was so perfectly arranged, I couldn’t see her giving in to the whirlpool of someone else’s passion.

“Is Alva mad at you for sleeping with her husband or her son?” I asked then.

“Why don’t you ask her?”

“I’m askin’ you.”

“I ain’t told her about either one,” Isolda said.

“Did you know Henry Strong?” I asked.

“Never heard of him.”

“Hm.”

“What?”

“Nuthin’,” I said. “It’s just that somebody’s been lyin’ to me.”

“Who?”

“Maybe Kenneth Chapman.”

For the first time she stumbled. It was no more than turning her head away from me, looking off for something easy to fall from her tongue. She turned back, but still she wavered.

“What’d he say?” she asked at last.

“That you and him and a man named Anton Breland had drinks with Strong and Aldridge.” I was lying to force her to admit some kind of connection between the murdered men.

“I don’t know what he’s talkin’ about.”

“But you know Chapman?”

“Once when I went to pick up Brawly for lunch, he introduced me to him and a stocky man named Mercury. They worked with Brawly. But I ain’t never been out with them. And I don’t know no Henry Strong.”

“I see. Yeah. Uh-huh.” I was just making noise while Isolda floundered in my suspicions. She was telling me the truth about not going out with Chapman while lying about Strong, I was sure of that. But I needed more.

“What did this Chapman say?” she asked.

“Just that you had been with them. And when I asked him about Aldridge he told me that Brawly and Aldridge got along just fine, even after that fight you said they had.”

“They did have that fight,” Isolda protested. “I ain’t lyin’.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Yeah. I’m sure that it’s Chapman lied to me. Sure of it. You know him and Mercury was burglars a long time ago. I thought they give it up, but you never know with crooks.”

Isolda let her bathrobe fall open so that I could see her left breast. She was thirty-five if she was a day, but gravity hadn’t touched her yet. It was the breast of a twenty-year-old. Any male from six weeks to ninety years old would have had trouble resisting. If I hadn’t had Bonnie in my life, I might have crossed the line — for just a kiss. But instead I took out a Chesterfield and sat back, out of range of her charm.

She acted as if the robe had fallen open by mistake and covered up.

I inhaled deeply, feeling of two minds about the benefits and detriments of smoking. On one hand, tobacco robbed me of my wind, but on the other, it gave me something to do while the devil was tempting me.

I stood up.

“Time to go,” I said lamely.

“Where?” she asked, rising and coming toward me.

“To talk to Chapman again, I guess.”

“What about his partner?” Isolda asked. “Mercury.”

“He left town,” I said. “Probably the smartest one of the bunch.”

Jackson Blue was in his bathrobe, too.

I shook my head when he came to the door.

“What’s wrong with you, Easy?” he asked.

“Don’t nobody work?” I said. “I mean, am I the only one who thinks he got to get up in the morning and at least put on a pair of pants?”

Jackson grinned. White teeth against black skin has always had a soothing effect on me. It made me happy.

Jackson led me down the stairs into his house.

“I’m workin’,” he said as he went. “Been readin’ about a guy named Isaac Newton. You ever hear about him?”

“Of course I have,” I said. “Every schoolkid knows about Newton’s apple.”

“Did you know that he invented calculus?”

“No,” I said, not particularly interested.

I took my seat at his table and he took to the one-piece school desk. He stretched out in the chair like a cat or an arrogant adolescent.

“Yeah,” he said. “I mean, at the same time this dude name’a Leibniz came up with the same calculations, but Newton invented it, too. Newton was a mothahfuckah.”

“How long ago did he live?” I asked.

“Died in 1727,” Jackson said. “A rich man, too.”

“So he did his work,” I said. “You just sittin’ ’round here in your drawers.”

“But, Easy,” Jackson said with that grin. “I’m learnin’. I know things. I know things ninety-nine percent’a your white people don’t know.”

“I know about gravity, Jackson. Maybe I didn’t know about calculus, but what good is it knowin’ that, anyway?”

“It’s not just that, Easy. It’s not knowin’ one thing. It’s under-standin’ the man. If you understand him, then you got somethin’ to think about in your own world.”

He had me then. Just like Sam Houston talking about newspaper articles, Jackson made claims that made me want to stop and understand.