Walter Mosley - Fear Itself

“You have a brother?”

“Of course we do. I thought you knew. Oscar is our brother.”

“The butler?” Fearless asked.

“It’s his own fault,” she said, reciting a well-rehearsed speech. “When he was a young man he insisted to be paid for his part of the beauty supply company. We bought him out and he lost it all inside of three years. Winnie told him if he wanted to come back he had to work for us.”

“She made him a butler?”

“That was his idea,” Rose said. “Yes sir. He didn’t want to have anything else to do with the outside world. No business, no meetin’s, no bein’ in charge’a anything responsible. All he wanted was to work at home and hide away from how stupid he was. We didn’t want him to be our servant, but Winnie said that he had to work if he wanted to eat our food.”

“I know that,” Fearless intoned.

“Why did you run away?” I asked, hoping the question would catch her by surprise.

“Because you had a car and kind eyes.”

“You mean you’ve been waiting for a chance to get out of there?”

“Oscar thinks he’s slick,” Rose answered, “with all his sneakin’ and overhearin’. But if you have a hidey-hole or a spare phone in the nook, then the spy might just be spied on. Yes sir.”

“What did Oscar say to make you want to run away?”

“I’ll never tell.”

“What about a man named Brown?” I asked, switching tracks as fast as she.

“What about him?” Rose had no love lost there.

“Is he some other relation?”

“Oh no. No no no no. Brown is somethin’ else altogether.”

“And what is that, Miss Fine?”

The elder woman in the fine evening gown sat back and sighed. “I don’t think I want to answer any more questions, young man.”

“That’s okay, ma’am,” Fearless said. “You just sit back and I’ll take you someplace where you can figure out what you want to do now that you’re looking for a new home.”

That stopped any more inquiries for a while. But I didn’t mind. Fearless was probably right. Rose Fine didn’t have a strong grip on reality, and too many questions might have pushed her out of orbit completely.

The elder Fine sister stretched out on the backseat and was snoring quicker than Fearless Jones.

I DIDN’T WANT TO TALK on the drive because I worried that Rose Fine might have just been pretending to sleep. Fearless, I was sure, remained silent to let her catch up on her rest.

“Must be hard livin’ someplace you hate,” he whispered after quite a while. “That’s why I’m never jealous’a what another man got.”

“Where are you plannin’ to go, Fearless?”

“I figure out to Mama’s,” he said. “You know Milo might be some help askin’ Miss Fine questions.”

“I can ask questions with the best of ’em, Fearless. We don’t need Milo.”

“You ask okay but you don’t have the kinda manners that refined women like Winifred and Rose is used to,” Fearless informed me. “Your questions sound like sandpaper but Milo feel like shammy cloth up in their ears.”

I didn’t argue. If Fearless and I worked for a corporation I would have been his boss’s boss’s boss. But in the world of hearts and minds I was more like his dog.

“TRISTAN,” HIS MOTHER SQUEALED. We had come to her little home on Elm off Paulsen. “And Paris. Oh, baby, it’s so good to see you.”

Gina Jones was almost as tall as her son and twice his girth. She wrapped me in an embrace that was somewhat like the ocean—she rocked back and forth and buoyed me up on soft strength that could crush stone, given time.

“Hi, Mama Jones,” I said.

Fearless kissed his mother and said, “This here is Rose Fine, Mama. She had to leave her home and we didn’t know where to take her so we brought her here.”

“Isn’t that a beautiful gown?” Gina said.

Rose grinned broadly and clasped her gloved hands together.

Fearless carried her tiny suitcase.

“Come in, everybody,” Gina said.

She led us into a small parlor that had been set up to make the most possible out of the space she had. Against adjoining walls were two coral-colored sofas that came together at a right angle, with an extremely small walnut table set where they met. There were two wooden chairs near the door to the kitchen and an overhead light with a blue-and-yellow shade instead of a lamp that might take up table or floor space.

Milo Sweet—fully dressed in tan suit, blue vest, and red tie—was seated in one of the chairs holding a small china cup in one hand and an equally delicate saucer in the other. He stood up, put the cup and saucer on the chair, and then approached us.

“Paris, Fearless,” he said. Then he laid eyes upon our Victorian charge.

“Miss Fine,” she said. “Rose Fine.”

She held out the back of her hand and Milo actually kissed the glove.

“Milo,” Fearless said.

“We have things to talk about,” I added.

“Not until you all come into the kitchen and sit for something to drink and eat,” Gina Jones said.

She was from another era, a time in the country when people traveled by foot or horse-drawn buggy. Whenever anyone showed up at the door, it had to be after a long and dusty journey.

I felt like I had been a long way. A drink and some lunch sounded like just the right thing.

31

THE KITCHEN WAS A BIG SQUARE ROOM with a small stove and an icebox set in the corner next to a big-basin sink. The rest of the room was dominated by a large square table with a yellow linoleum top. There were more than enough chrome chairs with red vinyl cushions for Gina’s guests. After hefty meatloaf sandwiches she served us lemonade and pound cake with marmalade and strawberry preserves.

Milo brought out a flask of vodka for the men to lace their drinks. Rose and Gina spoke for a long time about things like silver thread and salad spoons, rhubarb pie and quilting circles. Every time Milo or I tried to bring up business we were gently shushed by Fearless’s mother.

After forty-five minutes or so Rose asked if she could take a short nap. Gina led the millionaire off to her bedroom and stayed with her for a while.

“What you boys got?” Milo said as soon as they were gone.

I told him almost everything except about the money we’d been paid already. Milo hadn’t really hired us and so I didn’t see why he should be cut in on our gain.

“So all you got to do is get the pendant and Miss Fine will be happy,” Milo said, finishing our story with his own happy ending.

“Milo,” I said. “People are dead here. Big-time people. People who don’t give a shit about some Negro farmer’s treasure. It don’t make sense.”

“Who cares?” he said. “We didn’t kill anybody. We weren’t anywhere near it. All we got to worry about is keepin’ Winifred Fine happy.”

“That’s all you got to care about, man,” I said. “I’m worried about sleepin’ in my bed without somebody waitin’ outside in the street with a pistol in his hand.”

“Don’t be a fool, Paris. Nobody cares about some niggah own a used-book bookstore. They worried about property and money. White-people money, not your little change.”

“Maybe that man beatin’ on your ass didn’t get through to you, Miles,” I said. “But these people serious out here. They will hurt anybody that might even be a little bit in the way. That white man lost his children. I wouldn’t be too quick to mess in with the man he think killed ’em.”

Milo’s eyes were glazed over by the hope for money and power. He wasn’t listening to me. Neither was Fearless as far as I could see. The World War II killer was leaning back in his chair with a smile on his face.

“What you grinnin’ at, fool?” I asked him.