Walter Mosley - Fear Itself

“Yes sir,” Bradford said. And then to me, “This way, Mr. Minton.”

Eric piped up then.

“You want I should go with ’em?” the scrawny henchman asked.

“No, Eric. Mr. Minton works for me now.”

I followed Bradford from the room, happy to leave the company of madmen.

IN THE LIGHT OF THE KITCHEN I could see that Bradford’s pants and coat were darned here and there. His dress shoes had a high shine but they were shapeless from many years of use. His face was what I can only call a faded white. He had a long nose and an accent that wasn’t quite English.

He entered a walk-in pantry and came out with a cardboard cigar box that held three stacks of cash. Half of one of these heaps was the thousand dollars the king had earmarked for me.

After paying me and returning the cash box to its unlocked closet, Bradford led me through a back door and down a series of stairs toward the vast garage. We got into an old Bentley and drove down a driveway that was a quarter mile or more.

We were on a mountain. I could see the lights of Los Angeles as we descended streets that had no sidewalks or curbs. That was how the rich lived in L.A. They didn’t want people to be able to get to them easily, and once they got there they had to do their business and leave because there was no place to dawdle.

“Australia?” I asked after the view was gone.

“Yes. That’s right,” he replied. “You have a good ear.”

“Bradford, isn’t it?”

“Yes sir.”

“You got anything to tell me, Bradford?”

“What do you mean?”

“I don’t know. Maybe somethin’ about what’s goin’ on. Why I was battered and kidnapped and dragged up here.”

He drove a few more blocks and we entered upon Sunset Boulevard. There he turned left.

“I’m sorry you fell into this problem, Mr. Minton,” Bradford said.

“I don’t even understand it,” I said, emphasizing my innocence with the tone of my voice. “What does a rich girl like Miss Wexler have to do with a buffoon like BB Perry?”

“She was the kind of girl who liked . . . what should I say? A certain type of man.”

Like Fearless’s rich girlfriend, I thought.

“What about that man shanghaied me? That Louis. What could your boss be thinkin’ with a thug like that workin’ for him?”

“Those men working for Mr. Wexler are criminals. I don’t like having them in the house, and I certainly don’t trust them,” Bradford said. “He’s a good man—Mr. Wexler is. But the deaths of his children have brought him to grief. He’s used to being in charge and so the heartache makes him want to find the ones responsible for the murders.”

“That makes sense,” I said. “I know people who would have the same reaction.”

“It would be better for all concerned if the police handled the matter, or if, if the culprits were never found. I mean to say that whoever gets involved with this fiasco will be the one most likely to pay a price.”

I could see that Bradford was also a deep thinker. His take on the murder and revenge deserved a closer look.

“You mind if I smoke?” I asked.

“Not if you open your window.”

I rolled down the window and set fire to a cigarette. I let the smoke drift up from my lips to be inhaled through my nostrils; that was my way of thinking and smoking at the same time.

“So you’re tellin’ me that I shouldn’t be thinking about the ten thousand dollars,” I said.

“Not unless you want to trust Louis and his friend,” Bradford said. “They’ll slaughter anyone to get their bonus from Mr. Wexler. And if you were the last man seen with the man killed, then you will be the one the police come after.”

We were passing some pretty big houses going down Sunset but they were nothing compared to Maestro’s palace.

“I guess me tellin’ the cops about my visit to Maestro’s house wouldn’t get me very far,” I added.

“Mr. Wexler is a strong supporter of the mayor and the chief of police. I doubt if you could find a single soul that would take your word above his.”

“But wouldn’t he get mad if I don’t turn up something on BB?”

“All he has to think is that you’re trying. You could keep the thousand you already have,” he said, “keep it and stay out of the way.”

“Excuse me, Bradford, but why would you care about me in all’a this? I mean, shouldn’t you be more concerned with your boss?”

“It is in his interest that I speak to you. I have been with this family for many years, Mr. Minton. I’ve known all of Mr. Wexler’s wives and children. Minna and Lance were bad from the start. Their mother was a dancer in San Francisco.” He said the word dancer like it was a disease. “There was never any love in that union.”

“Were the kids running some kind of scam?”

“I believe so. It had to do with a woman, a Miss Fine.”

“What about her?”

“She has something that Mr. Wexler wants. I’m not sure exactly what it is, but it’s property of some sort. Lance and Minna knew someone who was well acquainted with the woman. They were going to use him to get leverage on her.”

“Bartholomew,” I said.

“I believe so. Lance told his father that he could obtain some control over Miss Fine and now he, Mr. Wexler, feels responsible if indeed Lance’s attempt got him and his sister killed.”

“I guess he would be,” I said. “Responsible, I mean.”

“He didn’t go to Lance,” Bradford said. “The children were angry because their father had reduced them to a very low allowance. He wanted them to work hard to understand money. But all they wanted was to get rich quick. Mr. Wexler should cut his losses and move on. He has seven other children, all of whom are fine and upstanding.”

We had worked our way down to Olympic by that part of our conversation. Bradford pulled up in front of the Faison house.

“So you think it would be better for all involved if I just dropped out?” I asked the Australian.

“You’ve seen his eyes,” Bradford said.

“Yeah. I’ve also seen ten thousand acres of rice stooped over by just as many poor black Louisiana sharecroppers. You know ten thousand dollars sure enough might make that pain heal.”

“Death is the only real cure to pain, Mr. Minton.”

It might not have been a good argument but it was the truth still and all.

“I’m afraid,” the male secretary continued, “that if you open a door for Mr. Wexler’s revenge he will go so far that even his wealth will not protect him.”

“I’ll tell you what, Brad,” I said. “You got a private line in that big house?”

“Yes,” he said and gave me a card with only a number on it. “You can call me at that number any evening after nine.”

“If I have any questions I’ll call you first. How’s that?”

“Better than nothing.”

28

FEARLESS WAS EATING A CHILI BURGER at an outside counter by the time I made it to Rob’s. The whole place was crowded with late-night customers. There were cops and cabbies, prostitutes and short-straw runners from a dozen companies that drew lots on the graveyard shift to see who had to take the drive for their burgers.

Fearless was talking to two young women who were looking him up and down, hoping that Rob would put something like that on the menu. It broke their hearts when I came up and Fearless shooed them off.

“You late, Paris,” Fearless said. “I was gettin’ worried.”

“You should’a been. I got hit upside the head, hog-tied, kidnapped, threatened with a gun the size of a cannon, and questioned. I was in fear for my life.”

“Well,” my friend said dismissively. “I guess it didn’t turn out too bad.”