Walter Mosley - Known to Evil

The time for sitting on my butt on the seventy-second floor, playing like I could avoid my responsibilities, was over.

I hit the street at a good pace, moving north toward my home. On the way I thought about my duties to an unknowing world.

MY INTUITION WAS THAT the thing with Angie and Alphonse was not about sex. The details and photographs had intimacy but no heat to them. It seemed to me that Angie was like a family member, maybe even a daughter, who had somehow become estranged from the Big Man-after which she got into trouble. Or maybe the rift between them caused the trouble in some way.

I wasn't flat-out rejecting the notion that they were lovers. And even if they were related, he might still have had bad intentions toward her.

The problem was that I knew so little about Rinaldo. He was an honest-to-goodness twenty- first-century enigma. No one knew what he did or where his entry was on the chain of command. I'd only met a few people who'd ever heard of him.

"Rinaldo?" Hush, the retired assassin, had said when I'd asked him. "Yeah. I did work for him a couple'a times."

From the age of fifteen until his retirement, the only work Hush had ever done involved homicide.

"Funny thing, though," the serial-killer-for-hire opined. "I never met him in person. He was one of the few clients I ever had who I didn't look in the eye."

"Why's that?" I asked. We were in my office late one Tuesday evening. I was guzzling Wild Turkey while Hush sipped on a glass of room-temperature tap water.

"You can piss on a cardinal in his Easter suit but if the bush starts burning you have to lower your head and pray."

Remembering those words, rendered in Hush's deep voice, I stopped there in the middle of Broadway foot traffic. I was fool enough to be a friend to the killer-for-hire-but now to even consider investigating a man that Hush feared… that just had to make me stop and laugh.

"What the fuck's wrong with you, man?" someone said.

He was standing behind me, a young black man whose attire I could only call modern-day Isaac Hayes: light-brown leather from head to toe, his hat and shoes, pants and vest, and of course the open jacket. The only thing on that young man that wasn't bovine in origin was the golden medallion that spelled out something. The lettering was so ornate that I couldn't make out the word.

"Say what, brah?" I asked him in the accepted dialect of the street.

He was taller than me, of course, and skin-not so dark. The brown in his eyes was light, unnaturally so. I guessed that they might have been covered by cowhide-colored contacts to make his image complete.

The synthetic eyes looked me over, saw my big scarred hands and slumped, strong shoulders. He beheld in me the immovable object-though he might not have known the physics term. I saw in his fake eyes that he had been stopped before.

"I almost run you down, man," he said, allowing a constrained belligerence to express his ire.

I just looked at him. Any word I said would have led to a fight, so I left it up to him. I was ready to go to war-I almost always am. Combat was how I made it through childhood; it was what kept me alive.

The young man in leather gauged me.

Finally he said, "Fuck you," and walked around. After a few moments I went on my way, thinking that he was smarter than me.

He knew when to avoid an obstruction in the road.

It was three o'clock when I reached the front door of my apartment building-3:01, to be exact.

The hyena yipped in my yellow pocket. That was Detective Kitteridge, of course. I was supposed to be at his office. I guess he expected me to answer his call. But I didn't have the sense of the city fop who knew to skirt around a threat when he saw one.

I ignored the call-creating at least a temporary antagonist by my inaction.

MY LIFE IS A series of trials testing whether or not I am capable of maintaining my perceived place in the world. One of these perennial auditions is the staircase of my apartment building. I live on the eleventh floor. There are fourteen steps between each stage-one hundred forty little ascendancies. Unless it's late at night I almost always walk up.

I take the stairs at a fair clip.

The first four floors are no problem. I'm breathing at a good pace between five and eight. It's only the last two flights that are a real strain. The only reason I walk up is for those final twenty-eight steps. If I'm not breathing hard by then I go faster the next time. When I'm no longer able to make that run I'll know it's time to quit the game.

The stairs are not my only test. There's the heavy bag at Gordo's Gym, and how frightened I get, or not, when a man pulls a gun on me. There's sitting in the same room with Hush, who, if he were to have put a notch in his gun for every man he'd killed, would have whittled off the entire handle in the first half of his career.

Life is a test, and the final grade is always an F.

THAT YEAR I HAD a black key made for the front door. Except for the color it looked like a regular key, but it also contained an electronic component. The physical device did indeed turn a mechanical lock, but the electronics flipped another switch throwing back a bolt that came up through the floor. The door itself was reinforced with a titanium plate.

In a drawer in my office I had a few key rings that had masters for almost every lock in New York City. And for those that were "unique" I had illegal masters that were able to adjust to the cylinders they encountered.

Just because I was aware of dangers that other people were ignorant of didn't make me paranoid. I didn't feel bad about having the locks on my front door changed at least once a year.

My enemies would have to work to get at me or mine.

BECAUSE THE LOCK IS always new it didn't make much noise. I was halfway down the hall to the dining room when I heard the voices.

It was a man and Katrina speaking in normal tones. There was no urgency or conflict there-no feeling.

"Dimitri?" Katrina called. "Dimitri, is that you?"

"It's me, Katrina," I said and then I entered through the open door.

My wife was sitting at her end of the rustic hickory-wood dining table and a man somewhere in his late thirties was sitting on the side, a place away from her. They both had teacups in front of them.

He was a brown man with straight dark hair and a small, Caucasian nose. His face was too boyish to be called handsome or plain. His eyes were brown also and more mature than the rest of his physiognomy.

"Leonid," my wife said.

She stood and walked toward me, past the pickle jar of wildflowers. She kissed my cheek and took my arm.

"This is Bertrand Arnold," she said. "He's one of Dimitri's classmates."

Arnold, who was as many years older than Dimitri as he was younger than I, stood up and put out a hand.

"It's an honor to meet you, Mr. McGill. D has told me a lot about you."

"You're kidding, right?" I said.

"No."

"How the hell's a kid who never says more than three words to me at a time gonna be singing my praises to somebody else?"

The look on the brown man's face was one of bewilderment. He had no prepackaged answer. That told me something.

"I… uh…" he said.

"Leonid," Katrina said in her maternal voice. "You're going to scare the young man."

"What did D tell you?" I asked Bertrand. "About me, I mean."

"He ssssaid that you were a detective. That, that, that he once saw you knock down two men at the beach."

CONEY ISLAND, FIFTEEN YEARS before. Two redneck Brooklynites got it in their heads that a beautiful young white woman like Katrina could find somebody better than a fat little black man. All three kids were with us. Dimitri, the oldest, was not yet eight.

The two guys had a brief span of time in which to retreat. I stood up, walked over to them, and time was up.