Walter Mosley - Fear Itself

“Everybody,” she said. “I would like you to meet Mr. Hendricks. He’s only going to be with us for a week or so. He’s down from the Bay Area, looking for work before he gets married . . .”

The last words raised Charlotta’s eyes a bit, but she didn’t seem bothered.

“. . . he’s taking Kit Mitchell’s old room, and I hope the rest of you will help him out if he needs it. Mr. Hendricks, these will be your neighbors for the next seven days.”

She went around the table with her eyes then, introducing my housemates. I didn’t remember most of their names, even then. There was Charlotta and Melvin Conroy, a young man merely named Brown, and an older gray-headed woman called Mrs. Mulrooney.

“Welcome to the congregation, Brother Hendricks,” Brown said as he reached for a biscuit.

“Brown, please,” Miss Moore said then. “Wait for grace.”

The young man, who had a flat face and expressionless eyes, smiled and leaned back in his chair.

“Mr. Hendricks,” Miss Moore said then. “Will you lead us?”

I bowed my head and everybody around the table, and the serving girl too, bowed theirs.

“Lord,” I said. “Bless this bounty and bless this house. Bless the people at this table who give thanks for your gifts, and bless the poor son lost from your light. Thank you for keeping us together and keeping us strong while we worship in your name and your teachings. Amen.”

“Amen,” fourteen voices agreed.

When I opened my eyes I saw Miss Moore smiling, Charlotta grinning, Mr. Conroy grimacing, and everyone else reaching for food.

Dinner was comprised of chicken and dumplings, collard greens, creamed corn, and peach cobbler for dessert. Every bite was delicious and there was more than enough to go around. I found myself feeling sorry that I had used a false name to get my room. I would have gladly paid twelve dollars a week to eat like that every night. Living alone, I often settled for hamburgers or canned spaghetti.

“That was a beautiful prayer, young man,” the older woman to my right said. “You must spend your Sundays with the Lord.”

“I spend every day with him, ma’am.”

“Brenda,” she said. “Mrs. Brenda Frail.”

“Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Frail,” I said.

There was a lot of talking and jocularity at the table. It was the friendliness of strangers. The only thing we all had in common was our race. There were Negroes from one setting to another and not any three who were the same color. There was nothing unusual about that, though. Being black in America was the simple fact of not being white. From the high-yellow Mr. Conroy to almost black Brown we ranged. Anyone looking at me would say that I was dark of color, that is, unless I was standing next to Fearless, who had retained every pigment of his African heritage.

Not one roomer was from Los Angeles originally. Most were from the South, but a few hailed from the Midwest. Everyone had at least one job. Most of the men had two. Even old Mrs. Mulrooney and Brenda Frail had part-time jobs, one at the five-and-ten and the other taking tickets at the Grand Avenue Cinema during the matinee.

“How do you like your room?” a man whose name I’d already forgotten asked.

“It’s fantastic,” I said. “I can’t imagine anybody not wantin’ to come home to that.”

I was hoping to get a dialogue started on Kit Mitchell, but all I received was a grunt from Miss Moore.

There were eight men, six women, and one girl. The oldest was seventy-four, that was Mrs. Mulrooney, and the youngest was Trina Harper, the serving girl. There was a mechanic, a chef, two domestics, two janitors, two waitresses, and a dry cleaner.

After coffee I followed my new neighbors through a door into the sitting room. This room was furnished with three couches, a few stuffed chairs, two small gaming tables, and a rabbit-eared television set. There was also a rather large built-in bookcase with at least a couple of hundred books jammed in. I made a mental note to peruse the collection before moving on.

“You look like a smart man, Mr. Hendricks,” the youth called Brown said to me.

“Why thank you, Mr. Brown.”

“Just Brown. That’s what everybody calls me. You play chess?”

“I have played,” I admitted, “from time to time.”

Brown held out two fists and smiled. I tapped the left one and he turned over a black pawn.

“My favorite color,” I declared.

Brown led us to the gaming table that had an inlaid checker and chess board. There he started setting up the board eagerly.

“Nobody around here really play chess too much,” he said. “Mostly it’s just checkers and bid whist. Cards can be kinda fun, but you know chess is pure brain.”

I felt a feathery touch on my forearm. Before I turned I knew it was Charlotta returning my earlier caress.

“Can I talk to you a minute?” she asked me.

She walked me to a small doorway that led into what can only be called an alcove.

“You wanna have a drink with me?” she asked.

“Yeah but I just started the game with Brown.”

“That’s okay. I got to go buy a li’l bottle first anyway.”

“Oh,” I said. “Good, I mean, I’d love to have a drink with you.”

“I need two dollars for that and some pork rinds.”

I forked over my last three singles and said, “Get yourself somethin’ sweet too, baby.”

She smiled and brushed my lips with hers.

I had to walk carefully back to the chess table to conceal the erection that Charlotta raised.

22

BROWN KNEW HIS CHESS. He beat me the first game because I underestimated him, gazing around the room and trying to overhear conversations as we played.

That game was fast, us taking no more than thirty seconds for each move. But I got serious in the second go-round. I took my time at strategic moments and outmaneuvered him so that he had to give up when half the men were still in play.

He won the third game. It was rare that anyone beat me twice in a night.

Brown had worker’s hands and a hard look when he concentrated. At first glance I thought he was in his twenties, but then I could see where he was at least ten years older than that.

“Where you from, Brown?”

“Illinois originally,” he said. “But they tell me I was born in Mississippi.”

“Jackson?”

“Greenwood.”

“Delta boy.”

“I got the blues in my spit,” he agreed.

“How long you been in L.A.?”

“Two years. Most’a that time I lived down at Redondo Beach, workin’ on this mackerel fishin’ boat they got down there.”

“How come you left?”

“When I realized that I was gettin’ seasick on dry land, I knew it was time to leave fishin’ behind.” He had a nice, friendly laugh. “So I moved here to Miss Moore’s just a few days ago and got a job cleanin’ tuxedos and silk dresses.”

Charlotta had returned from the store and was sitting next to Brenda Frail. They were working on a quilt together.

Deciding to play with Brown turned out to be a mistake because of my pride. We traded wins back and forth for two hours, until the late news came on.

Good evening, this is Bob Benning with KTLA news. The police were summoned to a grisly scene late this afternoon at the Bernard Arms Residence Hotel on Fountain. The body of Lance Wexler was found by police, who had been trying to get in touch with Mr. Wexler for the past three days. There was no sign of a break-in. Just two days ago Wexler’s sister was found dead in Griffith Park. She was also the victim of foul play. When asked about a connection between the two crimes, Captain Howard North told reporters that the police were looking into every detail of both homicides. . . . Maestro Wexler, oil distributor and real estate developer, offered a reward of ten thousand dollars for information leading to the arrest and conviction of his children’s killers. . . .