Walter Mosley - Fear Itself

“Would that be Kit’s uncle or yours?”

“Son is not related to Kit Mitchell.”

We were still standing in the doorway. Leora’s figure was slight but her bones weren’t thin or fragile. She wore tan shoes that were exactly the same hue as her dress.

“Can I have a seat?”

“Sure. Why not?”

We sat across from each other. She put her knees together and let them recline to the side. Her calf was very presentable. She was as composed and elegant as the wife of a diplomat, except for those eyes; they were wild and fearful, watching for the slightest aggression.

“Fearless tell you about me?” I asked.

“He said if I needed to get in touch with him that I should come here.”

“Hot day, huh?” I asked this to put her off some, but it didn’t seem to work, at least not at first.

“Yes it is,” she said. “But at least it’s dry. It’s the humidity I can’t stand.”

I smiled and nodded but didn’t say anything.

“Aren’t you going to ask me why I’m here?” she asked, finally.

“You like my store?” I replied.

She stood up and walked down the right aisle. Looking over the shorter center shelf to the books on the wall, she said, “I see you have a lot of the Balzac oeuvre.”

“Eighty-one of his books,” I said, coming up next to her. “I got them from a woman in Tarzana. She advertised in a book-buyers’ newsletter I subscribe to.”

“It really is a lovely store.” She looked around a bit more.

“Thanks,” I said.

“Do you have a science section?”

“Down there, in the far corner.”

Our eyes locked on each other.

“I’m very interested in physics.”

“Really? What kind?”

“Theoretical. Theoretical physics, theology, and theater. My mother always says that it’s only the first three letters that get to me.” Her laugh was nice.

“Why’d you lie to Fearless?”

“It was the only way I could think of to be sure that he’d look for Kit for me.”

“What do you want with Kit Mitchell?”

Leora walked back to the front, reclaiming her seat and her composure.

I followed.

“Where is Fearless?” she asked.

“In jail.”

“What for?” She didn’t even blink.

“I don’t even know. Do you?”

This time she didn’t respond.

“Two cops, Morrain and Rawlway, were after him. So he turned himself in. They were looking for a young man named Bartholomew Perry.” I was wondering if she knew BB too.

There was a momentary tightening of Leora’s face.

“Maybe you know what those cops wanted,” I suggested.

“No. Why would I?”

“I don’t know. Why are you here?”

“Fearless gave me an address for Kit. I went there but they said that he skipped out without paying the rent.”

“Really? Did they have any idea where he got to?”

“No. When a man skips out on the rent he usually doesn’t leave a forwarding address.”

Even though she had the poise of a woman in her thirties, I figured that Leora was twenty-five at most. Her skin was flawless without the help of makeup and she had hands that could have belonged to a child.

“So what does Fearless have to do with all that?”

“I need him, to help me find Kit.”

“Why?”

“It’s personal.”

“So’s havin’ the cops on your ass because some girl lied and put you on a trail got you locked up in a six-foot cell.”

“I’m sorry if I got Mr. Jones in trouble. I didn’t mean to do that. But I have to find Kit Mitchell.”

“Why?”

“I can’t tell you that.” Leora Hartman stood up. She wanted to walk out but had nowhere else to go. “What did they arrest Mr. Jones for?”

“Nothing, as far as I can tell. Maybe it’s just questions they need to ask. Like why was he looking for Kit Mitchell.”

“Kit was doing business with someone. A man named BB,” Leora said.

“Bartholomew Perry,” I said, nodding and looking for deception.

“Oh. Is that what it stands for? You already seem to know everything I can tell you.”

“What I don’t know could fill the Library of Congress.”

Leora smiled.

“This BB and Kit have gotten into something and I need to tell them to stop,” she said. “That’s the truth.”

“What are they doing?”

“I can’t tell you about that, I can’t. Only it’s something they’ve stolen and . . . and beyond that it’s private.”

“I can’t help you if I don’t know what it is you’re looking for.”

“I don’t know you, Mr. Minton. I feel bad about your friend, and I want you to understand that I had a reason to lie, an important reason. But I can’t trust you. You can understand that.”

I understood, but I couldn’t just let it go. Fearless was my friend.

“Fearless said that Kit had been bragging that he was gonna bring in a whole truckload’a money over some big deal. That was just before he disappeared. Is this thing that him and BB stole worth all that?”

“I don’t see how.”

“Do you know a man named Lawrence Wexler?” I asked.

“No.”

“Any Wexlers?”

“No. Why are you asking me these questions? Do you know where Kit Mitchell is?”

“Why aren’t you asking about where BB is?”

“I don’t know anything about him but his name. It’s Kit Mitchell who stole . . .” She stopped before revealing the secret.

“What’s it worth to you if I try and find out?”

“I don’t have much money, Mr. Minton.”

“You could’a fooled me. Those fine clothes. Straw bag with what looks like real gold ties on the handle. And the thing cost the most, that classical education. There’s some money somewhere.”

“On my back and in my head maybe,” she said. “But my wallet is empty.”

“That’s too bad,” I said. “Mine is too. But I wish you luck.”

Leora was surprised by my refusal. Her gentle ways and poise had gotten her a long way in life.

She turned to the door.

“If you give me a number I’ll tell Fearless you were here. He’s got more free time than I do.”

“By the time he gets out of jail I will already have found out what I need to know,” she said. “Either that or I’ll be beyond help.”

15

AFTER LEORA LEFT the only thing I had to do was wait for Fearless’s call. I didn’t know how long that would be because I had no idea of the particular crime they were investigating. It could have been anything from grand theft to murder.

I imagined that Fearless was locked in a room with men who asked questions punctuated by fists and blackjacks, but still I wasn’t worried about him. Fearless had lived the life of a soldier since before he joined the armed forces. He was a one-man army who did his duty. And when the enemy had done their worst he would walk away with no anger in his heart because he would have known that he had won in spite of their weapons and torments.

Fearless rarely bragged about his courage. The things I knew about him had come from long nights of heavy drinking and lots of questions on my part.

One night he told me about how a gang of men had jumped him and brought him to an old abandoned barn outside of Fayetteville, Louisiana. He was sixteen and they were looking for his auntie’s boyfriend, who, they said, had stolen a man’s watch.

“‘Turn him ovah, boy,’ the main man told me,” Fearless had said. “‘Turn him ovah or I will mash your face in like a sack’a mud.’

“‘No sir,’ I tells him,” Fearless said in the words of the sixteen-year-old boy. “‘My Auntie Mar wouldn’t want me puttin’ no drunks on her man.’”

“‘Who you callin’ drunk?’ the main man, his name was Arthur, shout. An’ you know, Paris, I wasn’t even afraid even way back then. I knew I was in trouble. I thought I might be dead. But there was no way to turn. Arthur slapped me hard enough to knock some other boy down. I knew right then I was gonna get hurt. And it made me mad that them men would pick on a child. So I hit Arthur on his nose and then dived down and rolled. I got a hold on a timber and hefted it. I was swinging like Babe Ruth in that small space. Two of the men got knocked out and Arthur and the rest got away.”