Walter Mosley - Known to Evil

"Forget him. He was working for me through Sam Strange."

"What about Lamont Jennings? He represented Soa at one time."

"Same thing. Anything else?"

"No, not that I can think of."

"Will you continue the investigation?" Rinaldo asked.

"Right after I eat these eggs."

The Big Man paid the bill in cash, then left me to my protein and caffeine.

My phone made the sound of mission bells. It was Aura calling me. I feared that if I spoke with her I might be thrown off my game again and trampled by one of the many enemies I was accruing.

I decided to let her leave a message.

The eggs were crumbly and the tough ham was shot through with the harsh taste of preservatives. The coffee was strong enough, but the hour was too early.

After scarfing down this breakfast, I took a cab to Wilma Spyres's apartment building.

SHE ANSWERED THE DOOR quickly, didn't even ask who it was. Her tattered robe was partly open. Upon seeing me she closed the fabric gap and produced a perfect sneer with her small mouth.

"What do you want?" she asked

"What all men want," I said.

This statement sparked interest in the former beauty's muddled eyes. Then a wave of suspicion washed away the momentary vulnerability.

"What's that?" she asked.

"Truth."

"I don't have time for this," she said.

"Unless you want to be doing time you better find a few minutes for me."

"Fuck you."

She stepped back and moved to close the door.

"You shut me out and I go right to Joe Fleming," I said.

That stayed her slam hand.

"What are you talking about?"

"Let me in or I go to Joe."

"Ron's not here," she said. I didn't know what she meant by it. Maybe it was a stab at old-fashioned respectability-you couldn't enter a man's domicile with his woman if he was not present.

"I know that."

"Come on, then," she said, turning her back, leaving me to close the door behind us.

Wilma sat on the dark-blue sofa and I returned to the relative safety of the folding chair.

"What?" she asked. Even the potential for beauty disappeared behind her wall of anger, this buttressed by a lifetime of fear.

"I have a very simple job, Ms. Spyres," I said. "I have to keep Ron out of trouble. I don't care about you, your habits, or your friends. Tomorrow they could crown you queen of England or lay you in your grave-it's all the same to me."

These words sobered her rampant emotions a bit.

"What do you want?"

"The truth."

"What truth?"

"Tell me something," I said. "If I were to have put a sealed envelope with Ron's name on it under your door instead of knocking, would you just put it down there next to that bong and wait for him to come home?"

I took no pleasure in seeing the fear that flooded the junkie's girlfriend's eyes.

"It was Joe Fleming," she said, stammering over every other word.

"No."

"It was Joe set Ronnie up," she pleaded.

"No."

Wilma jumped to her feet.

"Sit down," I said, with no particular emphasis to my voice.

She obeyed and muttered something that I didn't understand.

"What?"

She looked away, biting back the tears.

"What did you say?" I asked.

"He made me do it," she said loudly and clearly, her tone somehow underscoring the cliched phrase.

"Who?"

"He…" she stopped after the syllable and took a breath. "He told me that we could, could get together. All I had to do was make the deal with Ron. Once the car was picked up, me and him would go away to Atlantic City to this time-share he got down there. It used to belong to his auntie, but she died and left it to him."

"His name."

"But the cops busted Ron and now it's all shit. You know, if I could just get away from the losers around here for just a mont' I know I could get straight." With one hand Wilma scratched her face and with the other she pulled at her hair. "I was gonna leave Ron with this place. He could'a stayed here until the rent ran out. I didn't mean for him to go to jail. Now what am I gonna do?"

"His name," I said.

"What am I gonna do?" she asked again.

"Who gave you the money?"

"Cary Bottoms. They call him 'Scary' a lot, but he can be real sweet."

"What does this, uh, Cary do?"

Wilma looked at me, bringing her hands away from her face.

"He's killed people before," she said. "But that's just because he doesn't know how to get away from here, either. If we, if we could'a got that money from them guns we could'a moved out to Atlantic City."

"Have you seen Bottoms since Ron was arrested?"

She shook her head, looking away again.

"Do you know how to get in touch with him?"

"Maybe. I got a number but he told me never, never to call it."

Again I was reminded of the innocence of most career criminals.

"I want you to listen to me, Wilma. Ron is in jail and I have to tell him what you did."

"Why?"

"Because I'm working for his lawyer. But that doesn't matter. You want to get away and make a life for yourself, right?"

She nodded, trying her damnedest to understand.

"I know a man named Plumb. He works for the government, and he needs a big case to get from where he is to where he wants to be-just like you. I believe that he'd be willing to make a deal with you."

"Money?" she said.

I nodded. "All we have to do is get you in touch with Ron's lawyer for him to make the deal. And you don't have to worry about Scary. He's not a big enough fish. Plumb will want the people he's buying from and selling to. Maybe in the end you'll both get to go to Atlantic City."

Wilma smiled at that scenario. I felt like a real dog. But this was the best of all possible worlds.

"There's one thing, though, Wilma."

"What?"

"Scary's a killer and he knows that you can send him to jail."

"He would never hurt me."

I didn't even have to speak, just to look in her face was enough to crush her adolescent hope for love from the misunderstood gun dealer.

"Oh no," she said.

She stood up and glanced around the room, determining with alacrity what she should and should not take with her.

"I can go with you in a taxi to Ron's lawyer's office," I said. "He has a room where you can wait until he's made the deal with Plumb."

"How much?" Wilma asked.

"A few thousand," I said. "Maybe a little more."

She nodded and action took the place of words, deceptions, and self-deception.

While Wilma put her important belongings into a brown paper bag I called Breland's cell phone. He was already on his way to work. We made a plan that we hoped would produce a small fee and immunity for Wilma, and immediate release for Ron.

I rode with her in the cab and together we walked into Breland's seventh-floor office on Madison, just below Forty-second. After the two shook hands we sat at the round teakwood table in a room off from the reception area of Breland's office.

Shirley, his female jack-of-all-trades, was not in yet and so we had the place to ourselves for a while.

"So," Breland said after an hour of serious interrogation, "are you willing to identify Mr. Bottoms as the source of the money, car, and weapons?"

"Yes," Wilma whispered.

"You'll have to speak up, Ms. Spyres."

"Yes."

"And are you willing to name the people you suspect that he's doing business with?" Breland asked, sounding more like a hard-nosed prosecutor than a defense attorney.

"Lazar," she said. "His name is Richard Lazar. Cary's been movin' guns for him for years."

"COME AGAIN?" JAKE PLUMB said to me over one of Breland's eight lines.

It was only eight-thirty, but he was at work and I was in a hurry to get to my next disaster.

"I can give you the name of the guy who owned the car and the guns," I said, "testimony that my client didn't have knowledge of the contents of the trunk, and the name of the man that the weapons were being moved for."