Walter Mosley: Known to Evil

I'm not a passive man by nature. Don't get me wrong-I have been devious and underhanded from time to time. Often, when I was still working for what seemed like half of the New York underworld, I'd taken down people who never even saw my face. But as a rule I'm usually more than willing to take on any job, or opponent, head-to-head.

I gave up my dirty tricks with the intention of doing the right thing in my business and my life. But that never changed my brawling style-a style that I knew instinctively would not see me to the end of this period in my life.

So I refrained from opening Rinaldo's briefcase right away. Instead I sat there, allowing the details of the past twenty-four hours to filter through my mind without feeling pressed by the need to impose my will on them.

I had learned a thing or two. For instance, I now knew for a rock-solid fact that I loved Aura Antoinette Ullman. Seeing her kissing George Toller made me lose control-something I never did.

That was a detail I could put to bed. It didn't matter if she came back to me or not-I'd still have that wild love inside me.

I smiled a real smile and then laughed a little. Small victories are sometimes the hardest earned.

I turned the briefcase around so that the front latches were facing me. But still I held back.

Twill, my excellent son, had put Dimitri on the phone and then left so that I couldn't question him further. That meant he was hiding something. Twill didn't have the little secrets of most adolescents. He wasn't smoking marijuana in the basement laundry room or worried about a girlfriend's missed period. Whatever he was concealing needed to be exposed before the two young men who shared my name, if not my blood, got too deeply into whatever mess they'd created.

And so another detail fell into place.

I called Gordo's cell phone but a voicemail recording in his raspy words just said, "Leave a message," and provided a span to do that in.

"I hear you got the sniffles, G-man," I said. "Call me if you need some chicken soup."

I turned my attention back to the briefcase.

And then, for no reason, I wondered what kind of flowers I'd get for my office if I were to buy flowers. Now that I had an assistant, I could send her to the florist downstairs and order orchids or roses… or wildflowers.

"Mr. McGill?"

She was standing at the doorway in her fifties business suit, smiling painfully.

"Yes, Mardi. Come on in and sit down."

Putting off the job at hand was becoming pleasurable.

The child moved quickly to the chair as if she were afraid I might rescind the invitation.

"I got online and went through all the drawers and stuff," she said. "I put all your take-out and delivery menus in order."

"Thank you."

"That's okay," she said, pushing her ash-blond hair over the left shoulder.

"How long have you been back in town?" I asked.

"Five weeks."

"Twill never told me. Did you just call him lately?"

"No. He came down to the airport and picked us up."

I remembered him borrowing my car.

"So you've seen a lot of him," I said.

"Yeah. Him and D helped us move into Mrs. Alexander's place."

"You see much of Dimitri?"

"Sometimes he comes around with Twill. At first I thought he liked me. I mean, he's a nice guy, but I don't like him like that. But now he has a girlfriend and I can see that he's just shy around girls and acts like that."

"Is the girlfriend nice?"

"I guess. I've only seen her a couple'a times. I think her name's Tanya-something like that. She's Russian or something."

"You met her yesterday?"

"No. She came over with D a few weeks ago."

Mardi squirmed a bit in her chair. I leaned back, raising my hands.

"So," I said. "What can I do for you?"

"I've never had a job like this before."

"And I've never had a receptionist," I said.

"But Twill was always saying how you had this big empty office and the only thing you ever wanted was somebody at the front desk."

"Dimitri won't talk to me, and Shelly never shuts up long enough for me to get a word in," I said. "But Twill, if nothing else, pays attention."

"What do you want me to do?" she asked.

I took out the reddish-brown leather wallet that I bought at Macy's in 1976. It was old, nearly shapeless, and falling apart. But I loved that billfold. I took out the credit card that I had gotten for my little corporation.

"Take this and start an account with one of the online office-supply stores. Get what you need to do anything secretarial that I might ask. Spend the next few days going through the files and putting them in order.

"There's a number for Zephyra Ximenez in the Rolodex. You spell her last name with an X instead of a J. She's been my girl Friday from her office for a while now. You two should get to know each other. You'll also find a card for Tiny Bateman. He's my software expert. Trouble with the computer or anything electronic and he'll set you straight. If anything doesn't make sense, just ask me."

A true smile from Mardi Bitterman was like the kiss from any other young woman. I could see in her pale eyes that she was going to be perfect as my assistant-the wounded leading the wounded, as it were.

MARDI LEFT THE OFFICE with an extra set of keys for the front door. I had no more distractions to keep me from opening Rinaldo's briefcase. I tapped the coal-gray leather and winced, placed my thumbs on the latches, and was about to flip them when my cell phone made the sound of migrating geese.

"Have you spoken to them?" was Katrina's response to my hello.

"No," I lied, "but Twill left a message on my voicemail half an hour ago. He said that he was up at school with D and that they were going to some kind of party tonight. I think he's afraid to talk to either one of us."

"But he sounded okay?"

"Oh yeah. They're just boys on the prowl, honey."

The ensuing silence was her relief.

"I got some business I have to take care of, Katrina."

"Tell me when you've spoken to either one of them," she said. "And tell Dimitri to call me."

I PHONED THE ATTENDANCE office at Twill's school to report that he had an intestinal flu. After that I told his social worker the same lie.

"How is he doing?" I asked Melinda Tarris, assistant subagent in the Juvenile Offenders office.

"I've never met anyone like your son, Mr. McGill. He could become the president of the United States if we got his record expunged."

Her full name was Angelique Tara Lear. She'd turned twenty-seven on October 7th. The address Rinaldo's briefcase had for her was different from the one where the murders occurred. Tara lived on Twelfth Street, on the East Side, at the edge of the Alphabet Jungle. There was a photograph of her sitting at an outdoor cafe. It was probably taken with a telephoto lens without her knowledge. I say this because she seemed to be in the middle of a conversation.

She was a raven-haired wild-eyed thing in spite of her pedestrian, almost reserved, attire. She wore a white blouse that buttoned up like a man's dress shirt. I imagined that she had a navy skirt that came down below the knees to go with that blouse. But no matter how much she tried to be normal and reserved there was an abandon to her expression and also the kind of carelessness that drives the male animal, of all ages, wild.

I looked at the picture for a long while. She was leaning forward, laughing. There was mischievousness in her gaze and a tilt to her head that was saying, Am I hearing something else behind your words? After a while I came to believe that the wildness wasn't that of a party girl-she would have been wearing makeup and something more provocative if that were the case. No. Angelique was just happy-almost, and hopefully, unsinkably so.